

### A KILLING TO DIE FOR

A tale of death and revenge in the civilized world

By P. Gaseaux

Published by:

P. Gaseaux at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 P. Gaseaux

Cover design copyright 2013 P. Gaseaux

Cover by Caligraphics from a concept by the author, drawn by _'Stu'_.

P. Gaseaux asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either of the authors own imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the various products and brands mentioned in this work of fiction which have been used without permission. The publication use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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" _All the old knives that lie rusted in my back, now I drive into yours."_ Phaedrus

# Chapter One

Small arms rattled on and on, the strip burned, columns of smoke rose up from fires, flaming tires and strafing from the skies. Firing blind against the might of the air force, jets circling above like ravens over a dump; essentially that's what it had been turned into: a scorched landscape searing under a setting sun overlooking a spread of masonry complexes. Stretching like a spray of brown and fawn cinder-blocks. _Children growing up here on the Gaza Strip never even knew what a tree looked like._ Nature, waterfalls only existed in paintings and decorations. The place all believers call paradise.

The holy lands bordered the deserts to the south, an area laid waste by the Roman Empire so long ago. Nothing ever changed; different conflicts and new armies wearing different badges. Only the deserts remained, that was after the Romans left. If peace ever came, it would not be in this lifetime.

To the east a military vehicle crawled to a halt. First thing that greeted the man behind the wheel was a tank straddling the road, the turret swung a little as he came over the hill but they were expecting him. A _Merkava_ tank out of place, on the road like a hippo on dry land. Beyond laid the crime scene. The _'mount'_ as they called it was more a sand dune, a vantage point for the media circus but they closed it off -- sewn up tight, nobody allowed in or out. Except the ground forces occupying the area and the man in the vehicle, the place cordoned off.

The driver rolled to a stop, he dipped his lights and waited until the tank lowered its turret gun. Slowly and respectfully past the tank and off the sealed surface, down a track and that's where he needed to get to.

When a tank blocks your way, don't push your luck. Even one of ours.

The site wasn't hard to find, he alighted and stretched, he took a good look around the area before approaching the barrier, a sentry saluted him and he hopped over. Been on the road several hours after receiving that call; instructions to get down south, quickly.

' _Drop_ _everything and go,'_ they'd said.

The ground controller, a major, spotted him and approached, saluting him. He needed to clear his throat: _"_ Colonel Hirsch, I presume. _Sir_ ..." Had a lot on his mind...agitated, aggravated...not a good day. Not a good week, the second combat helicopter down, the first one made the headlines and the crew made it out but now this one...the pilot and operator dead on impact. Not so lucky, this time around. "Good you could make it at such short notice. Thank you for coming," he added.

Fumes of Jet-A1everywhere and the crushed remains of a combat helicopter lay broken in two before them. No fire though; only crushed fuselage and peripherals. The cockpit destroyed...no chance.

Colonel Abraham Hirsch spotted some field dressings blowing in the desert breeze. He frowned. It didn't look good. "The crew?"

"Both KIA, sir." The controller shook his head. "They've been removed and repatriated to field section..."

They walked around the area, careful not to touch or disturb anything, more like a crime scene. Some bloodstained field dressings contrasted with metal parts strewn all over and the area not safe with the panels and armaments still hot. The bandages fluttered in the wind like prayer-flags. Hirsch scanned toward the west with his field glasses focusing on trails of smoke and fires, flashing lights and other movement; an eerie sight, especially at sunset.

A duo of F16s screamed overhead at about five hundred feet; the jets a fraction under the speed of sound, they ascended sharply as they approached the target. Like a whip crack. By instinct the troops ducked and a moment later came a double flash with a fireball that followed on. It billowed up high, maybe a thousand feet and kept on going. Everybody brought their fingers to their ears -- _one second, two, three, four --_ it came on the count of six.

The shockwave from a pair of bombs hit with a thunder that followed on for several seconds more. The heaviest ballistic ordinance the jets could carry. Any personnel standing around flinched except for Hirsch who turned his back in time; he knew his ranges. The heat touched his face when he turned to face the fireballs rising, the apartment blocks no longer there. Like spectators at a carnival some of them cheered, one raising his fist as the rising column of flame changed; white, orange then fading to a dull red and finally a gray cloud.

The colonel was still a man in uniform, although these days attached to research and manufacturing so he felt out of place in a conflict area. He wondered: _Why had he been called in?_ _Just do as they say, don't be insensitive_.

"So what brought her down?" Hirsch asked the controller. "This is the second in nearly as many days..." He scratched his head. The odds of a chopper taking a hit from an RPG were miniscule. _But twice? So soon?_ The Apaches were an invincible thing like an armored hornet the size of a truck, improved further before local deployment. He focused on some cannon shells on the ground, still whole, he was careful not to step on anything. More bloody bandages next to the fuselage.

"She lost a rotor blade," replied the major. He was uneasy, frowning. "Sir..."

The colonel was closer to the upper gearbox. Something caught his attention. He bent down and ran his fingers over the alloy fuselage. Something had damaged the upper cone, possibly a projectile. No explosion, no flames. The first one several days ago; tail rotor hit but the crew survived. They'd put the chopper down offshore. The ocean landing saved them; a patrol boat picked that crew up. The wreckage went to the bottom, deep-down off the shelf.

"Colonel Hirsch...I think you'd better check something out, once you're done..." The major motioned towards the vehicle. "If it's okay by you we could drive. It's about half a mile away. Just the two of us... _need-to-know-basis_...you understand, Colonel."

"Loud and clear," Hirsch replied as he followed the major. "What is it?"

"We hoped you might tell us, sir."

Five minutes later they arrived at another place, this time empty and open except for dried weeds and plastic bags tumbling in the hot breeze, early fall and still parched. They walked past another secure barrier and the item lay upon the sandy surface. A scorched metal cylinder seven feet long with a diameter of ten inches or so; it was in good condition except half way along the tube it had been gashed and bent.

It was getting dark. Hirsch donned a pair of examination gloves and kneeled next to the metal tube -- he was careful, potentially a UXO. His heartbeat rose, more so when he examined the fins, eight in all. At the rear fastened, at the forward section behind the cone moving. A missile, a _Qassam_ rocket; no different to the crude things used against the border towns but this one was unique in the care and attention to detail. Hirsch squinted and moved along the length of it, brushing the sand and some particles from the cone which was slightly detached. He lowered his face to ground level checking for any traces of a warhead and he spotted a glass lens protruding from the tip. Small gauge wires in bundles could be seen, some blue air-tubes. He crouched for a better view.

The ground controller called out over the colonels' head: "It was fired from inside where the airstrike was just now..."

"Tell me this is nothing to do with the helicopter!" Hirsch sputtered as he hauled his frame up. "This one's made in a workshop somewhere. But how-"

The area controller was a nervous fellow. Beads of sweat were forming in his forehead. He dropped his eyes. "They were on patrol. Chasing _'Technicals'_. The rocket came up from over there." The major shot his head back toward the strip where the area now burned and a large crater remained. "It hit and took a blade clean off at the base. The helicopter shook apart and fell out of the sky." He pointed to where the tube was gashed and bent, halfway along.

"Velocity?"

"These things can approach Mach one sir, at least the ones hitting our towns."

Hirsch kept shaking his head -- it was like an explorer finding a tomb but different -- the discovery was an ugly one. This new find had a curse that came with it. The second in as many weeks. The first one, they said, was a rocket propelled grenade...a one-in-a-million shot... _no way_ , it couldn't be done.

Hirsch reached and placed his hand on the major's shoulder, moved up close. "They're building guided weapons," he said. "We have to be really careful about this -- if word gets out they'll have a field day. You must get all the choppers away from the area."

"Leave that to us, Colonel. We've moved the smaller things back and anything we feel is vulnerable. Only airstrikes and fixed wing." He motioned to the east. "They're placing a mass roll-out of _Iron Dome_." The nervous major nodded toward the remains of the helicopter. "Officially speaking its most definitely mechanical failure."

"The guards, sentries..."

"Given 'em the riot-act, sir; only you, me and these two." He checked, they stood impassively, rifles muzzle-down, they overheard.

Hirsch squatted again for a long look at the forward fin setup clicking it gingerly. What remained of the rear fins was static, fixed by symmetrical welding beads. Perfection. Better than anybody could do; better than a Korean ship-builder. More suited to an expensive motorcycle frame. Each of the militants who fabricated these things had their own signature: cutting tools, angles, welds and folds. He had seen this particular design before but this time it was no longer ballistic.

_They'd figured out how to fit a guidance system. The militants...damn the lot of them._ Hirsch cursed under his breath before speaking to the nervous major, the ground controller with a lot on his mind. "I'll send in my section to collect this. I reiterate: _this cannot get out_. Nobody is to hear about this; if they do it'll be a terrible propaganda victory for them."

He tossed his head toward the west. Gaza was in flames. Burning but defiant, not finished by any means. The most heavily populated hornet's nest on earth.

But when would it ever end? The world was always watching. Nobody could learn of this...the state had taken an enormous blow. So many hated them, so many denied their existence and wanted to see them removed from the face of the earth. Tonight the gunships were useless. Grounded...toothless. Not good!

Hirsch drove to the north. They'd had pulled him from his desk job back into active service. Overnight. They had chosen him: put together a team and stop the missiles...stop them before it was too late.

A discrete apartment, crammed above a tea shop nestled in Gaza City. Several miles to the border, where the action was. Attacks escalated of late. _War._ Maybe invasion. The streets were vacant after dark except for small groups of armed militiamen and the occasional car. Risky for everybody, the city was being watched from above. Miles above.

Seven in the evening and the group convened \-- real designer jeans and original shirts with European football club logos, not a beard or turban among them except the _Imam_ , the spiritual leader. Sweet tea was served and after a short pause for prayer the cleric spoke and three of the young men rose, they approached their leader and embraced.

"We have struck at the very heart," said the _Mullah_. "The eyes of the entire Arab world...indeed _all believers_ have seen." He extended his hand and clutched the man nearest him and spoke as if giving a sermon. "Lo, you have the mind of a scholar, the grace of old and the heart of a lion, _Yusuf my son!_ "

The tall one Yusuf bowed, visibly blushed. Only a tiny group, including those in the room knew of his true exploits but he carried himself in Gaza City like a true hero; they all knew. Even the fierce men who ruled the dusty streets with their Kalashnikovs, they nodded their heads and stood aside when he came. Yusuf was a living legend. The young militant was a hand-picked member of a minority _Shi'a_ splinter cell, funded by wealthy backers from the east, they wanted _value-for-terror_ , they insisted on the best. The ruling authority knew of them and countless other dedicated cells but this one was unique, they chose technology over ideology.

"This is just the start, _My Father_ ," replied Yusuf. "There will be so many more to come."

Outside somewhere a blast and not so far away followed by a report of small arms fire. Fighter jets raced across the night skies. The cleric glanced at the window...blacked out and the lights in the room were low but they had to be careful.

"The gunships are gone now," said Yusuf. "The Zionists only cower from afar and send their warplanes."

" _The world watches on,"_ piped up another in the room. "Not only the enemy."

"Our brothers in the Caucasus have had a major victory over Russian crusaders with the new design," said the cleric. "God willing, soon all the oppressed and occupied territories worldwide shall gain their ability to fight back. The sword of oppression shall be made dull and fall into the sands of time." He once more cast a nervous look at the covered window, it shook and rattled. A _Hellfire_ struck not too far away.

"We should depart and check on our loved ones; it is very dangerous out there." The Imam picked up some papers and read them. "Can you tell me our next move, Yusuf?"

Yusuf nodded. He trusted them with everything, like his brothers, maybe more so. Distracted; however, he had to be on his way. His mother had type-one diabetes and he clutched a brown paper bag with insulin, valuable medicine like gold but he had all the contacts....

"More to come, my mentor _. Have patience._ The items are over the border and shall enter the tunnels by week's end." Upon reflex he crinkled the paper bag; everything was smuggled through the tunnels from Egypt, including the precious vials and syringes. Yusuf stood. "I must be gone now." He hugged the spiritual leader and the others one by one before stepping out, down the narrow stairs and on the street.

He walked quickly. It was a hot evening; hot but dry. Two blocks to go, he quickened his pace. In front of him a vehicle, a cat dashed out under his feet, a black cat. He didn't give it much thought. As he turned into another alley he was grabbed from behind. He never felt the needle go into his right arm and in seconds he was limp, and sagged to the ground. Two sets of rough hands hauled him into the car where a third waited. Yusuf had no chance; he was a lover of sports, just under six foot but the owner of the hands over his mouth and round his throat was a specialist.

Thirty milligrams of pharmaceutical grade _Diamorphine_ \-- the kind of drug only given to terminal cancer patients -- surged through the Palestinian's veins, he slumped in the back seat. The drug would immobilize and reduce him to a helpless zombie, it was risky stuff to use but they needed the prisoner in a lucid mindset after the antidote. Plenty of other knockout drops were available, all of which could harm his memory.

"Move it!" One of the men in the back seat leaned and tapped the driver on the shoulder. He checked on Yusuf who was limp. Even in the dark they could see his eyelids were turning gray, then a shade of blue. So were his lips.

"Watch him, especially his breathing" whispered the man once more. "Have the _Narcan_ ready as soon as we hit the beach."

He pulled a device from his pocket, and pressed some buttons as the vehicle roared away. One mile above them a fixed-wing was circling, waiting for the coordinates.

"Okay, that's done. Step on it. _Go, go, go_ ..."

In the tiny room above the teashop, the remaining militants rose and hugged their spiritual leader, and then they stood back. The _Mullah_ stroked his beard. He felt goose bumps on his neck for some reason. The covered window hummed and rattled, just a touch. He turned and gently, ever so cautiously brushed the drapes and peered outside.

The _Maverick_ missile was moving faster than the jet it had been launched from, it entered the window on a steep angle, through the first floor and exploded at ground level \-- took out the room and its occupants, some neighboring buildings and the teashop underneath. In a millisecond the complex of rabbit-warrens was reduced to a crater. Hundreds of feet away windows shattered. The splinter-cell no more; they had become splinters. Nothing, not even an ounce of flesh to wrap up in a flag and parade through the streets.

In the vehicle, the specialists and their trophy jumped by reflex. A little close for comfort. Never mind, only a few more streets to the beach and the frogmen waited. Missions like these usually went to plan; their training was much more dangerous. Only if they got caught...the man on the back seat leaned and touched Yusuf's neck and nodded silently. Still breathing. The driver gunned the car, turned a corner and skidded to avoid some junk on the road.

"How's the patient doing?"

"Away with the pixies," replied one of the men in the back.

"He's going away somewhere, alright," said the driver. He chuckled. "For a long time, where the pixies aren't so nice."

"Amen to that." They laughed. In the distance was the beach, the foreshore was briefly vacant tonight following a strafing-run an hour earlier.

A black Mercedes turned into the driveway and paused briefly and the evening shift guard gave a halfhearted salute before raising the gates. A secure facility; a center of veterinary research. A place where breakthroughs were made, vaccines developed and lives saved. It was late, about ten or so. The compound was well lit but empty and there were two car parks, one for the general staff and another for deans, professors, academics and the like. All staff had been warned off that evening; a memo had circulated at close of business warning of a suspected low-level ammonia leak within the biohazard unit and quarantine area. A minor safety issue, sufficient to get the evening staff locked out without having to touch the animals.

In the vehicle nobody spoke bar one, a Palestinian in the mid-section of the rear seat who had been complaining non-stop since his rendition two days earlier. _They tended to do that_ , especially after a shot of pure heroin and an antidote chaser. In the front was Colonel Abraham Hirsch and in the driver's seat a civilian, who had not changed that day, gave him a disheveled appearance. The captive was flanked by two burly prison officials who had come on shift two hours ago when the vehicle had collected the unwilling passenger, wrapped in an orange jumpsuit and was shackled, his ankles and wrists behind his back. No rest since being sandbagged by their group inserted in Gaza then bundled on a decrepit fishing vessel bearing an Egyptian flag, onward north into their base rather than back to the Nile delta.

The vehicle drew to a halt and reversed into a space nearest a secured façade at the front of the building and one of the guards in the rear tore a piece of silver gaffe tape. He lifted the ski mask and slapped the tape it over the captive's mouth leaving the nostrils clear. The Palestinian wriggled and attempted to make noises.

"Breathing okay Yusuf?" The man in the crumpled suit leaned over to the back and spoke in surprisingly good Arabic to the struggling man. He leaned closer, almost a hand span from the Palestinian as if concerned, in a way he was. He made a movement with his eyes to the guard on the man's right. "Let's do it."

The civilian held a card and swiped it, then he pulled the auxiliary door open and the group entered. The latch clicked behind, they turned to an elevator and used the same card to open the stainless doors. He smiled at Hirsch. "No worries," he quipped.

A moment and two floors later the elevator arrived and the first thing everybody noticed was the smell. All throughout, enclosed animals. A corridor, laboratories, offices and a complex of cages in another room. Stable temperature. Deserted, except for caged animals of all descriptions: rabbits, dogs, cats and even a section with Rhesus Macaques. The intruders set the menagerie off, squawks, screeching, barking everywhere. Every time they turned a corner or moved the Palestinian was dragged with his slippers sliding behind him. He was bound and could not move save futile attempts at struggling, making grunts and wheezing sounds from underneath the strip of tape over his mouth.

They halted at a metal door at the end of the floor and tore off the ski-mask. A conspicuous warning sign: _'BIOHAZARD LEVEL 3'_ with menacing black circles over yellow.

"That's it for you two," said Hirsch. "Wait here." Curiosity in the guard's eyes and the apprehension on the Palestinian's face. "Keep him still. Won't be a moment."

When they did return they could see the prisoner recoiling, the protective suits were frightening enough, even more so with the face mask and breathing filter, thick gauntlet gloves, waterproof boots and zips everywhere. Another card reader and the metal door clicked. An airlock. They unwound it and took the captive through, past the biological waste disposal, personnel showers and the second entrance. A blur as they dragged him past an array of cabinets and all manner of medical items incubation closets and finally they stood before a Plexiglas enclosure surrounding a mesh cage within. Separate from everything else.

"Read that, Yusuf?"

He shook his head wildly; his grunts and vain attempts to struggle free more desperate. Escapades with laboratory animals were something the trainers had never touched upon. The lords and masters back in Teheran had instructed Yusuf on every kind of horror he could expect to face if ever captured...but not like this. On a white board before him was a scrawled message in black marker:

' _CAUTION! SUSPECT WILD RABIES'._

He could read, alright -- besides his own language and Persian he could read English very well and some Hebrew. Took Yusuf a whole second to work it out...madness and hydrophobia. Choking on your own saliva. Attempting to swallow like ingesting scalding tea. A slow agonizing end that could linger for weeks. Locked in a padded cell to die a horrible death just like the wretched stray in the cage. His blood froze. He started struggling. Frantic struggling, his life depended upon it. The prison guards tightened their grip. Yusuf was being pushed in.

They hated dogs, the Arabs. This critter was only small and half-starved; not exactly the kind one would cross the street to get away from. The light in the secure cage was on a low level but all of them could see and they watched as the dog circled around as though drunk, staggering, before approaching. Closer and they could see it was drooling, spots of infectious fluid on the cement floor, the animal seemed innocuous, curious and as it moved closer almost pathetic -- the fur was matted and patches of mange and infection covered its torso. It faced them from the other side of the transparent screen, its tongue hanging, head lowered and tail down. Then it moved side to side for a few seconds and turned slightly as if to waddle to the other side of the cage. They hit the floodlight and the animal lunged at the mesh and thrashed at the metal, latching on, making a gagging sound before letting go and falling to one side, bleeding slightly. Saliva had splattered over the inside of the clear screen. One of its canines had broken off and dropped to the floor. The mad dog could bite, it could infect someone or it could snap and tear itself apart. Or curl up in a corner and die.

The civilian shot a glance through the goggles at Hirsch. "In he goes. I'll unlatch it-"

Yusuf lost it completely. If they were sending him to the electric chair or a firing squad he would have handled it; he would have been prepared. Water boarding...Syrian thugs had put him through days of mock-torture to prepare him. Out of a helicopter or over the side of a patrol boat, but not like this. He was ready to talk. When his captors tore the gaff-tape away from his mouth he talked all right. He talked non-stop. Talked, all the way back, to the holding place then on to _Ayalom_ , where he'd be locked up indefinitely. That's if he was of any assistance. Maybe, just maybe if he did talk he might be allowed to live. Or he could go inside the cage and play 'catch' with the dog.

... _catch rabies_ ...

The breakthrough had come by matching the quality of the TIG welding on the rocket. They knew exactly who they were after and this particular militant was one of the few who worked in alloys. Locating this target was easy; the entire strip was bursting with collaborators once the reward money was high enough, that was the easy bit.

Such dedicated nationalists, all willing to die for their independence. Sell their souls for a song.

Every single one of them had their price: a few greenbacks here and there or an even bigger reward for good Intel. If the spooks got lucky they'd get a high level collaborator; these guys ended up in Sweden or the Irish Republic on humanitarian grounds where they could live in quiet solitude, always peering over their shoulders for the rest of their days on this earth.

Colonel Abraham Shimon Hirsch was feeling a little better as he drove home just before dawn. It had been a very long day at the end of an even longer week. The mission had landed at his feet out of the blue; over the past week it had turned from a standard spot-and-check operation to a priority, especially following the capture of the militant...the bomb-maker himself. The service had put him in charge, any budget he wanted. Militants had been sending the _Qassams_ over the borders for years, now the rockets had been turned into a deadly precision weapon, even better than a Stinger.

Snatching the culprit was a good start but their guys were the best. A fugitive could go hide inside a timber box, then mailed to Buenos Aires and they'd still get him.

Nowhere to run. Anywhere. _Anytime. Anyone._ _Didn't matter who..._

# Chapter Two

"Patrol-one-one-seven, your location and the nature of emergency?"

In the Philippines they always talk in English first. That's what the national call-center did. No answer right away. The operator pinched the headset and repeated firmly: "Hello, police, fire, ambulance-"

Some background noise and panting, or what sounded like it -- shallow breathing, clattering, and traffic noises. The operator switched into _Tagalog_ , the national language of the archipelago. No response, so she spoke again, in English. The computers were shaky; no surprise as regular outages resulted from typhoon season so she had writing materials at the ready. The cell network was okay, though.

"Emergency services, Quezon City center. Please state your business or I must terminate this call..."

Every day the center took hundreds of merry pranksters, worse since they included SMS.

"We were attacked," was the response. Feeble at best, almost like a whisper just like a domestic violence victim. Distant and urgent, a voice with an accent. Panting, breathing and noises in the background; a city street.

"We have been attacked, my friend has gone...they kidnapped-"

The operator cut in: "Madam, give me your location and name please."

More breathing, a pause. _"Luneta, I think \-- Rizal Park..."_

"Your name, please..."

No response.

"Hello madam, are you still there?" The operator was scribbling details on a pad but with the mainframe down triangulation was not possible.

" _We have been attacked...please come now...my friend was taken away-"_

No point telling the caller to stay calm; the voice muted, verging on a whisper of desperation...difficult to make out above the background; a busy location somewhere in the capital. "Give me your name please ma'am -- _hello_ \-- are you still on the line?"

The voice was fading now, distant. "My friend, he is a foreign citizen. He has been taken...please come..."

"Ma'am please identify yourself first...hello, ma'am. Hello..."

The line had dropped out. The operator redialed the sender-ID but nothing; the line was dead. She double-checked the note and sent a radio call to a mobile dispatch before filing the paper and taking another call.

'... _a foreign citizen.'_

The emergency response operator pulled the note and pinned it to the top of the dead computer screen; someone should be informed and as soon as a break in the calls came she would deal with it.

The Chevrolet van cruised and flowed with the stop-start, not drawing any attention at all, unlike the chaos within. A hostage; unconscious and trussed on the metal floor, two stooges in the back; one nursing a baseball-sized hole on his upper forearm and the second panting and breathing, his knee on the neck of the hostage pinning him. Yelling at them was a big Ulsterman and in the front driving was another man, a third Nepalese killer at the wheel. On cue, they'd snatched the male hostage but the dame they were after had escaped; she'd bitten the henchman's arm before disappearing. She must've had jaws like a pit-bull; teeth like a spring trap...they knew how to dress a combat injury and wrapped the wound to stop the flow of blood.

The Belfast man swore and punched the inside of the vehicle with heavily tattooed arm; his backups looked at each other as they did every time their boss was having tantrums. Put a dent in the panel. He spat as he reached down and cleared the hostage's pockets -- wallet, cell, cash and a handwritten envelope; surface mail with stamps. Some Xerox-copies of a local visa and the guy's passport; they'd gotten the right one. Couldn't believe it, the male target was six foot tall and succumbed quickly to the sleeper-hold he'd applied but _she_ \-- little snake -- had managed to get away from the vice-like grip of his henchman, his muscle, now doubled over in front of him, minus half his forearm.

"Sarge..." The second man looked up from the floor of the van at the Ulsterman who was wound up in his own anger. " _Mister Walker_!" He reached up and tugged at his boss's shirt.

"What?" he snapped, in the last kind of accent somebody would to hear when alone, in a back alley; late at night.

"I think this one is dead. He's not breathing."

"Must've broken his neck." He paused a moment. "Never mind, they said to make an example of them both. A message..." He mumbled under his breath. "Save us the trouble later on." Walker leaned and with a single movement grabbed the dead man's collar and as he lifted him the head lolled forward like dangling from a coil-spring...broken alright. He dropped the lifeless hostage back on the floor of the van. His mind raced.

Hit the American's apartment; maybe the woman, Anna had been shacked up with him, maybe not. Rent a room in the old sector of Manila, not too far from where they had started and drop Hatfield's remains on the street as a warning; an example. Then wait. Sit tight and watch. With any luck she would show. Put a pair of eyes at the airport too...

Walker leaned across to the man clutching the huge bite on his arm and adjusted the cloth stemming the blood with his own shirt he had ripped off. He _did_ care for his guys; they were his only family, he'd served with soldiers like these in Afghanistan. All of them, from the British army. The Ulsterman had been cashiered after an inquiry into maltreatment of prisoners but the others had taken discharge. The driver was old enough to be Walker's father. Lured out of boring occupations like driving security vans and into the syndicate. They took care of business, no questions asked. They could refuse any order but they never did. The _Gurkhas_ of Nepal, the bravest of the brave...one loyalty and that was to their paymaster. And Walker was the one who paid them, on time, always.

Dawn, typhoon season and the sticky heat of Manila was the only thing out of place in a dull new day. Ninety-plus-million Filipinos would grin and bear monsoon season like a heavy cross, something they got used to. Crops damaged, landslides, watercraft lost at sea and perpetual brown outs. Gusts and showers fanned the decayed streets and traffic splashed through puddles of effluent the color of stale lamb stew. The city and its streets were the same color as the volcanic ash that made up the terrain and surrounding islands; at times it appeared to be sinking back into the earth.

Ermita-Malate, the old section of the city, it had sprouted up after the Japanese army were expelled...the imperialists had burnt old Manila to the ground and massacred everyone they could round up before MacArthur returned, as he said he would. The area stayed that way ever since, not really a slum, certainly not respectable but it had its attractions. Attractions for local and visitor alike.

Nobody had any idea who discovered it -- the body -- but word got around this wasn't just another local person or drug addict. This one a foreign national, black and blue from either a beating or suffocation, who could say? Even the poorest of the poor in the old section did not wish to disturb it; they all knew they'd end up that way, one day...alone and lonesome in a back alleyway somewhere. Superstition or respect for the dead? Bystanders, beggars...then came the reporters. Last the authorities, so the streets would be locked up for the time being.

Inspector Rocky _'Rambo'_ Guinhava from the local precinct surveyed the area. Rocky was his true name, 'Rambo' because nothing fazed him. He noted the orderly fashion the corpse had been placed there in the alley. He surveyed all around at the same time attempting to take control of the situation, secure the crime scene, fend off the media hacks and place more cops. Forensic and the federal NBI would become involved and a mountain of paperwork, legal briefs; it gave them something to do.

The scientific officer arrived; she set to tagging up the area, collecting samples and taking relevant digitals, pottering away like working in a bonsai nursery. The inspector had always fancied her. She was efficient, smart and twice the person of any of the senior officers they had to suffer and the feeling was mutual. Guinhava had a reputation for being diligent and above all honest.

" _Manganda umaga_ (Morning) Miss Maricar \-- lousy way to kick off, huh?"

"Morning, Inspector," replied the forensic officer. "You know, he's not _Pinoy_ , looks westerner. Certainly a foreigner." She spoke as she was shuffling through the area, like a sparrow; the rattle gun English-Tagalog of the educated classes. "Sir, I'm thinking...neck broken, he's blue...lack of oxygen."

"Strangulation?"

The CSI carefully adjusted the corpse, shook her head. "I'll tell you, Inspector," she said. "No rigor yet, but..."

"But what?" said Guinhava.

"C3, C4, C5 and C6...fully separated. No ligature. No marks." She slowly lowered the head back. "My Lord, he was held and crushed, by somebody or something. Unbelievable."

What possibilities -- Abu Sayaf? Cannot be; the Abu's behead their hostages amid so much publicity and in any case activity in Metro is sporadic, limited to the odd explosion or hijacking. Gangs? Drugs? Mafia activity? That would be a drive-by or some other gun-crime. Especially so if a foreigner is involved. In any case this one will take some time.

Everything in this city took time. Guinhava turned to his scientific officer: "Maricar, I suggest get your samples wrapped up then we compare notes. Talk to me if you find anything else. The National Bureau of Investigation most probably will take over this thing. Thousand other things to do around here; be a long day."

"Inspector we found these things on his person."

She held up a wallet with nothing inside, maybe it had been emptied out. A plastic bag with a stapled stack of photocopies, every single page of a US passport, sealed inside to keep moisture out. Probably his. Visa status was good. They'd left it there to be found...the ID. Guinahava slapped on some exam gloves and opened the Ziploc bag and read them quickly.

' _WILLIAM ROBERT HATFIELD'_.

"Thirty one years of age. Just a young man, way too young," said the CSI.

The abandoned orphans had discovered this body...they were always there. The gutters and alleys was their home. As the gypsies were being grilled by homicide detectives in polo shirts and jeans the CSI looked at the shivering figures, covered in filthy rags and she smiled warmly at them, touching her white gold crucifix before returning to her job. Not all officers were so kind; indeed vigilante elements hunted and intimidated the beggars but not this day. They were material witnesses, maybe they saw something.

_There but for the grace of God go I...children should never be neglected like this,_ she lamented.

The CSI was from a family of culture, good standing and Spanish descent as well as a PhD from somewhere. Only maternal instinct that gnawed at her conscience, the homeless waifs corralled there had less in common with her than a group of Eskimos. She stood and tiptoed over. Whispered in one of the Homicide detectives ear; he was a big burly cop with a Crocodile shirt, a badge on a chain round his neck and a very large pistol dangling off a shoulder-harness. An AMT forty-five; a long-slider.

"Officer, excuse me?" Spoke in cultured English, this time.

"Ma'am?"

The cop moved aside. The CSI outranked the detectives. All of them. She knelt, faced the oldest of the gypsy children, a child of twelve or so. Filthy, hadn't washed in memory, never been in school yet the waif had bright intelligent eyes. The CSI reached out and touched her arm.

"What did you see?"

The waif's eyes darted back to the detective. She only blinked. Pouted. _Afraid_. The CSI ruffled inside her protective paper suit and pulled out a wad of cash. Turned and handed it to the man with the forty-five.

"Detective, get your guys to fetch some treats and ice cream... _now please!_ Enough for every child on this block."

The plainclothes cop took the hint, he stepped away and quickly summoned a uniform cop who saluted and dashed up the road with the money. The gypsy children smiled, overjoyed. Closest they'd ever been to Jollibee in their lives was peering through the windows at the rich folks inside.

The CSI squatted once more and peered at the homeless urchin. Touched the quivering right arm gently. "Who did this?" she whispered.

The girl blinked once. Frowned. Scared, now. She turned and faced toward the intersection. Pointed at a billboard. A huge billboard at the end of the street, it had a picture of a muscular blonde-haired European male model with a crew cut. Pilot's sunglasses. And a stern look on his face.

The CSI stood, she called out: "Inspector!"

Guinhava dropped the window of his Jeep. She approached. Leaned in the window.

"One of the kids saw something...foreigners. Maybe Russians....I think."

The inspector only shook his head. _Russians_. They'd never be caught.

There had been talk around some of the watering holes of a known customer falling off the radar, a westerner who was a big spender and had a corporate job unlike so many others who settled there or drifted through. Expats came and went in all shapes and sizes. First order of the day was to crosscheck the victim's ID with the real passport and work license, then find an address, rustle up a unit and raid the place.

He started his Renegade and the morning downpour broke. Officers had closed the area; the traffic was being directed into alternate routes, potential witnesses were stopped and questioned, homeless and the street dwellers rounded up.

A single distant thunderclap not too far away startled him; Guinhava tossed the cell phone on the seat. A cop -- a police inspector -- casing the streets in one of the world's most crowded cities...yet things seemed to work, most of the time and when things went wrong there was a reason. A simple reason: disputes, crimes of passion and jealousy. Major crimes. Even rogue elements within the government and the army -- they did shocking things too.

_But to take some foreigner, break his neck like that of a chicken and dump the remains downtown._ _What had the victim done? And, most important, who had done this to him?_

The 'standard' Rabbit Liner bus opened up the throttle and clattered by some paddies. The freeway was raised high above with bridges here and there. Rice had been cut by now leaving lines of tufts poking out through puddles and lakes. On the left side the red sky reflected; it was tranquil. The rain stopped now, it was still and high cloud turning deep crimson as the sun sank and the typhoon named after some brat rumbled away over the South China Sea. Hong Kong lay next in line to be hit.

Red sky at dawn; seamen be warned...red sky at night, sailor's delight...

The diesel sardine-can was packed with villagers and anybody else returning home to the boondocks, well away from Metro Manila. At the very rear was one figure, a female, she rested in the corner. She leaned back and lowered her head out of the air-con ducts as the bus cruised north on the open road heading north to Angeles City, still a few hours to go.

' _Boondocks_ '...a Filipino word.

This place was so similar on the surface, the rice, the villages, hills a little taller but otherwise exactly the same. Still, she wasn't in her homeland though. Long way to go yet. The bus and all within reeked of poverty and desperation, though they sat obediently. Not so long ago she walked with the rich and powerful, she could dial up contacts, she could work miracles. Not now. She was just like everybody else here. Though she couldn't understand them they all looked like her.

_Little Miss Lonesome_ , tonight...all alone but not lost; she knew exactly where she was headed. Closed the top button on her black jacket to cover up the blood-soaked top underneath; she'd need to change soon. Took her iPhone out and without checking it disconnected the battery and removed the card...just in case. Battery was dead anyhow. A young mother close by was breast-feeding a newborn baby in the next seat and glanced her way, otherwise nobody cared at all. The nursing mom wouldn't have been fifteen years old.

It would be nearly eleven by the time they made it. Passengers were getting off -- sometimes in the middle of nowhere. The two of them left in the rear seat and some elderly upfront. For the _'Natives'_ , they were home now but for her she was so far away in a foreign land. All that blood, she'd really hurt the creep; that's what she always did...anybody who dared to touch her or lay so much a finger on her without permission. They'd trained her well, her people. Blood...bad blood, turned her expensive silk blouse from white to cherry-red. Need to change the thing as soon as she made the bus terminal -- sticky, starting to dry, soon it would stink. _Couldn't let that happen._

# Chapter Three

The Toy Symphony flowed, through the iPod then out of the ear-thing into the runner's head. Snug in his pocket, a tiny aluminum and glass machine, a bundle of wires and a chip, run by a battery the size of a dime. Gave him energy, gave him that edge and he sprinted another twenty yards before bounding up the stairs to the promenade. The Alsatian stopped ahead, paused and he drew level with it. Slumped down and caught his breath. Great effort, doing well -- a good daily run along the beach kept everything in check. Being active; retirement demanded a routine. Still in shape. Everybody knew him and the formidable dog, they were regulars. Not a soul knew who he really was... _just another 'running man'_. They were everywhere these days. Beat the hell out of pruning roses.

He finished the daily torture-session not too far from the gaze of the golden mermaid statue and stretched. A pleasant time of year; not too many tourists. He squatted, rubbing his bad knee, he turned and he saw her; the lady with the crash-helmet under her arm... _the 'rider'_.

She'd appeared, shaggy windswept hair, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket that was padded. In the distance a red and silver motorcycle matching the colors on her jacket was propped against the curb, looked like a candy bar or a child's toy. He removed the earpiece so he could hear properly. The motorcycle-rider was saying something. Playing with _Tikka_ , his beloved dog.

"He's lovely. Is it okay to touch, does he like strangers?" She knelt and scratched under its chin. It panted and licked her hands, sticky glue-like drool; didn't bother the rider. "You know I had one just like him when I was young, he's so cute."

The accent suggested a more recent immigrant family background, difficult to place. Certainly a career military type, well over the age of national service. Fixated by the dog, his own personal chick-magnet...not that he cared.

"It's a _she_ ,' replied the running man. "I can give you the breeder's details, if you're interested. Supplies canines to the air force..."

"Nah...my room's way too cramped."

So interested she'd lost concentration in anything else. Finally, turned to the running man and handed him a cell phone, one with an inbuilt camera. Knelt down next to it and asked him to photograph her. He snapped several images of them and the shore in the background. Nice shots, he checked them, handed the thing back. She took it in one hand then handed over another of the same model. Identical, one of those gimmicky things with a hundred tiny buttons designed for a child's fingers.

S _trange_. This puzzled him. "More?"

"Not quite," the rider replied; serious, businesslike. "At exactly twenty hundred hours today, a call will be made on this hand set. She held the cell in front of her, made her point. "Please take it. We need to contact you. We may need your assistance."

He straightened up. "Assistance...? Who exactly is _'we'_?"

"You shall receive a call on this very 'phone in a few hours, so do not misplace it; it's a secured line and we would like it returned to us. I would like to collect you in front of your place. _Tonight._ "

The stranger paused and glanced at the surrounds, up and down the promenade. With the warm breeze and late onset of a Mediterranean fall the coast was unusually quiet. Sometimes they had residents, other times tourists came. Depended on the security situation. Trouble in the region and nobody came, bank on that, they stayed away in droves.

"This one's big," she replied offhandedly. She turned to face him, eye-contact for the first time. "Rather big. I shall see you in a few hours at your place, yes?"

"Do I have a choice?" he demanded.

"Not particularly. Thanks for your time...Major Lowenstein..."

Caught his breath. He hadn't been addressed by rank for several months now, this came as a jolt. Ambushed.

At least she hadn't saluted, in a public place and all.

She stood and pocketed her own phone -- the one with all the shots of her and the dog -- in her jacket and turned on her heel. Flipped the helmet over her head, mounted her motorcycle and disappeared. Quick as she'd materialized. As she sped off the cycle made a deep low rattle, lasting long after out of eyeshot. An Italian beauty, a poor man's supercar, only with two wheels.

He snapped the leash on the dog's collar and started the run home. He always knew his former employers would be keeping tabs but calling him into meetings, being accosted by strangers...caught him off-guard. When he arrived home the dog ate but had no desire to; no appetite despite the workout, the salt air and the breeze.

They arrived at a secluded shop front that evening. Had some secondhand junk in the window like electric guitars, drum-kits. Heavy grills over the shop, typical of a pawnbroker. The call had come as promised, came at eight in the evening, now it was late. The lady who loved dogs and expensive motorcycles, it was her; she'd collected him. In uniform, with her sidearm and beret under the left epaulette. Made the effort to tidy up a little. An officer, a captain. She punched a number once and then cancelled the call. The guard, a junior officer, unlocked the glass door and he followed the two of them through a passage way with another guard standing by an inner door. No swipe cards, no surveillance, no fingerprint readers or magnetic latches. Discrete and practical, uniformed guards who didn't even bother to salute. Inner circle; nobody knew the place existed. In the room were two government officials. An officer and a nameless civilian who greeted them by their first names.

"Thanks for being here at such short notice," said the officer, addressing Lowenstein. "We realize this may be unexpected, considering your recent departure from the service."

The running man tried to remember the face. Read the name-badge. Sure he knew the guy from somewhere. This was no reunion.

The running man read off the tag: "Colonel Hirsch...what do I owe the pleasure?"

"We thought it'd be nice to catch up. Touch base. Just see how you've been keeping."

"Cut the crap, Colonel. Why me? I've only been out for a few months."

"For me it's been a few years indeed, Mister Lowenstein," replied Hirsch. "Pardon me... _Major_."

The civilian dropped a document on the desk...the preliminary...the interrogation. Then he started: "Some years back you were employed with our office in the Far East, this is correct?" he asked.

The running man looked at the civilian and the motorcyclist he had met earlier, and then the colonel. Wanted answers. He knew the colonel's face and possibly had met but they never spoken. Nobody replied. The colonel whispered something in the rider's ear and she stepped out latching the door behind. Only three of them now.

The civilian continued. "You must know the place well. Would you agree, about 1999 I think, both yourself and another of ours were involved in _'Operation Scissors'_ would I be right in saying so?" He beamed at the reaction. "Cast your mind back...Bangkok, Thailand, a commercial job."

The running man stiffened and stared at the spook but still did not reply. Didn't need to...cast his mind back. Like being exposed to a bully or hated teacher from way back, on one of those reality TV series. _The nerve!_ It made him uneasy. The caper itself was not as potentially embarrassing as some had been, rather an irritating waste of resources. Meant to be top secret, between himself and his controllers at home -- nobody in the embassy had known. Yet these two did.

' _Scissors' was a mud collection against an expatriate, a visiting trade official of a certain foreign mission belonging to a friendly country. A close ally. Care was needed. The authorities in that 'friendly country' had blocked a lucrative export deal involving of all things navel oranges, on decisions everybody knew was junk science; that same market imported tons of the things from California. Political science more to the point._

The operation had been one of those freelance enterprises, fairly low risk to the service but it did have the potential to be extremely nasty for the subject on the receiving end. Exactly how things turned out; the main target -- the trade official -- had a predilection for underage boys. The spooks had it in their heads the subject engorged himself on a non-stop diet of bargirls every time he passed through Thailand; how wrong they'd all been. Getting the evidence made Lowenstein and his sidekick physically sick.

_To this day the running man had regretted not abandoning the operation and simply handing everything to his contacts in the Royal Thai Police._ He had seen the job to its conclusion however, with the hope of some lucrative export dollars in the pipeline; trade deals that would magically appear once his work was done. All efforts had proven futile when the official in question was discovered face down minus his privates in a flea riddled guesthouse behind the diplomatic enclave. Skull crushed and gray matter all over the floors and walls of a place called the 'Friendly Inn'. _Friendly indeed_. Somebody got to the subject first; the spooks missed that one too. They'd all bailed out, the deal had collapsed, all evidence duly shredded and the subject deceased. Even the containers of oranges had ended up unmarketable; the underwriters dumped them someplace like Fiji. Supplier went broke. In hindsight the name _'Scissors'_ had been most apt.

The very reference to the project meant two things: a lot more players were aware of his involvement in what was meant to be 'unofficial' and secondly there would be many things the top brass knew about the running man's past. He bristled.

"Gentlemen I can only confirm I was placed in Bangkok from 1990 until 1999. I am unable to discuss any details of my placement there, apart from the fact I was under the auspices of our diplomatic mission."

Somebody's done their homework and done it well.

Lowenstein kept glancing at Hirsch, trying to place the colonel. It came to him.

"De Castella...D'Angelo...?" The running man raised his finger up.

"Di Righetti, as I remember it," the colonel said. "But trust me, I'm not from Rome."

It figured. Been a while back. They'd been integrity testing everyone...that company representative, floating round trying to poach lists of defense contracts from those in the industry. Offering generous kickbacks, commissions. The running man didn't fall for it. One or two others did though...landed them in jail.

He'd been around way too long. Lowenstein had known something was up and reported the encounter -- even offered to trap the guy; bring him in. Never heard anything back at all. The Italians simply weren't that generous. Now the guy was right here in front of him.

"You still need to tell me, why did you drag me here? I have retired. Surely others can do this." The running man argued and pleaded. Fell on deaf ears.

"You know many of the ASEAN nations; at least those who allow us entry, don't you? You speak the language there, am I correct? You have an extensive knowledge of the Kingdom of Thailand and the Democratic Republic of Laos, would you agree with me?"

" _Some_ knowledge, I suppose. A little conversational Thai and some Cantonese swear words. Fluent in English as well." Irritated now. Changed the subject. "Who's that officer, anyhow? Following me around like a-"

"The captain? I believe you two met earlier," said the colonel. "Be aware she is on loan to us from the regulars and believe me she comes with aptitude and experience. Prior to her military career she was in the South African Police. Language skills, she's got 'em. Plus, we require a lady operative on board for reasons I cannot go into right now."

"Honey trap? Bear trap more like it-"

"Not at all," replied Hirsch. "Ari, I shall brief you and give a technical summary of why we are here tonight. You have been selected from a short-list of three candidates, one of whom shall go on to lead an operation which may extend over a time frame of anything up to six months, perhaps more. This operation is an enterprise in the Far East. Until you agree, if you do agree, I cannot disclose too much more." The officer looked at his civilian colleague then at the running man. "Give this some thought. We can meet at oh-seven-hundred tomorrow. Go have some time alone if you wish." He checked his watch.

The running man spoke. "What are the logistics of this? Who else knows?"

"We can only say this would involve about fifteen of our personnel, all hand-picked. As convener, should you be selected, you shall have power of veto over any participants. This mission has been underwritten to a generous budget. Furthermore it has the go-ahead from the very highest levels...."

Colonel Abraham Shimon Hirsch droned on and on, in harmony with the air con units on the wall. The running man drifted, heard it all before. That very afternoon he had been enjoying his retirement. Hoped to get back into shape. He had only been on vacation once since quitting work, to his ancestral Germany to see the concert halls and also visit the museums and galleries. He adored Europe, the culture, scenery and classical architecture. Decent beer. Snow. He considered this but the temptation to return for one last mission was overpowering. Worthwhile fee upon conclusion.

' _Top money for right applicant..._ ' No idea why he was here but he spoke without even thinking: "So who would take care of my dog?"

The civilian fumbled through the swamp of files at his feet and dumped the papers upon the desk. Seized upon the opportunity.

"Secrecy, financial disclosure, codes of conduct and so forth," he said. "If you agree and if you sign we can proceed." He removed a gold pen from his shirt pocket and placed it on the desk.

The colonel smiled. "Thank you, Ari. Welcome back."

Lowenstein, the running man, signed his life away. He didn't read such papers; he had done this so many times before, lost count. The captain -- whatever her name was -- had returned, she was signing the same, though she was taking considerable effort to actually read them. A first-timer, he thought; most likely head-hunted. So many years ago it had been the same for him. An ambitious sergeant; immortal and courageous...handpicked. Late 1972, the aftermath of Munich, who could ever forget? _'Operation Wrath of God'_ they'd named it. He'd been there; been part of it all when it went down.

Quiet outside. Late. Lowenstein tapped his pockets, felt like a smoke. Didn't bring any, none on him. Hirsch sidled up next to him.

"Won't be a moment, Ari. Captain van de Meuwe will deliver you and collect you first thing in the-"

"Forget about it. I'll walk... _sir._ "

"As you wish," said Hirsch. "It's late though. You armed?"

"Worried I'll get mugged, Colonel? More chance of getting struck by lightning."

That was certainly true. Hirsch nodded, Lowenstein went to cross the road then stopped. "Colonel, one thing...the captain today...she made some remark: meant to be a _big one_ or something like that."

Hirsch didn't say anything right away. They were outside now. All would be revealed soon. He nodded his head. Some nice couple walked by, right past then down the road. He waited.

"Tomorrow. Briefing will be first thing. We'll collect you half an hour before."

" _How big_ , Colonel Hirsch?"

"Let's just say it's your finest hour, if you pull it off...sorry...when you pull it off. Same goes for me too, as it stands. Have a nice walk back."

The running man nodded and turned, commenced walking. Same direction the couple a minute ago. A vehicle pulled alongside. The rider at the wheel. Dropped the window, then she leaned and opened the passenger door.

"Need a lift, Major?"

Lowenstein ignored her. Just kept walking. Didn't need the company right now. _'Everybody's finest hour_.' Heard that one before but got him thinking...they knew all about him. Knew what he'd done and what he could get done. Dirty deeds that went back decades; he was a striker, a field operative. Not a spook. Not one of the university graduates. They did all the planning; he just went out and got the job done.

# Chapter Four

Somewhere in inner-city DC...a cheap dwelling...it was late. Special Agent P. Kelvin Tanaka of the bureau's _'financial'_ section was jolted out of a fitful sleep by the ring tone.

_Dammit_ , _teach you not to switch the thing off. What are they going to do anyhow, fire you if it's switched off?_ _After a night out sleep is precious; you've got to value it. Three in the morning's an unholy hour for anybody._

It was his government-issue cell phone, worse still who would be calling him at this hour? Since transferring to Financial Crimes he was not used to being called any hour of the day and night. Different to other sections. The trouble was he was broke and living in a seedy place he could barely stand in since he moved away from the family home last year. Unreliable hot water, no car and eighteen hundred dollars a month to his ex like clockwork. And yet he worked in excess of seventy hours a week chasing down and locking up crooks worth millions; he'd seize their mansions, luxury cars, motor launches and even got the wristwatches off their arms. Those sorts of people were at the top end of the scale. At the bottom end you got Nigerians...

With Thanksgiving just gone, 'PK' as he was known to his friends, had met up with some colleagues from the bureau and spent the evening at his favorite bar, then continued after closing time alone in his one-room apartment with a six pack and a late movie. It had been a monumental evening and they'd served a fine turkey main course which topped off by copious liquor that had left him worse for wear. Return to duty tomorrow. The ex down in Orlando; it had just been him and his circle of buddies from work, washed down with beer.

"Department of Justice; Special Agent Tanaka speaking."

The voice on the other end sounded like it was in the room next door: "Hey, Tanaka, glad I caught you. I had to let you know as soon as I heard."

"Who's this?" Tanaka grumbled, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. "Got any idea what time it is, it's three in the damn morning, this better be good."

"Jackson...Agent Mike Jackson from the Manila Legal Attaché's office. Apologies buddy, but I've got to let you know before the directors get hold of it."

"Great," Tanaka said in a dispirited voice. "Get a hold of what?" He heaved a sigh. "Why at this ungodly hour?"

"Tanaka, surely you have my reports. I'm looking at the transmission right here. I'm still at the embassy. Sent 'em through five weeks ago, regarding the business at the air freight company. Tanaka, you sent it up the line, tell me you have already..." A pause. " _Tanaka_ , you with me?"

His mind whirled, through all the beer: _That report from the Philippines; possible case of financial impropriety. Air freight...dodgy goods being shipped. Possible money laundering, that's how we got involved._ "Yeah, of course; sent all of it up to the station super, briefed her but I'd need to check my diary. Can't it wait 'til the morning?"

"Sure as hell hope you've forwarded it, at least I hope you did for your sake, buddy," replied Jackson, half a world away. "The informant, he's showed up dead in downtown metro. _Murdered_. Had his neck crushed, dumped in the old section, barely a block away from the embassy where I'm at. You know, it took the authorities down here a whole day just to section the place off."

Any hope of catching more sleep evaporated.

"Tanaka! Still there?"

"Er, yeah...You're kidding me. How do you know it's the informant?"

"It's him alright. I got the statement from him a few weeks back. He came up to my office," replied the field agent. "I'd recognize his face or at least what was left of it."

"When? When did you find out?"

"Just spent the morning at the morgue. He turned up few days ago. The authorities here released his remains and I've got the handover and the police report," replied Jackson. "If I were in your shoes I'd get to your workstation as soon as you guys open up. The press on both sides of the Pacific are gonna have a field day with this."

_H_ _ow'd we become involved in the first place? The financial aspect of the case? Illegal dealings? They'd all checked...nothing came of it._ Crossed his mind; financial crimes seldom ended in murder. They called it 'white collar crime' for a reason.

"Jackson I'll get to the office first thing, talk to you later on."

Tanaka ended the call. In the mirror he looked at his reflection -- he was disheveled and still had the black pants and loosened tie he was wearing on his night out with the boys. That evening the barmaid was asking if he was dressed up as _Jake_ of the 'Blues Brothers'; surely she'd been too young to know who those guys were; they belonged to his generation. He always wore that black suit.

He made a special effort to arrive early at the bureau only to discover the system had jammed up over the long weekend, somehow.

Something to do with cyber-threats; now that was a section he'd never get sent to...

In the hour and a half before IT arrived he pored over his confidential notebooks and re-read the case file. When his domain was accessible he was able to access the notes, Agent Jackson's record of interview, and finally the local police reports on the case along with a death certificate forwarded from Manila.

According to the transcripts, the victim had arrived at the embassy six weeks ago after making an appointment to see Jackson at the embassy. The communication log and record of interview stated the victim had intended to report possible corruption and financial mismanagement in the air freight industry. The now-dead informant had arrived with documents including airway bills and letter of credit extracts he'd gotten his hands on. All about possibly overpriced articles including second rate digital cameras as well as knock-off copied cell phones. Basically the field agent had done everything and then forwarded the report which had landed in Tanaka's lap. Back then it was a financial crime. Now it had evolved into murder.

When the body was discovered a week ago it had been collected and jurisdiction handed to the National Bureau of Investigations, the Philippines equivalent of federal law enforcement. The NBI had done little except compile a report of sorts complete with crime scene stills. Tanaka removed a page toward the bottom, this time drafted by some low-placed police inspector, was the only thing made any sense. This report proved to be the most fruitful; it was here the victim's identity was revealed. They'd located some copies of the passport. No other info. It was a start. PK Tanaka made damn sure to underline the officer's name: some guy called Police Inspector _R. Guinhava_ , Philippines National Police. A grassroots officer...

He made a bee-line for the land line; no luck as he had to gain authority for overseas calls from the station super, so the call was blocked. He tried his own cell. When Jackson did answer his voice was drowned out by what seemed to be a big night, complete with music, clashing glass, squeals and shouting...

_Nice work if you can get it_ , Tanaka thought. Sounded like a wild party. Did the math; Manila was maybe ten to twelve hours ahead of the Atlantic Coast. Be evening there. At least Jackson was taking calls.

"Jackson, Agent Tanaka speaking. Where are you right now?" Only more noise. "Can you hear me? _Jackson_!" He terminated the call and redialed. When the Manila agent answered a second time there was only marginally better reception. "Mike Jackson... _Agent Jackson_! Are you free to talk? What's going on over there, how come I never got an invite?"

The noise sounded more like riot in a crowded bar or nightclub; not a party. More noise, then some yelling on the other end. He could hear Jackson better now; he must have gone into a room and locked the door.

"Tanaka speaking -- about the Hatfield case, that's if it really is the guy. You sure?"

"I told you before, it _is_ him," replied Jackson. "I spoke with him and took a statement. Read the report I filed. Read the death notice and the stuff from the PNP."

"Jackson I'll keep it short. I've got the paperwork. You stated, however, he did bring in and show you some items -- cell phones and cameras. Did you keep anything?"

"How can I take stuff? _You know I can't do that_. Different story if they're copyright violation," he yelled over the noise. "To keep the guy happy I swabbed 'em and we even Rapi-Scanned 'em all. Came up with squat. No trace; narcotics, nothing. You know the phones he showed me wouldn't even switch on. Only thing of interest was how much they cost -- things were worth a fortune. He'd gotten hold of some financial transcripts. Some fool in Egypt had paid two hundred K for a pallet-load of this junk!"

"Don't suppose you thought something unusual about that?" asked Tanaka. "What would that kind of thing be worth...a fraction of that; if that?"

"Sure, I ran the details, not a thing out of place," Jackson replied. "Usually there's a problem where expensive shit is _'misdeclared'_. You know...undervaluing goods, tax evasion; that kind of thing. I checked it all out, nothing untoward anywhere. All tariffs paid. Like I said Tanaka, these were just some electronic items. No copyright issues, no money laundering, no nothing. The authorities in Egypt weren't interested."

In the background behind the voice Tanaka heard the song 'Blitzkrieg Bop'. Distracted him. _Who listens to that stuff nowadays_? Took him back to his days at college.

"Okay, talk soon. Gotta go, gotta refer this one up the chain..."

Jackson was right about one thing at least: overvaluation of goods was odd. Meant there were extra taxes, insurance and excise. Unless they were attempting to launder ill-gotten gains; it was a clumsy attempt.

Tanaka spent the rest of the morning attempting to contact the station super who was out chairing meetings and interviews. Printed and pinned everything before searching for the victim's next of kin. The name would need to be released. Need to liaise with State on that one.

Better to do the groundwork now, before the poor guy's family hears about it from some other source.

The supervisor was one in a batch of bosses who were shuttled around the bureau sections like musical chairs characters. A career bureaucrat younger than many of the experienced agents, she had been in this acting position for several months. More _'acting'_ these days in the federal government than Oscars Night, one had to get used to revolving-door-bosses. The latest one never liked PK Tanaka.

By three that afternoon Tanaka finally located the super who was in no mood for the day's events. He entered her office with the files and stood like he was in the headmaster's office; it took several minutes for her to even notice he was there.

"Look can't this wait?"

"No, ma'am, it cannot. You're aware of the reports I forwarded to you about a concerned US citizen in the Philippines last month? The freight agency he was with and the strange financial transactions?"

"Take a seat Tanaka." The super pored over the documents and sighed. "I thought there had been nothing further to action with this. Why are you digging this up now? I've got a shitload of budget stats to get in by close of business today _and_ a meeting with some officials from USAID first thing tomorrow. On top of that I've monthly KPIs to send to the director. Surely this can wait?"

"Not really-"

Tanaka's cell rang. He excused himself, it was the research section. On the line was an administrative assistant from that section; the call only took a moment and his jaw dropped, hit the floor. "Ma'am, may I suggest check out the press. Try the English language papers in the Philippines..."

The super reluctantly typed in the web address as Tanaka recited it. The incident was now public, the murder of a foreigner with speculation on his identity, his age and why he had ended up dead. At the conclusion the super switched the monitor off and looked at him. Yesterday's story was today's headlines; the cat was out of the bag.

"Okay, you've got my attention. Shoot."

"Ma'am we've missed something. With your permission I have to prioritize the case. I need to contact his next of kin; pronto...we've got to release his name. I was thinking of going out there with my contact in State Department. Like first thing tomorrow."

The super held up some cost charts. "Who's paying for it? Look I'll do the math but please don't screw up my budgets; we're coming up to quarterly-"

Tanaka cut his boss off: "Ma'am, this _is_ the murder of a US citizen abroad we're dealing with, need I remind you. The victim filed a report with Manila field office. That said, it was financial mismanagement so we could well have jurisdiction over this. We're involved, like it or not"

"What about Manila? Surely they can cope with this on their own?

"Jackson's clearly got his hands full with the human trafficking business over there, or so it seems to me," replied Tanaka. Recalled the din from Jackson's phone.

_Betcha he's got three of 'em at once under taped interview right now...in a Jacuzzi_.

"I've been speaking with him and he can render all assistance necessary but I just have a feeling about this one."

"Where would you kick off?" The super asked, disinterestedly.

"I've managed to locate one next of kin, his father who lives about four hour's drive from here. He's just over state lines." Tanaka knew the area, need to get in contact with the sheriff there. "At the very least I've got to get out there. I can report back tomorrow afternoon. I may even make it back by evening."

The agent had a feeling about this one, all right. Clearly the deceased had been concerned about something. The young guy had contacted the embassy and it had probably cost him his life. Tanaka felt responsible. So far he was the only one who felt that way.

"Go for it but keep me in the loop. Daily updates, spend tomorrow and the next day. That's all I can spare you at the moment." the super added. "I'm still not convinced. You be sure you tread carefully with the family, just in case we've missed something."

"I think we should get up there real quick. Victim's family hears about it through the media, makes _us_ look unprofessional..."

He left the office, closing the door behind him. Had the rest of the day to organize State Department and the county sheriff's office. Appalachia -- it'd be a change of scenery. Knew very little about the place, only been there once a few years back; the bureau was investigating the rise and rise of meth-labs in the area. A big problem...their forefathers were bootleggers during prohibition but the youth of today had embraced a much more deadly form of poison.

Early November, it was getting cold. As Tanaka exited the building he raised his collar to keep the wind out, it stung, and it made his lips crack. Be a lot worse up in the hills.

He plugged the key in the ignition, wanted to get moving, get the heater cranked up. Something stopped him. Pulled out his notebook, he'd scribbled everything down. Hardly read his own handwriting, getting more and more like a psychiatrist every day now. Something was bugging him...he found it: Special Agent Mike Jackson, the initiating officer had done his job for sure, _but_ ... _why then, did Jackson contact Egypt? Who did he speak to? The FBI liaison officer or local law-enforcement?_

Tanaka marked an asterisk next to the sentence and put a little dog-ear on the page. Dialed up the lady in State Department, she wasn't available today but first thing tomorrow would be okay; they could get going early and beat the rush.

Called the Raleigh County Sheriff's office, he'd worked with the sheriff when the bureau had been called in to assist with the drugs investigation.

The last call was back to Agent Jackson in the Philippines. Tanaka wasn't sure what the time would be there now. No luck; went straight to message bank. Never mind, he could call some other time...just wanted to clear up the Egypt business.

_No idea on earth why he did that...strange,_ he thought. _Why?!_

# Chapter Five

_Little Miss Lonesome_ tonight. Almost midnight and she stepped from a battered taxi into the main drag of Angeles City, an arduous bus ride from Metro Manila given the flooding. It had been a terrible thing, what took place. Now it was bail-out time...

A tightrope walker must always have 'Plan-B'.

The tightrope walker, the name on her papers \-- _Jaisuwan Pakdee-Chayochaichana_ \-- remained hidden, her name longer than anybody else's and nobody could say or even pronounce it anyhow. They called her 'Anna'. Everybody called her by that name.

From now on she could blend in or be killed...she adjusted her blouse having changed in the mother's room at the bus station, discarding the old one that was saturated with blood. Still had the taste in her mouth after biting her attacker's arm. _Easy!_ She could chomp through a branch of oak ever since the reconstruction.

It was her first ever visit to Angeles City but she had studied the maps well beforehand, there was an address she knew she must find and quickly. Fast approaching midnight, she hadn't slept for ages but she was in survival mode. Flight or fight. She tried to cast out any thoughts of the Hatfield boy.

He'd be dead by now.

She was searching for a large place known as the _'Montego Bay A-Go Go'_ , she knew the place had some fellow countrymen there; they worked there, entertainers. People in their thousands, drawn like moths along Fields Avenue by a stream of lights and thumping music along the way. Crowds milled along the closed-off section. At the witching hour the place was full, roughened old foreigners with their girls, trike operators, and packs of urchins, those watching or being watched. Young couples strolling arm in arm. Bar-hop and Karaoke; anything the fun-doctor ordered. Local people returning home and drifting to work...drunks, demons and nearby a group of pious Catholic nuns were handing out leaflets to sinners aplenty. They were in competition with the holy-rollers, the born-again preachers who occupied the opposite side of Margarita Station; they bellowed and thundered their dire warnings of lakes of fire and repentance.

"The end is nigh," cried the missionary man, a sallow foreigner with black trousers, a briefcase and a megaphone into which he bellowed: _"Behold your savior...repent! Embrace the Lord!"_

Pakdee-Chayochaichana copped the trumpeting from the preacher in her right ear, she turned and gave the man a withering stare...he shut up for just a moment. "The end'll be nigh for you, my friend," she snarled at the guy. She kept going. In her country the guy would be locked up. _Religious maniacs._

Toward the end she saw the neon signs and imitation palm trees out front, found it. Opposite stood three noisy loudmouth Europeans who were cursing and waving their arms, they'd just been thrown out; she sidestepped them and approached a door shrouded by a black curtain.

Two Filipino _'machos'_ stood there, skylarking; both had dark suit pants and skintight tee-shirts with the sleeves rolled up, one tee-shirt bore the logo ' _MANNY PACQUIAO'_ the home grown world champion; pound for pound the hardest hitting fighter in history. Moments earlier they'd ejected the three _visitors_ amid a hail of fisticuffs and slaps from stiletto shoes after one of them had tried to rip the bikini-top from one of the dancers inside. They were on the far side of the potholed road yelling at all and sundry, if they returned they would likely be lynched so they could stay on the other side and shout all night. Seated nearby the bouncers was an elderly security guard with a revolver, a nightstick and an old stainless flashlight. Above the entrance was a sign posted:

' _NO WEAPONS, NO DRUGS AND NO UNACCOMPANIED LADIES.'_

The doormen saw her approach and blocked the door.

"Very sorry, ma'am. No single ladies allowed in; read the notice please." 'Manny' spoke. For all his muscles and lightning fists he had a high and effeminate voice.

Had to get inside. She stood in front of them and addressed the one blocking the way:

" _Excuse me; velly solly. I ohn-ree visitor. I tourist visit from Korea."_

She spoke in deliberately broken Pidgin-English. Reality was she could speak and write English better than any professor in a bow-tie.

The bouncers looked at each other and back at her; at five-eight-plus she was as tall as they were and in her right hand were three yellow notes, each one bearing the quotation:

' _THE FILIPINO IS WORTH DYING FOR_.'

Five hundred Pesos times three, one each for the doormen and one for the old guard whose face brightened; he nodded to the welterweights and the door swung upon.

She entered to a thick fog of cigarette smoke, strobe lights and frigid air con. The stage to the center and on it were no less than twenty bored show girls, all of them from places with exotic names like ' _Samar Island'_ and ' _General Santos'_ and all in metallic gold bikinis, like everything else on _'Fields'_ would've been fashionable in the 1970s. They were clumsily attempting to move in high heels that matched the outfits. Pakdee squinted; they all had number badges on their tops, a disgrace she figured. Along the wall were seated a selection of older western guys and some big spenders from Japan and Korea, all totally outnumbered by females.

She searched the club and found what she had come for: on a second stage, raised a level higher was a line of four coyote dancers in denim micro hot pants and well secured tops along with platform running shoes...the adults-only cheerleaders from hell, fueled by a mix of whisky, sticky rice and stay-awake pills. Heavily tanned and heavily tattooed girls with the physiques of aerobics instructors. They turned one other around like little clockwork robots, unstoppable and powerful. Choreographed... _'Radio-Viagra'_ gave way to electronic house rhythms, it beat monotonously.

The coyote gang, all imported from Thailand; they were professionals, there to work, not look pretty. Thai pole dancers were popular these days...nubile and energetic; they ran rings around anybody. The Filipinos were talented singers however; they just couldn't dance to save their lives. It was a peculiar trade.

As she approached one of the showgirls began to make eye contact, through the smoke a smile. Pakdee made her move, she motioned the dancer closer and discretely slid a banknote into the dancers' fishnet, she smiled and mouthed the words 'thank you' then it was the dancer who took a good look at this customer's tip -- a _real_ twenty-dollar bill. The coyote girl stopped and gaped; removed the bill and shot another look at it drawing the attention of the manageress who moved in like a starving hyena. The mama-san was a middle aged boiler about thirteen stone and a face like a diesel locomotive, biceps bigger than the doormen and a personality to match her looks. Glared at the coyote then turned to Pakdee.

"You like?" yelled the mama-san in her ear, pointing to the stage above them.

"Beautiful! She can sit next to me, please. I buy her drink."

"Where you come from?" The mama-san inched closer to her, the breath odor was foul, like the food.

"Korea -- I _businesswoman_ ," nodding.

The mama-san was trying to figure this one out: thousands of Korean men of all ages came to Angeles and the strip, yet in all her years this was the first female to get inside the bar. She would have to have word with the doormen...she frowned. _Kinky piece of work..._

"These ladies, for dancing only!" The mama-san squawked like a sulfur-crested parrot. "Not go with customers." She whirled around to the low stage stocked with dozens of local pretties; all bored witless, some texting as they tried to dance, others falling asleep as they clutched the stainless poles. "Take your pick."

" _Local girls are lazy!"_ Pakdee yelled over the music...some cash thrust into the mama-san's hand. A lot of cash. The stout boiler gaped at the Pesos then she shrieked at the dancer who stopped and approached, she came and squatted down, flashing a broad dumb-ass smile. Bimbos need not always be blondes.

"Where you stay?" The mama-san demanded; she frowned at the 'businesswoman'.

Pakdee handed the mama-san a card. "Close by," she said.

Several minutes later, the coyote had changed, gotten her bag; they stepped out from the Montego Bay into the street and crossed to where the taxi-trikes waited and Pakdee spoke to the dancer, this time in Thai language: "We are going to your place, not mine."

The dancer stopped dead, hearing this, one of her own. Before she could collect her thoughts they were interrupted, this time by a wolf-whistle and booming voice from its inebriated owner. They faced the swaying drunk giant. The way was blocked.

"Excuse me?"

" _S_ exy ladies, where you go?" A guttural voice. The big European and his companions had seen them leave the club, arm-in-arm.

A threesome; dream on.

The nightclub was on the other side of the road. The dancer was behind her new friend and she saw her flex her left hand, the wristwatch she had on clicked open and slid into her back pocket. Then the coyote saw, on her new friend's right wrist was a solid and chunky bracelet shaped like a cobra, shiny and wrapping the entire way around, jagged edged and sharp on the outside. Flicked up her collar; sewn in the top of Pakdee's silk jacket was a line of no less than two dozen razor blades, designed to tear off the thumb of anyone who grabbed her from behind. Tooled up, more booby traps than a prison gang would take to a rumble.

No need to say a word, Nattaya Coyote the dancer, dropped back.

"Please move out of our way, _now_ or I will move you myself." The taller lady spoke with no emotion. "I only ask one time..."

The drunk leaned closer to her. Wasn't moving. Mouth like a brewery.

" _You und vich army?"_

A minute spec of saliva landed on her forehead, Pakdee grimaced. _Yuck._

"Trust me when I say -- you do not want to meet my army -- _ever_ ..."

He snorted, no intention of moving; he looked sideways at his buddy then back at the two girls, never knew what hit him. The palm of her hand crashed into his nose shattering it like a door slammed in his face, she followed and landed her right knee hard in his lower chest with a sharp crack, dropping him sideways on the mud. The second man let fly with a wide and predictable haymaker that flew over her head and she ducked, punching him hard in the groin, doubling him over with a howl of pain then shoving him by the collar into the ground with a hard thump. He landed and struck jaw-first on something hard, out cold. She leapt at the third one who turned to run, he tripped in a pot-hole, twisting his ankle and falling, winded. None of them got up.

Five seconds, maybe a fraction less.

Pakdee spun around to check on the dancer and she caught sight of the club doormen bolting toward them. She squared up to the two Filipinos stopping them in their tracks -- they couldn't miss the injured foreigners, one would be sore and the other two would need a bus.

" _Easy_ , ma'am." The high voice with the 'Manny' shirt held up his hand. "We just came to see if you needed assistance." He glanced at the other doorman, muttering something in _Tagalog_.

One on the ground clutching his ribcage with blood all over his shirt, the second one unconscious and the third doubled up a few feet away. Bawling his blue eyes out. The doormen backed away and returned to the club entrance. The manager surely would be having words about this; they had broken all the rules. They had let an unaccompanied lady _and_ a weapon inside. Drugs? No idea what she'd taken...PCP maybe? The Filipino boys had got a few good ones in before the Germans stormed out but now it looked like a cement-truck had ploughed right through them -- head on.

The dancer had a look of fear when her new friend from the old country took her by the wrist and she struggled, resisting. Grip like a vice.

"Come -- we are going to your room, not mine. I don't have a room."

The dancer stammered, shaking her head, making excuses. Nervous now.

"I'm meant to dance...I never go with another lady customer before-"

"Don't be ridiculous!" She jerked the dancer toward a waiting taxi-trike; they needed to leave quickly as a crowd was starting to gather. "I never sleep with another woman in my life. I need somewhere to stay. The bar fine was just to get you out of there."

Once they were away the tension eased. Pakdee turned to the coyote girl crammed next to her in the little side-car.

"My friends call me Anna."

The dancer nodded. "My name is Nat -- short for Nattaya..." She giggled. "Where'd you learn boxing like that? Are you a man dressed up-"

"You mean a lady boy? _No way_! Some call me that. I am no different to you."

Nat frowned. "Are you dangerous for me?"

"Not if you keep your trap shut." She paused a moment as the trike clattered over some huge pot-holes, throwing up water. "I only need to disappear for a few days. I will pay handsomely then I will go. If you agree to this we will reward you. The time comes for you to return to your home we will look out for you and we will not forget."

"And if I don't agree?"

Pakdee turned and drew close. Hot breath, a whiff of peppermint, sterile...she chewed gum incessantly. The coyote-girl saw the eyes, jet black, and a little black stud in the ear visible to her...a tiny ace of spades.

"If you don't agree then so many bad things might happen, to me but maybe for you too," she said. "I am doing a job for some people. They are the kind of people you don't wish to meet. Trust me."

"Who do you work for then? Are you mafia?"

' _Mafia',_ the term was distasteful. Pakdee turned away for a moment. "I work for one man, an officer and patriot, a person of power and influence. He is not mafia. He is a good man." The tiny vehicle clattered and jarred them both. "Give me shelter I will make it worth your while. We are countrymen. Never forget, we are Thai people and we are not the same as others...so do we have a deal or not?"

Nattaya thought about this before nodding. _"Deal!"_

Pakdee extended her right hand this time, the same hand that could knock a person out cold or rupture someone's nuts. They were squeezed into the tiny sidecar on the trike and the dancer felt respect, she was awed by her new friend, the way she had dropped the three drunks. Tentatively they shook.

The coyote gang took her in to their squalid box, they moved into the other room. Four girls to a double-mattress, their guest wanted the other room alone. In the sanctuary of a steamy fan-cooled solitude, Pakdee Chayochaichana collected her thoughts.

How could it turn out like this?

The orders from above had been clear: Infiltrate the gang, seduce them if necessary. Dazzle them with her financial prowess and the people she knew then convince them to move offshore; away from Bangkok and preferably out of the region altogether. Steal or misplace the things they were selling. The cargo business, the airfreight and now Hatfield's abduction, day before yesterday. Taken. No warning at all, out of the blue.

A feeling of rage overcame her. A true gentleman, he was honest and bright, perhaps too honest for his own good and the only foreigner she had really liked, save her adoptive parents.

The dealings with Will Hatfield had overstepped the mark -- no longer a 'honey pot' trap, _he was so different_.

Shaking with anger. Somebody would pay. _Sure!_

There were enough greenbacks to survive as long as necessary, stashed as only she knew how. A few tucked in her top; another three grand in Franklins rolled tightly into a little rubber gadget and secreted. Stay off the radar, no calls, no internet and stay inside. One other thing, she needed a concealable, a _nine_ would be ideal just in case and plenty of rounds. A cinch to buy here, whole place was awash with guns.

She was dead-tired and slid back on the bedding, soon she would sleep but the dreams that hounded her would surely come. They always did, especially when there was danger around. Not so much nightmares, more like bad dreams...really bad...the aimless spirits of deceased children. Killed by fevers and misadventures; traffic accidents or murdered. There was a word in Thai language for this kind of ghost...it wasn't a very nice word. Dead ones, taken before their time was due.

The child would reach out, follow her and send her mad. Only had to touch her just one single time and that would be the end, she would cross over. No return.

The child-spirit held out its hands; burning with bright yellow flames...flaming hands...a sure sign of deceit and danger.

" _Anne! Sister Anne! Come play! Take care of me! Don't leave me."_

Every time Pakdee slept. Forever walking over the lake with the other lost souls in that white gown, the dead always wore white. Whenever danger was close.

Holed up in there, then came the day and the English-edition newspaper, one of the coyote-gang was reading it. Uncensored color images, the crime and the outrage. Will Hatfield's remains had been found. She wanted to scream but kept silent, just shaking, gagging. The coyote girls had picked up a gun for her somewhere. She shut her eyes and cocked the stainless Beretta and held the muzzle to her heart a while, shaking uncontrollably before dropping it in front of her. She hit the mattress cover again and again with her hands until she had no strength left. No grief left either. Only purpose now was to finish the job she had started.

Handle it! Squeeze the trigger for what; we all die someday...

She took a deep breath.

Get up! Get it together!

Now her turn to strike back and strike hard...she picked up the heavy thing and closed the hammer, carefully. Knew how to use it, too...they'd taught her, her controllers. She was a marksman. Put all fifteen shots into a cigarette packet from ten yards using an M9; she'd done it once, she could outscore the regular soldiers. Even the instructor, he couldn't do that. This gun the girls had got for her, exactly the same, she stuffed it in behind her belt, and she stood. She cracked her knuckles, cracked her neck. Stretched and took a deep breath, held her hands out, the trembling had stopped. A sense of purpose, at last. She'd need to find Will Hatfield even if he had been killed, see for herself. Get some closure. Carry on with the mission. Her job.

She'd need to get back home. Settle the score. Hunt them all down. _Snuff 'em out like rats._ That's what the syndicate members were; they were rats...every single last one of them. _Rats!_

# Chapter Six

Pre-deployment, that's what the troops called it. Nobody said much, they stood around before being stuffed into a minivan that shuttled them to a barracks. Entered a military compound somewhere. This time Colonel Hirsch was the only one in uniform. The running man and the rider met for the first time with the operatives sent down from Special Forces. Two of them at the briefing and the others already on-site, 'observing'. S _pecialists_ were easy to pick out -- they were on first name basis with each other. Casual about things.

More paperwork. Medicals, the yellow booklet, checks and shots. Without incident until Lowenstein passed out after the last injection; he'd skipped breakfast. Caused the medic to panic, the running man was valuable. By the time they were done with the physicals it was mid-morning.

They filed into a conference center, and sat. The specialist officer glanced several times in the direction of the unkempt female captain who was chewing gum energetically. He counted the calluses over her hands and veins in her forearms. He leaned toward her.

"Too many press-ups?" he asked.

She sniffed at the comment. Said nothing.

Colonel Hirsch began his introductions. "If I may present the field coordinators and next is our second in charge, kindly on loan to us from the regulars. The officer seated next to her has a team currently embedded."

Hirsch paused and the nameless civilian passed out scraps of paper to the group. On each one a unique name: a color. Call signs, to be used at all times.

"In my capacity I will be the point of contact from home base and hence not travelling into the field with you," said Hirsch. "All of you will answer to the coordinator. If you would, _please_ refer to one another by your coded identities from this point on, they are simple and straightforward. Under no circumstances are you to refer to one another by name, at any time, particularly over the airwaves." He took out some files with red covers as the civilian adjusted his Power Point presentation. "Be aware of the status of this task _is_ designated top secret in line with your clearance levels."

The civilian handed out pocket notebooks to each person in the room along with a list of all involved in the operation. "Do feel free to jot down any pointers should you feel necessary, however I would appreciate it that all parties commit as much information to memory as possible. Before we conclude today, I _will_ vet your notes and if necessary remove anything that may be of compromise, okay? And I will need all of these back..."

Hirsch cut in. "This organizational-chart details all personnel along with their code names who are involved, along with their location and task details, specialties they have, and so-forth. Be aware the coordinator, Major Lowenstein, in his position is granted full control at any stage of the operation. Chain of command appears complex but in practice not so."

The running man scanned the personnel chart and was surprised so many of the operatives were already placed. Unbelievable.

"How long has all this been going on?"

"We'll cover all that but I can tell you this was set up in its entirety, several months ago," Hirsch answered. "I was personally running it from here, filing Intel and so on. The sudden urgency is due to an event which caught all of us by surprise in the Republic of the Philippines a few days ago. An assassination. With no further ado I shall hand over to my colleague from the _Center_. Both he and I shall coordinate this exercise from here." The colonel turned toward the civilian and invited him to continue. The civilian rose and spoke. He cradled a red-covered file.

"All of you, I thank you for being here today. Please do bear with me; I am not an enlisted soldier so there will be things you may have questions and feedback regarding all points covered. In any case don't hesitate to interrupt should any of you have questions or anything to clarify." He paused and looked at the three seated before continuing with his preliminary. "I believe all of you would be familiar with the helicopter incidents which occurred recently. The first on the coast near the border, and secondly on the outskirts of Sderot, in May of this year."

All in the room looked up and at each other. _Familiar all right._

The civilian started a series of PowerPoint slides. He stopped after the fifth slide and all in the room studied an image of nearly unrecognizable and nondescript parts. Metal goods.

"What none of you have been aware of until now is that the chopper in question was _not_ lost as a result of mechanical failure, despite all reports you may have seen. We can reveal to you today that these aircraft were brought down by a guided missile and what is of most concern, a homemade device at that, manufactured and launched by militants from over the border."

The running man had suspected foul play all along. The worst place to keep a secret was within the intelligence community and rumors had flown thick and fast following the incident.

"When the choppers went down we all thought it was a one-in-a-million shot; some maniac with an RPG. Even the experts conceded this after the first one that put down offshore. Once we got to the scene of the second crash, forensics proved otherwise." The suit leaned closer to the image on the screen and pointed at some things. "From the wreckage pictured here it is apparent the device did not even contain a warhead, only a basic yet effective guidance system attached to a servo operating the front stabilizer fins which we recovered. This rocket hit with such force it did not require any explosive, only the capability to reach its target."

"How good was the guidance system?" asked Lowenstein.

The civilian swapped looks with the colonel. "Accurate...in fact pinpoint accuracy. Defense Industries are dissecting the parts to see if there's anything we may learn from it."

'... _anything we may learn from it...'_

"We located an entire rocket some distance from the most recent crash," said Hirsch. "The terrorists have what is effectively a SAM missile, fully self-contained. With the remains, that's how we found out. There is no fly-by-wire or anything like that. Our scientific people believe it to be a silhouette recognition program which means these rockets, when fitted, may be set and fired giving those responsible time to flee the scene."

"So the group that did this as you say; are they likely to strike again?" asked the running man.

"Not this lot," replied Hirsch. "The militants keep sprouting up like toadstools, though. Another cell will replace them soon enough."

The suit worked the overhead display. Passed around the report which they all read. Subsequent plates and close-ups revealed circuitry, some wire clusters and grey metal servo arms attached to what appeared to be tiny plastic tubing, all in a state of damage; twisted to being unrecognizable. Components of the device had been painstakingly assembled. The heart of the system, no larger than a person's hand, was most likely was assembled _somewhere_ from Chinese-made components and then wired to a shock resistant autofocus eye-cam, possibly from Taiwan. Add to that a lithium cell battery from Japan and a cluster of wires and connections obtained from any electronics store. All attached to a web of high tensile lightweight arms and servos powered by compressed air. These parts had been crafted and packaged. Then affixed by rivets and screws into a crude metal tube filled with propellant.

The barrage of homemade rockets had unleashed terror upon residents in the south as they fell upon public areas, schools, gas stations and apartment blocks. _'_ _Qassam'_ Rockets, they called them, named for the groups that started launching them. The introduction of a high quality yet simple guidance system had transformed such things into a pinpoint military threat, capable of grounding sections of the air force. The ramifications were vast.

Following the helicopter incident the services had received Intel from an undisclosed source. Acting upon this, a unit had carried out a bag job on a warehouse in Cairo resulting in the seizure of documents, hard drives, addresses and a goldmine of other evidence. The warehouse was torched and the owners dealt with. Analysts had pieced together a paper trail leading to one location: a tiny freight agency based in Asia; a hole-in-the-wall operation that nobody would have noticed.

The civilian continued: "In a nutshell one thing came to our attention -- a company, an airfreight franchise, located in the Philippines. This company is registered as _Aseancon Air Freight Incorporated_ , located at the above address very close to the international airport. As my colleague mentioned previously, we have had them tagged for about five or six months, during which time very little has taken place, although I will explain to you why we are acting now."

The running man spoke. "The Philippines seems to be a wild card in all this; how come these items are going through there, if they are at all? Wouldn't it make more sense for the supply chain to be going direct from, say the People's Republic of China? Assuming you're so sure of the source of the offending parts..."

"Good point. Due to the nature of this material we do believe those involved have set up office there in as a red herring. The Chinese wouldn't dare openly involve itself in such a trade. And believe me, we're about ninety nine percent certain the origin of it -- they resemble the circuitry of computer gaming software. We believe the components were flown either whole or separately, _possibly_ stored in Manila and then forwarded as airfreight to Cairo."

"Have you tried diplomatic pressure or inroads with official channels?" asked the running man.

"If only we knew where to put any official pressure," the civilian replied. He then screened a map of South East Asia on the board. "It's the point of export _prior_ we're really interested in. That's what the second stage of your task will be. The first stage of the mission is something of far greater urgency. I suggest we take a break and get some air. Colonel, shall we?"

They returned exactly half an hour later. The civilian stood for his last address. "Okay, please pay close attention." He projected a new slide on the screen. "Exactly three days ago, in the capital of the Philippines the remains of this man were located." More slides, news footage and media reports. The sources didn't have time to lift police reports, only public information was available. But the message was clear, whomever it was had been left there for all to see.

"We know the deceased by the name of William Robert Hatfield, United States nationality and single. Survived by next of kin in the USA, we believe. Date of birth was January 7th, 1980," said the civilian. "This killing is a wake-up call; it implies we need to get in there, like now. We have had the deceased under surveillance as well as another business partner in the company Aseancon Air Freight."

Another series of slides. This time a female...Asian. A maroon colored passport and golden figurine with wings on the cover. The mug shot insignificant, black hair, not pretty; not plain. No expression whatsoever. They all looked the same.

"This is our person of interest and why we believe there is a connection beyond such a small freight operation. She is of Thai nationality, never married and surprisingly, no next of kin by birth that we are aware of. Her date of birth is January 31st, 1975. We do know she is successful, well-educated and fluent in English as well as her own language. And it would figure she has some knowledge of Mandarin. We have designated her _'The Cat'_ because so far she has been rather difficult to catch."

It was the colonel's turn to speak. "We hope some of this makes sense. If I may summarize, the objective is to locate the female subject. We know she survived the attempt on her life. It is likely this person is still alive and hiding somewhere in or around Manila. We have a watch on all ports. Determine whether or not she is likely to be sympathetic, neutral or hostile. At this stage she is the primary person of interest and given recent events an urgent priority. We simply must find out the scope of this company's operations. At the moment we have identified a pipeline, if you will call it, from Manila to Cairo, which for now has been shut down. Once we locate this woman we should have some hope of tracing this agency, and its links back to our possible source."

"And if this person _does_ indeed turn out to be hostile?" The running man spoke up. "Who tried to kill her, anyhow?"

"Just locate her then extract her. There are aspects to this mission that will become clarified once you meet her, things we do not know right now." Hirsch paused and looked carefully at the faces of the four before him. "Just find her first. Then we can learn more."

_This was to be a cleaning mission. No loose ends._ _Need to be managed somewhat differently to the Dubai job_.

Everyone stood. There would be one more session to follow. The group was now officially isolated -- no outside contact and no socializing with friends or family -- part of the agreement they'd all signed. Forty-eight hours they'd be in the air.

"Thank you for your time. Welcome to _Operation Arcana_. We wish you every success and safe passage."

They filed out. The rider paused as they were leaving the room; she faced the running man who would be her new boss.

"Arcana?" she whispered. "A Greek goddess, wasn't it?"

Lowenstein chuckled. "I thought you had all these language skills, _Miss Blue_ ...it's a Latin word. Go look it up."

She huffed...no internet access at all from now on; they were quarantined. The running man had the language skills: his own tongue, Asian languages, English, German. Latin and Italian he knew; it made up the operas he so loved.

The rider tossed her head like a thoroughbred. Still, she would need to get along with him. He was the field controller. Her career hinged on it.

The last briefing they got was the _cultural_ induction. 'Nameless Civilian' dumped a pile of passports on the table; genuine, well-thumbed booklets issued by Ireland, South Africa and Brazil. Extended local visas and valid stamps, all the documents issued legit to their own embassy people in various far-flung capital cities. If any of them got pulled up by customs in a friendly country they could make a single call, get bailed out. That was the general idea, anyhow. They had to be careful.

One light moment there...the rider was a rugby fanatic, a sport unheard of here. The civilian was lecturing her about the best teams and the top match winners. She kept on correcting him. Typical spook; had no idea what he was talking about. Captain van de Meuwe was a typical _Voortrekker_ , used to play in a women's team in the old country. She kept thinking though...this was no friendly game, winner takes all. The stakes were sky-high.

"Sit with us, Major Lowenstein? A coffee?"

The rider and the Special Forces officer, they'd been paired up -- cover was newlyweds from Cape Town. They got along well, wouldn't need to act the part. Suited each other.

" _Mister Gold_ , to you Miss Blue...you heard the colonel."

The running man gave them a stern look; they in turn looked guilty.

"Pardon me," said the rider.

They were silent a while, uncomfortable. Drained their cups. It was the specialist officer who attempted some conversation, break the ice.

"They're sending us business class, a nice change."

"Mister Red, keep your hands still," said the running man. "You're a _Saffer_ , now. Only time they use their hands is to knock a man out. _Afrikaners_ ...talk with their fists. Once is usually enough. Hard bastards..."

The rider giggled. "Know all about it, sir?"

"I know enough," replied the running man. "I was there in '83. The good old days-- or bad, whichever side you see it from."

"Really?" The rider frowned... _memories_.

"I was an instructor...jumps and insertion." He nodded. "They were good, too." The running man drummed the table, picked up his cup and saucer. "Anyhow, I'll be turning in. _Don't_ get too cute with each other. Wait till it's over, if you can control yourselves."

They laughed. He stood.

"Have a safe trip. See you in Manila."

# Chapter Seven

The attaché tossed his cell on the desk and snorted. That DC guy could complain to his heart's content about the hours he worked, wouldn't impact on Jackson's own little _fiefdom_ here in paradise. The case belonged to Washington anyhow.

Serve 'em all right for living there.

He had no intention of returning to his roots. An idyllic existence, Special Agent Mike Jackson drew a federal salary with allowances and hardship loadings in a city he tolerated, made all the more bearable by employee benefits. Had other perks too -- the hierarchy knew he'd quit on the spot if they ever recalled him -- he'd made that one clear.

Checked his gear and pockets before shutting down his workstation and heading out; made sure there was nothing to link him with his true occupation. A long night lay ahead. A task force was taking down a watering hole a few hours to the north of the city and he was the international observer.

Making certain all that aid money was well spent, destroying human-traffickers with gusto. Keeping all the NGOs and middle-America happy. Pinkie-politicians who liked to feel good. Clearly nobody ever noticed the kids in the burger-joints back home, nobody ever heard of South Central and Ward-Nine...they had it every bit as bad as anybody living in Asia. Maybe worse.

Not like any of that bothered Jackson. He'd been in the Philippines eighteen months now. Enough time to build up a great little earner. Taken him a while to get the contacts but in his position they had approached him quickly, first some US citizens then their friends, followed by friend-of-friends and that was where he drew the line. He only dealt with two contacts nowadays: a guy from Louisiana, a beneficiary of a large family fortune who had moved in and was attempting to either price or force his competitors out. In Manila and Makati City there was a local crew that ran the show, Jackson had befriended them too. Political connections, a little help from the constabulary and if all else failed hired gunmen were always available to fix any problems.

Jackson waited near the guard house at the embassy gate and before long was seated in the back seat of a vehicle with his contact, an officer of the National Bureau of Investigation, his counterparts. They had a big night ahead; the NBI would be hitting a venue in Angeles City about midnight local time. Jackson would be with them as a legit observer since much of the funding was drawn from foreign aid as well as numerous NGOs. From everybody's viewpoint it was a 'win-win' situation, the exception was the community of expatriates who had invested in bars and nightclubs.

The majority of foreigners had resigned themselves to long hours and little income as they endured raids, coughed up a fortune in bribes and kidded themselves they were there for the love of the place, better than nine-to-five back home. Everybody put up with flooding, power outages. Problems with banks and law and order. Yet the naive expats kept on coming like lemmings, with planeloads of ravenous single males following hot on their heels. At least the tourists could leave with just an empty wallet, empty pockets but still have a have a shirt. Only a fool would place their retirement savings in a circus such as this.

' _Never invest a single dime in Asia you can't afford to lose'_ , the experienced hands said, those who survived.

The driver hit the emergency lights and the traffic jam that clogged the city every night dissipated in front of them. They would rendezvous with other local bureau vehicles and a SWAT team in a van on Manila's outskirts and sail along the mostly empty 'superhighway' to the north, a journey taking two hours in good conditions made better by sirens and flashing lights.

Twenty minutes to midnight. Much of the countryside was still under water in a lull between the last typhoon and the next one to hit, fortunately the highway north was in good repair and the evening traffic gave a wide berth to the convoy, they travelled steadily and with a purpose and menace. _Carnivale_ was coming to town but not to entertain, it was a search and destroy mission. The convoy left the relative sanctuary of the superhighway and pressed its way into town, splashing and throwing up water as the police vehicles labored through the streets and traffic.

The van glided to a halt and the diesel was cut. A blinking neon sign ahead on a heart-shaped board with a cartoon-kitty-cat...very original:

' _PINK BITZ NIGHTCLUB AND GRILL'_.

Milling crowds outside on the road, 'Fields' was packed. By the time the doormen saw the _Black Shirts_ inching toward them it was way too late. The SWAT officials swarmed the place, Armalites clattering on the doorway as they surged into the establishment like they were storming a siege in a bank.

Screams and chaos cloaked the stage in the center of the floor. One trooper leapt at the floor DJ and knocked him flat. The expensive PA system and turntables were battered with rifle butts. The only customers that evening was a group of five or six, each one arrested and handcuffed before being pushed to the walls and pinned. Same for the employees. Some of the dancers on stage had managed to reach for towels and dressing-gowns to cover their bikini outfits; others folded their arms around themselves in a vain attempt to preserve modesty as the black-shirts herded them like sheep to the far end of the establishment. _Commandos to crush a choir group_ , the SWAT were trained by none other than Jackson's people and they were every bit as good. Thirty minutes and it was all over, the place boarded up and barrier tape covering the front:

' _POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS'_.

Midnight...the best time for a raid. The punters drunk and the girls tired and sore from dancing all night on the stage.

He'd stayed well back, precisely as instructed; he was an unarmed observer which suited him fine. On many such raids the NBI often 'arrested' him along with the other foreigners and he would travel in the closed van with them to HQ in Metro Manila, listening to banter and gossip from the detainees. Not tonight though, he had to see someone. A westerner; a rich and successful one. Just like Jackson hoped to be one day. He tip-toed from his vantage point and swapped notes with the NBI commander before wandering off, clicking his speed-dial as he threaded his way through the crowds of onlookers.

"Let Mister Harland know I'm here, please."

The bar manager, a solid brown complexioned Filipino adorned in facial scars and twenty-four karat chains, had a mean look about him; that kind of mean look that came with the territory.

"Who wants him?"

That Jackson had mentioned his name was the only reason the manager gave him the time of day. He disappeared for a few minutes and upon returning a changed man, gushing hospitality, ingratiating, leading the way and swinging doors open. Jackson followed through the maze of corridors and out to a room at the back that was relatively silent. They stopped; the manager knocked once and opened the door a crack.

"Sir, it's your visitor. He's here."

A moment then the door opened and Jackson entered the room. The staged moans and slapping noises of an illegal movie emitting from an old style analogue TV set drifted across the office. Clouds of fragrant smoke from a Havana cigar lingered like a blue fog. The entire room was dripping with plush velvet and mirrors on the ceiling. Perched above the huge papa-san chair. Tobacco infused red velvet.

"It's done... _Pink Bits is outta commission_ ," proclaimed Jackson, not waiting to greet the fat guy in the chair. "Thought I'd mosey on over." The gargantuan figure behind the desk opposite him wheezed audibly and shifted his massive bulk. Jackson broke a Cheshire cat smile.

"Wanna hear the ugly details?"

"Cigar, _Officer_?" The obese man reached and offered a box of Cuban cigars to Jackson who shook his head. More like a wheeze than a whisper. Looked like he was glued to the papa-san chair; never moved, not once in his life.

"Things'll kill you, Harley-boy. I was hoping for something more substantial, sure you know what I mean. A little southern hospitality."

"A note of thanks is in order Mike; y'all stay 'round...hear now? The asshole in _Pink Bits_ wouldn't get on board with our drink prices and now he's paid the price," said the fat man. Looked like a walrus on his perch. Hadn't showered in a while. Jackson moved slightly and thought of the poor peasant girls who had to keep him happy just to keep their jobs on the stage.

In contrast Jackson was young and buff. Been that way since his teens, a typical college-jock, getting drunk and deflowering cheerleaders since age fourteen. These days he liked them any way but preferably young and fresh. Tonight would be no different...

The deferential tap on the door was soft enough that Jackson missed it. "Come!" yelled the fat man. "'Li'l surprise for you, Mike."

The door opened and two teenagers entered, with the gold-adorned gangster behind them. He gently pushed them through into the office, and then he retreated out, closing it. Shy and unsophisticated, neither of them a day over nineteen. _Cherry-girls_. Just off the boat from the southern islands that very week. Hardly kids but certainly not show-girls, not by any stretch; they should've been in high school, should've been going on family outings, dating boys and church sing-alongs.

Jackson's heart rate upped a little...perfect! Apprentice bargirls like these were fair game...he'd be nice to them. Break 'em in like a brand new car.

"My name is Marylou." The first one giggled and placed her hand over her mouth.

"Hi, sir, I'm Edna," said the second.

_Names Grandma would've had_. Jackson smirked. "Hello ladies. I'm Uncle Mike." He stood; his six foot frame towered over the malnourished pair. "Care for a drink? A soda maybe?"

"Tanduay-Coke!" they chorused. More shy giggles.

"Geez...don't wanna corrupt you two ladies," said Jackson. He snickered.

"No problem, Mike, both legal. I've got their _cedulas_ on file; need 'em for their health cards." The fat man leaned toward a metal cabinet, opened it and took out two pieces of crumpled documents; proof and place of birth.

Jackson flashed a grin at the girls who giggled in return. "Rubbers, Harley...I'll need half a dozen-"

"Whaddya need those for? Told ya already, both chaste. Cherry girls in the fullest sense. They'd be worth 50,000 Peso a _pop_ , pardon the pun. Saved 'em specially."

Any jovial mood vanished from the smoky room. "I'm serious, Harley. No tracks in the mud, you know. I got my morals too. No way I'm gonna get one of these chickadees after my ass for paternity down the trail..." Jackson held a camcorder up, tiny, expensive and hi-def. Just the ticket for amateur uploads or personal purveying. "Don't mind if I take some happy snaps?"

Edna and Marylou were fidgety by now; they had no choice but to play along. Saved them having to audition with the stinky old fat man...Jackson was like a movie star in comparison. A knock at the door. The hoodlum in the gold chains poked his face through and entered with two mixers and a beer on a tray.

"In the VIP room," said Harland with a wheeze, pointing upward.

Jackson took Edna by the hand; Marylou following. "Show time, folks... See ya Harley-boy. Thanks for that."

"Well, more thanks to you," replied the fat man.

They shut the door behind them leaving the fat man to watch his movie, enjoy his cigar and do the books. He preferred that...too much trouble to bring up a showgirl. After how many years in the industry the real thing bored him to death. Showgirls tended to do that. They learned everything they knew from Japanese movies they streamed on their iPhones.

Not a brain in their tiny little heads.

Jackson was collected the next morning at dawn by an embassy car and slept most of the way back with the window down. Slept right through it all. A long night does that to a man, even in his prime. He found his office; he shut the door, switched off his cell and crashed out with his head on his desk.

When Jackson woke he checked his emails, most of which got the 'delete' treatment, that magic little 'X' on the top of his screen. Besides the recent and nasty homicide he was handling a number of extradition requests, something that intrigued him. The Philippines had current treaties with just about every country yet so many fugitives came there, many disappeared whilst others found trouble or trouble found them...

Others just turned up dead, like the Hatfield case. But Hatfield was neither suspect nor fugitive. Seemed like he was important.

The email hit Jackson between the eyes, officially tagged ' _internal transcript'._

One line stood out: _'...if at all possible I hope to organize a teleconference next week, depending on approvals...'_

Persistent prick!

He read and re-read it, wondering how he could squirm out of this one. Took him a few hours to relax, though, he hadn't done anything wrong in this case but he didn't want any outsiders. There was one other in the Feds with whom he collaborated on occasions -- the DEA Agent, Cortez on the same floor. They'd liaised when Hatfield brought the goods in; he had to eliminate the possibility of drug trafficking and they'd examined the items.

Jackson printed the transmission and wandered down the corridor to Cortez' workstation. It was good; they all had offices with some privacy. Stateside everybody was working in open plan offices...no way he could have slept on his desk like that back at headquarters.

"Hey, _Amigo_ ," said Jackson, pushing his way through the door.

"Jackson," replied Cortez. He was a bullnecked federal agent from Albuquerque with a moustache who dressed more like he belonged in the Reagan years. "How was Angeles? Rescue any virgins?"

"Not sure. All come out in the wash." He chuckled. "They're all in custody now. NBI shut the place real good."

"Be back in business before you know it. They're all the same these operators. In the lockup a week, pay off the right people and they're out." Cortez stood and gazed out the window, folded a big thick pair of hairy forearms. He'd always regarded the human trafficking taskforce as a feel-good exercise. "Guess it'll give the consular assistance guys something to do; go see 'em in the lock-up-"

"Cortez, you recall the stuff we went through in September?"

"Given recent events, how could I not?" Cortez swung around. "Any leads?"

"With the Philippine National Police and the NBI took over, as we speak," replied Jackson. "Hey Cortez, take a look at this." He passed the printout to the DEA man who read it, his eyes opened wide and jaw dropped. He read it again.

"Shit, small world. I knew Tanaka. How come you never mentioned he was in on this?"

Jackson didn't reply for a moment. "You knew him?"

"Yeah sure, we worked together in the Bureau before I jumped to the DEA." Cortez handed back the transcript. "He's an upstanding guy. _Dedicated_."

"Thanks for your input." _More like thanks for nothing._

" _Forgeddabowdditt_ ...hey Jackson...up for a brew? We're headed up the Manila Bay..."

Mike Jackson peeked into the corridor, still hung over. "Maybe, you go on ahead."

Jackson had been hoping to find an ally, somebody who agreed with him. He'd have to be disappointed this time. Still, it wasn't like the old days. Staff-stripping and all, be very unlikely The DC guy would have the time or resources to get involved. Figured he had nothing to be concerned about; it'd blow over soon enough.

As far as Chuck Cortez was concerned, Jackson represented everything about the modern world...nice enough guy but useless. All anybody needed these days was enough degrees, diplomas, attendance at team building sessions and they were on a winner. The era of old fashioned policing was ancient history.

# Chapter Eight

Two vehicles crawled along the trail about ten miles out from Beckley in the mountain country. The first was a white and green-striped SUV with the star on the side, an Explorer, driven by the deputy and the second, a black Caprice, piloted by Tanaka. Next to him sat a nervous bureaucrat from the state department, a young female employee picked up that morning, there by official necessity.

They slowly followed the frozen trail overlooked by endless rolling gray hills and bare trees which had by now succumbed to the onset of winter, giving the place a dead appearance. Open spaces or fields coated in a silvery crust of ice interrupted the endless woods. Decaying Halloween pumpkins remained by the unsealed trail. Passing by trailers decorated with chimneys, derelict auto bodies nearby while on other sections cabins and solid bungalows were dotted along the trail. At a junction the deputy's cruiser paused. In the distance a one-way-bridge could be seen and the bluffs above. Three white crosses, poking through the fog on a ridge, overlooked the valley. A four hour drive had brought them light years away from the office.

They were to meet up with the murdered guy's father that day...JJ Hatfield, he was an icon in the valley...everybody knew him. Or, at least they knew of him, the father was a bit of a recluse.

A muddy Polaris carrying two teenagers and a freshly killed animal approached the wooden bridge in the distance, first pausing briefly before pulling alongside the sheriff's cruiser.

Lt. Hernandez lowered his window a hand's width and called out: "Howdy Sarah. Annie." He nodded toward the Winchester rifle perched on the handlebars. "Take it the breech is clear 'n' free on that there, tell us I'm right?"

" _Mawnin' Sheriff,_ " the teenagers replied cheerily, both nodding. "Ain't no rounds in there, all out f'now. Jus' headin' in, sir." They spoke in a distinctive Appalachian drawl.

"How is it you two young ladies ain't in school today? Thanksgiving's long gone by now."

Silence besides the rhythmic thump from the ATV. The government vehicles idled softly, belching plumes of steam in the sub-zero morning. The two junior hunters glanced at one another then back at the sheriff who didn't force the issue. "Don't s'pose old man Hatfield's up at his cabin now? Seen him about this morning?"

"Purty sure's in, sir. Y'awll go on by now, he'll be on by."

"Be thankin' you. Now be sure you two get yourselves back to classes, like _pronto_ \-- hear now? Otherwise I'll be havin' a word with your mom."

The two giggled. "Why yes siree. Be seein' yer, sheriff," replied the older one. With that they chugged off into the mist. Their mom knew, alright. Getting a meal meant more than school.

Deputy Sheriff, Lt. Roy Hernandez had been in upstate West Virginia about fifteen years already. Many of the locals were poor folk who had settled in the hills since the days of Daniel Boone; mountaineers and miners. Been there forever; spoke in their own accent -- some would say language -- outsiders didn't have a clue what they were saying half the time. Some families still trapped and hunted food to put on the table and times had been tough over recent years. Still bow hunting season and the deputy had seen the poached deer and said nothing; the teens were good kids from a poor and decent family who'd lost their pop to a mining accident.

Roy Hernandez was respected and accepted by the locals despite being a newcomer, after fifteen whole years. He got out and about, knew nearly every single resident on a first name basis and he ruled this side of the Mountain State with an iron fist in a velvet glove. Despite the hard times the place was safe and clean and family friendly. The only significant incidents seemed to be automobile crashes, mining mishaps and the odd hunting injury.

Jesse James Hatfield, on the other hand was descended from pioneers who'd moved in from near the Kentucky State line, his ancestors were part of the original Hatfield and McCoy story. The feud had come out of the Civil War. Both clans carried the memories to the present day...the pride and honor...only this particular Hatfield had put all his energy into serving Uncle Sam. Lt. Hernandez knew his background; he'd formed a close friendship with the old guy over the years, had a lot of respect for the man. Search and rescue, firefighting, lost trail-hikers...Hatfield was the best woodsman in the place. Some said the best shot in the county with a rifle over long-distance. Out here that was saying something.

The procession crawled up out of the valley floor; as they got higher they could see snow drifts. The black cruiser was filthy; it scraped on every stone and washout trying to keep up with the SUV leading the way. Tanaka wrestled with the wheel. Passed a waterfall that was paused in time, frozen solid, icicles as long as the cliff itself. The first vehicle came to a halt at an entrance in a slip rail fence. An ancient milk churn, hanging on an angle, marked the property. Cleared pastures surrounding a distant cabin were covered with thick frost. Half a mile away, the terrain had leveled out.

The sheriff stopped, walked back and mumbled through a crack in the window: "I'll head on in. You follow on after I come out. I know JJ Hatfield, know him well. I'll go in and break it to him. Now just to be sure, we're absolutely certain we know who we're dealing with?"

"Got all the reports and files here, Lieutenant," replied Tanaka.

The State Department employee nodded in agreement. "Sorry to say, we're sure."

"I'll go in there first. When I say so we all go inside." The sheriff looked at the two of them. "You just give the man his space, hear now?"

Hernandez slowly returned to his cruiser, thinking about the reports he had read earlier along with the pictures the FBI had.

"Terrible thing; terrible, terrible thing," he muttered out loud, kicking a stone as he climbed back into his truck.

They managed to negotiate the trail up to the cabin which was perched above a gully that disappeared to the valley below. Tanaka and the government official waited in the Chevy at least fifteen minutes, maybe more. It was a place that seemed to get colder and even quieter as the day progressed. Everywhere ice, black ice and the ever present mist cloaking the surrounding hills. At last the sheriff emerged; he stopped and looked at the ground for a moment before striding to Tanaka's window. His expression was grave.

"Old guy's taken it pretty bad," Hernandez whispered. "Pretty bad indeed and he's not the best, his liver packing it in lately."

They watched the front door of the cabin, it opened and the father emerged. He stood momentarily before returning inside, leaving the door open, a signal they could enter.

Retired Sergeant J J Hatfield sat silently, staring straight ahead. The shack they had entered was a pioneer's hut, simple and Spartan. Warm, though. The remainder of a log fire smoldered away at one end of the room and a pot bellied stove warmed the rest of the dwelling. A gas lantern hissed quietly away on a central table, lighting the room.

On the walls, black and white stills. Young marines, bare-chested and cradling a communist flag, perched on the side of a _Willys Jeep_ with palm trees in the background. Two grunts holding a captured assault rifle; one of them was thrusting a beer bottle toward the sky like he was cheering. A portrait of JJ Hatfield in ceremonial garb next to his bride in a wedding gown with a sixties beehive ducking under a shower of rice and a line of swords. The young family camping somewhere; a toddler cradling a fish, presumably the son. Directly above the fireplace dangled an impressive rack of service decorations in a frame, shields and other paraphernalia. Trophy animals adorned the wall.

A short and awkward silence lingered. It had been a long time since Tanaka had performed a 'dead call', that was stuff the city-hall guys did.

"Mister Hatfield, sir, I'm Special Agent P. Kelvin Tanaka with the FBI." Silence... "This is Ms Brady, State Department." More silence. Tanaka gingerly retrieved his badge and held it at his side. "Mister Hatfield," he continued, "we would only wish to express our deepest sympathies to you today."

Hatfield leaned forward and held his head in his hands. He still didn't say a word. The sheriff suggested they all sit before closing the cabin door and fixing coffee from a pot which simmered on the iron stove. The only sound for some time was the bubbling from the coffee pot on the stove which was burning coal.

Tanaka waited until the coffee was poured but did not touch the mug. "Sir," he persisted, "would you be up to telling us anything about your son today or would you prefer it if-"

"Billy-Bob was the smartest one in the family, you know that." JJ Hatfield spoke in a slurred drawl. He rose to his feet and paced slowly. He was a striking figure and despite his years he a powerful fellow -- in his prime he could have dropped both the cops -- he just had that look about him which had come from a lifetime of hard work followed by years living in the woods. Press on nonetheless; professional courtesy demanded it and he realized the old guy would not take kindly otherwise. Either that or get tossed out the door.

Hatfield did open up to discussion and as the day progressed he kept talking, about his son's youth, education and his adventure into an offshore job with seemingly limitless opportunities, great pay; the world had been his oyster. Been sending checks back to help out. Nothing would have held him back. Other young men got as far as the mines if they were lucky.

"A few more years, then the corporate world, Wall Street and maybe beyond, until now." At one point the old guy narrowed his eyes. "Damn _zipper heads_ killed my boy. What you intending to do about it?" He glared at Tanaka.

The remark made the special agent jump; he turned away from the wall where he'd been studying a portrait. Tanaka ignored the slur; Hatfield wanted answers. At least he was upfront. He sympathized with the man.

"Everything we can, sir," he replied. "Just got to know what happened and the only way I can think is to start here."

The return journey was a time to reflect; this time the State Department bureaucrat drove, allowing him to plan his investigation, it became more complex with time. One piece of information Tanaka wanted was how the victim had gotten the Manila job in the first place. He had some trails to follow, the most crucial being a business card belonging to a marine underwriter on the east coast. There were other leads, friends and associates who could be tracked down. Letters, correspondence and personal things...JJ Hatfield didn't have email; didn't even own a computer.

Get a report done up, send it back to Manila office; let them deal with it...poor kid. Not a pretty way to go.

Things would change, and from an unexpected source.

Two days later when Tanaka was at his work station he opened a memo telling him to contact the supervisor. As he arrived at her office the door was open, the clock was ticking \-- somehow a newfound urgency.

"Take a seat, Tanaka," she snapped, motioning in front of her. "Both myself and the Deputy Director had the pleasure of a visit from none other than Senator Nathaniel Henry III yesterday afternoon."

Nathaniel Henry, career politician. A pioneer, one of the first black commanders to serve in Vietnam. Ultra-conservative, arch-hawk and distinguished war veteran. The darling of the establishment when he got elected. Would've been in the running for presidency except had way too many crazy ideas: invading Iran, drafting unemployed teenagers and executing drug convicts. Big interest in law and order, and that meant the bureau.

Tanaka shrugged. "How was Senator Henry?" He wasn't too interested. Knew the senator's name and face, they all did, the senator was on all the committees.

"Tanaka, I received your field report yesterday but haven't read it. You only contacted the father, right? How did you find him?"

"Ma'am?"

"How did you find the father? Was he helpful, was he hostile; _what_?"

"He was understandably upset, I guess you could say. He had no idea what the victim was up to over there. Seemed to think his son was on his way the corporate ladder. He opened up to us, though. There were family portraits in his place but I didn't wish to pry. Maybe he's divorced; maybe widowed."

"Anyhow I just wanted to know. Did he say anything about himself at all?"

"Nothing much, ma'am. When I spoke with my contact in Sheriff's Office he mentioned the old guy is in poor health. JJ Hatfield served in practically every conflict you can imagine. He only spoke about his son to us."

The station super was preoccupied with something. She continued: "Well, about our unexpected visitor. You're aware the senator was a commissioned officer in the USMC. Apparently both the senator and the victim's father served together in the early seventies, in the same unit. The deputy's ears are still ringing and so are mine for that matter. The father seems to think you weren't taking the matter seriously-"

"Ma'am?" Tanaka was genuinely surprised. " _Me?!_ _I was the one who kicked it all off."_

"Anyhow," the super continued. "The old guy must have gotten in contact with the senator and for all I know the two of them are still close. Nice when you've got friends like that in high places." She was distracted, gazing blankly at the wall and then back at Tanaka before catching her breath. "Get the picture?"

"Indeed, ma'am. I can give you my word I am taking this very seriously."

The super moved closer. "Offload all the _Nigerian stuff_ on to Harrison's team, they can continue with that. Drop everything and get back up to the hills and have another talk with Hatfield. And I'll requisition your official passport."

"Travel plans, ma'am?"

She made a blank face. "Check Hatfield's passport is up to date, if not I'll have a word with State and rush one through for him."

"So it'll be first class I take it, ma'am?" he smiled. _She couldn't be serious._ "Mister Hatfield as well...mighty generous of you."

"I don't give a rat's what class you fly, PK. You can charter a damn Lear-Jet for all I care. I'll get on to our embassy in the Philippines Islands and notify the legal attaché there. You get up there and have chat with the old guy. Offer to take him with you. Offer to assist with repatriating the victim. Hook up with our man in Manila, see what you can find out."

"You're not joking, ma'am..."

"Too right I'm not joking."

Tanaka had no time to think about the sudden change in heart, pretty obvious the bureau did not fancy a brawl with the senator. The challenge would be to get JJ Hatfield on an airplane and to do that he would need an assurance: justice done and the culprits located.

The word: 'Jump!' and they all say 'How high?' Philippines...no idea, its somewhere out there, they speak English, we ran the place for years, should be okay. Civilized...and a week in the tropics, just like Hawaii. See where it all leads...don't fancy our chances though; just try to give the father some closure. Looked like the old guy didn't have a lot of time left.

# Chapter Nine

Even the unseasoned flyer knows when their destination is close by. The turbines wound back to a melodic hum and PR103 descended, the airplane jolted a few times and the seat-belt lamps came on with a 'ping'. Over the last of the Pacific Ocean the rising sun touched the towering monsoon rain clouds. Tanaka caught his first glimpse of the crinkled hills and pointed mountaintops of Luzon, the northernmost island in the archipelago. Razor sharp emerald green hills dropped into an ocean the shade of Indian ink and miles deep. He craned his head, imagining the world below, something he had never seen -- indeed in his life he had only been abroad a few times. This was another world altogether. Hawaii was an island paradise for some and home to Tanaka but here it was different.

_W_ _hy do they call it the 'Far East' since the flight had been heading west all night?_

JJ Hatfield had spent the previous ten hours asleep but prior to that the two had spoken briefly. Tanaka had whiled away the flight, downing San Miguel in the front section of the airliner; courtesy of business class. Not quite a Lear Jet, but the next best thing. Hatfield sat nearby. He was a teetotaler. Didn't suit his rugged image, something to do with his failing liver; he didn't look well.

The humidity and heat struck them both like the open door of a pizza oven as they exited the glass door and onto the traffic ramp after clearing _'barrier'_...if you could even call it that. Tanaka couldn't believe just a day ago he had been in the snow. Pandemonium reigned in the drive through area; hundreds of people milled around, taxi drivers tugging at them, hangers-on loitering with no purpose and armed soldiers stood mutely at various points outside the glass barriers. Vehicles and buses charged past belching fumes. Puddles and litter all over the place; it was a madhouse, worse than O'Hare.

"Thought you guys'd never make it."

A southern accent above the chaos.

"Special Agent Mike Jackson, Manila Office." A Caucasian with a crew cut wearing long dark trousers and a white shirt thrust his hand at Tanaka first, then towards Hatfield who kept both hands at his sides. "I take it you're our man's father, sir. We're very sorry for everything-"

"He ain't your _man_ , he's my son, damn it!" Hatfield retorted, no mood for a getting-to-know-you session. "Just take me to see him and find out who did this."

The Manila agent was taken aback. For a moment he thought the old man would strike him and he thought the better of saying anything.

The blacked-out embassy vehicle contrasted with the other decrepit automobiles and rusted out ' _Jeepneys'_ as it attempted to negotiate the potholed journey and traffic snarls like a drunken elephant. The driver dodged and weaved jarring the three passengers constantly. Agent Jackson attempted small talk, pointing out land marks and other places of interest. While Tanaka was caught up in the novelty of it all Hatfield peered ahead with a still and stony faced silence; this was nothing new to him -- just another foreign city.

Jackson leaned over the seat and spoke for the second time: "First time in Asia, sir? Like it? For me I love the place-"

"I was up here before you were even born, _sonny_ ," growled Hatfield. "We'd all hit the bars here just before shipping out of Clark Base on a 727 to the delta. Down the tunnels then back to Saigon for a hangover cure. Been in these here parts more times 'n' you'd be able to count."

Hatfield peered out the darkened windows of the vehicle. "Ain't how I remember it though; looks like its dying, by inches. Once upon a time used to be the best two cities in the world, this place and Hong Kong -- look at it now," he sniffed. "Knew this'd happen, ever since we pulled out." He changed the subject: "Look, I need to see Billy-Bob. What are you guys doing about it anyway -- looks like nothing much and real quick. _Damn bureaucrats_ ," he grumbled despondently. "Take a fully blown disaster...." His voice trailed off.

An hour later they were settled in Jackson's office and the induction began. It was Tanaka's investigation and he made that clear from the outset, it was Jackson's turf but sure as hell Hatfield's son they were talking about. Tanaka was beginning to feel the onset of jet lag but the old man didn't feel a thing. He was all for going out right now and burning the place down, no stone unturned. That was the easy part. He would also have to collect his son's remains and take him home for burial. He'd need to face up to it sooner rather than later.

Debriefing over, they delivered JJ Hatfield to a nearby hotel, one within walking distance from the compound gates. They'd done up arrangements to pick him up the next morning for the official ID, a grim task. Tanaka and Jackson strolled to the embassy. They got in through the gate and it was then they were surprised, a voice calling out, a voice Tanaka remembered from way back.

"Hey Tanaka...holy cow man, you must've really pissed someone off to end up here."

PK Tanaka spun around. _Carlos Cortez. How many years -- still got that damn 'stash; suited the guy though._

"Cortez! _Son of a gun_. Talk about a small world."

They shook then embraced, it had been years. Tanaka and Cortez had been close several years ago, joined the bureau at the same time. Both had gone in during a big Clinton-era 'affirmative action' push; got a few ribs from the other grads but made it through okay...only made them work harder, smarter. Ironic too, the only 'cultural' thing about Tanaka and Cortez was their names, though Cortez was a fluent speaker of Spanish. They'd worked and socialized together, thick as thieves. Then Cortez had jumped ship. Went undercover for the DEA, high risk work...spent months underground in Latin America, Colombia....lost contact after a while.

"Jeez Tanaka, what gives? Howzit going? How's the family?"

Tanaka looked slightly guilty. "They're okay, s'pose...you and yours?"

"Just fine, me, myself and I," said Cortez. "Hey, we gotta catch up, man."

"Sounds like a plan...Jackson, you up for a couple've brews? Say six or seven?"

Jackson was disinterested, he had other ideas. "Well... maybe when it's finished. Week's end, maybe. Still a bit worn out after last night."

Tanaka cleaned up and sorted his stuff; he was in the room next to Hatfield. After checking on the old guy made his way out and waited for DEA Agent Cortez who met him. They walked and entered some place a few blocks up. They pushed past a group of beggars into the tavern, inside was a bar with a guitar player and band; they were doing a Simon and Garfunkel repertoire; they were good too, even dressed up to look like the real thing. Not too noisy, they could chat. Soon the conversation turned to the present day.

"You had much to do with this case?" asked Tanaka. "Pity Mike Jackson couldn't make it this evening."

"Yeah. Never mind though, he's been raiding up in Pampanga?"

"What's that?"

" _Where's that_ , you mean," said Cortez. "Pampanga Province, few hours north of here...Angeles City...heard of it?"

"Sort of...Sodom and Gomorrah meets the twenty-first century."

"Something like that, biggest red light district in the whole region. Having a big drive against human trafficking, the presidents of our country _and theirs_ have a personal interest in exploitation of women and children, so-on," said Cortez as he drained his beer. "Another one?"

Tanaka nodded. While Cortez was up at the bar, Tanaka leaned back in his chair. There were a couple of attractive local women a few tables away, one of them making eye-contact and smiling at him. _Extremely attractive. Strange they'd be even sitting alone like that; anywhere else they'd be getting mobbed. On the pick-up or on the game...well presented, though._

He smiled back then turned in the direction of the musicians. They started playing a song Tanaka remembered, except the title. A very famous number and these musicians got it perfect. But it made him feel uneasy.

Cortez clunked the two jugs down and sat. "Cheers."

"So what've you been up to, Cortez? Can't get over it, meeting up in a place like this."

"DEA," he replied. "Sort of a consolation prize, sort of a protection scheme."

PK Tanaka was puzzled. "Protection scheme?"

"Yeah. You know they had us in Bogota a while back. Coupla years." Cortez sipped his beer.

"How was that?"

"Great actually. I got in on the tail end. Pretty good there now...choice buncha people, too." Cortez nodded. "Colombia probably has the best future of all countries in Latin America."

"So what went wrong...why are you under protection?"

Cortez sighed. "All started in Mexico. The Agency sent us near Laredo and we were training local cops. Some paramilitary unit."

"What happened...no good?"

Cortez was silent once more. Frowned at his drink. Looked back at Tanaka.

"It was just like you and me sitting down here. Done a day's theory, finished late. All of us were to meet up and we did. Few _cervezas,_ a few laughs; I got up and went to the john..." He stroked his moustache. " _Zetas_ put a wagon out front packed with _Nitropril_ interlaced with welding rods. Took out every single one of the guys we'd been training with, also my colleague from the agency. Killed other patrons there as well. I got dug out of the rubble and woke up a day later with all these commandos guarding me and the whole hospital. After I recovered they sent me here. Can't even risk having me in Arizona or Texas. Never set foot in the place again."

Tanaka didn't answer; he didn't have any reply he could think of. Peered around the place. The two Filipinas sitting nearby still there but they were avoiding him now. He elbowed Cortez. "Check out any of the local talent?"

The DEA agent leaned forward, saw the women and frowned. "Don't even think about it. Scammers -- freelance crooks, the pair of 'em."

"How so?" asked Tanaka.

"Works like this," said Cortez. "You befriend them, get talking, you buy them drinks and they buy you drinks. Share a taxi and it takes the first one home and the second one whom you've really taken a shine to invites you in to her place. She jumps in the shower and comes out in this dazzling lingerie outfit, slips under the sheets. You jump in the shower and when you're done you come into the bedroom...only your date's gone and there's some schoolgirl sitting there in her place. It's a niece or something like that, complete with her school uniform. Cops burst into the room, _game over, red rover._ " Chuck Cortez lifted his drink.

"Twenty grand minimum to buy your way outta that one. _Our money, not theirs_."

"Thanks for the tip."

" _No problemo_ ," said Cortez. "Jackson was the one who warned me when I first got here."

"Sounds like a nest of vipers," said Tanaka, shaking his head. "How do they put up with it?"

"PK, what you gotta realize is that ninety-nine percent of the poor folks here are decent, honest God-fearing people. I like the place. Just be on your guard...stay alert. That's all."

" _Wilco that_." Tanaka looked at his watch. "See what tomorrow brings." He moved to get up then something else crossed his mind. "Cortez...one last thing...what's your take on Mike Jackson?"

"Aw, you know. See how you find him. He's alright." Cortez screwed up his face, couldn't miss it.

"Anything I should know -- what's he like? We'll be collaborating on this case for a few days, maybe longer."

Cortez drained his beer then looked serious. "Probably shouldn't say this about a fellow colleague, but you and I go back years. Just don't repeat me, okay? But the kid's as dumb as dog-shit. He's an Ivy-League who scraped through law by the skin of his teeth. His daddy used to be in the DA's office in Miami-Dade years ago, and then started up private practice." Cortez sniffed. "The old man was smart enough not to let Jackson anywhere near his firm. Pushed him into the feds instead. They sent the kid out here to get rid of him."

"Out of sight; out of mind," said Tanaka.

"Something like that."

They spent another hour listening to the bards singing away, so true to the original artists. It'd been a long flight and a busy day. Time to turn in.

Hatfield, Tanaka and Jackson met up the next day before lunchtime. The medical facility they were headed to was only a short distance from the crime scene, about five or ten minute's drive from the embassy. They were collected by a black car from the embassy. Nothing was said, the mood was grim, just like the city, just like the overcast morning. The mortuary waiting room on the ground floor of the Santa Lucia private hospital was unusually quiet. Only a distressed local woman sat nearby, trying her best to control a pesky toddler... _son, grandson or nephew, whatever_ ...whole country appeared to be overrun with ill-disciplined brats. Tanaka and Hatfield senior waited silently while Jackson fielded an incessant barrage of calls and texts. More like a realtor than a government employee.

The two agents were unarmed. As Jackson explained in a subdued voice they were not approved to carry firearms, even as law enforcement officials.

"There are more fucking guns in this city alone than the entire United States, as if carrying one more would help us," he whispered to Tanaka. "Need backup, we organize it beforehand, get an approved escort or a local officer. Personally, I've never had a problem."

"Lucky you," mumbled Tanaka. Something just didn't feel right. Special Agent Jackson was cocky, started to get on Tanaka's nerves.

Several minutes passed and nothing happened. The waiting, it was tedious. They were starting to fidget, get uneasy. The misbehaving child sitting with the haggard lady opposite was busting everybody's chops. Not much they could do about it anyhow, children here seemed to have the run of the mill, and they could do whatever they wanted.

JJ Hatfield had been shifting uneasily about on the bench; uncomfortable or in pain, not quite sure which. He frowned at the child who had been crying and tugging at the woman. Irritating, the shrieks and grunts echoed along the corridors of the place. Hatfield wanted to yell out at them to keep it down; instead he just stayed silent, frowning. He wanted to see his son. He stood and walked to the double swinging doors and peered through a glass cutaway, he paced around and then stood where the two agents were seated. The old guy turned back to the corridor and stopped just shy of the swing-doors leading out. With no warning at all the doors whipped open, right in front of him; the stainless handle barely missed Hatfield and he jumped. Startled him.

That was when _she_ appeared.

# Chapter Ten

"What the-"

JJ Hatfield muttered aloud, he jumped back. The big double doors, they nearly knocked him down. He got out of the way; the speed they burst open would have broken his arm if the handles connected. One of those doors designed to take the battering of heavy trolleys -- trash, linen, and supplies...dead bodies. Trolleys the size small sedan.

The old guy didn't see her right away but the FBI agents sure did -- tall, female and striking. She stopped in the center of the room, looked around then sat next to the Filipino mother and the uncontrollable child.

Tanaka took a hard look at her and Jackson too. Jackson only saw the shape of her, five-eight and about one-thirty pounds. He was mentally undressing her. Physically the lady -- whoever she was -- reminded him of a Russian tennis player, a Winter Olympian or a long-legged runner, she was draped in some black corporate outfit like it was painted over her. She had a blank and vacant face though, neither pretty nor plain.

"Take a look at that -- holy shit," whispered Jackson. He leant over and nudged Tanaka. "Nice rack. Check out the curves. Like a race track."

Tanaka ignored him.

Once she sat her eyes darted around the room, fixing on JJ Hatfield. She stared at him. Her mouth moved; a line of non-stop silver -- maybe she had braces or something.

Something about all these women...braces, for Heaven's sake, a fashion statement. Back home they can't wait to get rid of the things. Railway lines.

The unruly three year old child let out a yell and struck the plastic chairs. The woman in black turned and made a single muted hissing noise. Did the trick. The child gave her a fearful look and sat down; the kind of look like a tarantula had crawled out from somewhere.

Hatfield stared back at her; she'd nearly flattened him coming through the doors. He felt like giving her a piece of his mind. He frowned.

"Help you with something, lady?" He barked at the woman. " _Git off yer mustang, darlin'_ ...good manners cost nothing. _Watch where yer goin' dammit_."

Her eyes opened wide, like saucers, like she'd seen a ghost. Her face with no expression changed now. She had an incredulous look; total disbelief.

"You're his father... _Will's father_. Will used to say this to me...when he was upset with something... _'your mustang'_ ...you mean horse or car?" The woman in black stood and faced JJ Hatfield. "My name is _Jaisuwan_. You may call me Anna. Everybody calls me that -- my friends; same also. I knew your son...I worked with him."

Tanaka moved over, flipped open his ID. Jackson did the same.

"Excuse me, ma'am. My name is Special Agent PK Tanaka and this is my associate from the embassy, Special Agent Jackson. We're with the FBI. Ma'am may I ask what is your business here?"

Pakdee-Chayochaichana didn't answer. A registrar in a lab coat entered the waiting room. He read from a receipt attached to a clipboard before announcing in a cartoon voice: "Those to see Mister William Robert Hatfield, please."

They turned to the man in the coat. Tanaka placed his hand on Hatfield's shoulder. "Ready, sir?" He turned to Jackson: "Stay with her. I'll be back."

They followed the Filipino man along a corridor. Hatfield was shuffling along and he slowed down.

"You okay, Mister Hatfield?"

Hatfield stopped briefly, only a second or two. The registrar looked behind and stopped too. Tanaka could see Hatfield, his eyes welling up. The old guy sniffed.

" _Shoot,"_ he whispered. "Only other time I heard anyone call my son ' _Will'_ was his first girlfriend. When he was in junior high school."

"There, there," said Tanaka. Felt sorry for the old man. Didn't miss it though, he made a mental note to jot the remark down.

Could be something, maybe a lead...

Pakdee marched straight back to the row of plastic chairs and dropped down next to the lady with the child who was now sleeping blissfully, its head on the lady's lap. Jackson sat on the other side of the room, now he'd gotten off his cell but he didn't say anything to her, only watching. She gave Jackson a withering stare, gave him the chills. Then she lifted her right hand and bunched it hard into a fist, her knuckles cracked. Her eyes pierced his, jet-black pupils.

Jackson did not speak; her take on him wasn't friendly. Crystal clear, he got the message. Not particularly nice. He'd never harmed her; never done this lady wrong. He'd never even met her before and couldn't figure it out. Jackson had no idea at all.

_Wanna piece of me? Take your best shot, lady_.

Waiting...twenty minutes; twenty-five. Hatfield came out then Tanaka. They sat next to Jackson. Pakdee hadn't moved. Hatfield had his head down in his lap. When he straightened up he composed himself, drew a deep breath and muttered one word:

" _Bastards."_

"Mister Hatfield, excuse me a moment." The old guy nodded. Tanaka stood and whispered something to Jackson. He walked to the other side where she was. First time he'd heard the old guy curse.

"Ma'am, may I?"

Pakdee shifted, leaving an empty seat between her and Tanaka who took out his notebook and a pen. He flipped the pages and started to scribble something, wanted her real name but she interrupted.

"I would like to see Will Hatfield."

"That's up to his father. I can approach Mister Hatfield but this would be his decision. Perhaps it would help if you tell me your relationship with the deceased."

" _Relationship?"_ She looked away. "I worked with him."

This was a game of chess for Tanaka. Except for one thing; he was totally unprepared for the meeting. Investigations had logical steps: one lead would result in another, good or bad, like a real-life flowchart. Interviews, contacts and information. Build up a case and solve it. Her arrival on the scene was a leapfrog move, caught him unawares. His mind worked overtime.

"I'm aware of that," he lied. "The Federal Bureau has been monitoring trade links from Manila Airport, as well as the harbor-"

"We don't do sea cargo," she lied. "Airfreight only."

"Ma'am, correct me if I'm wrong, but...you're not from the Philippines. Where are you from?"

She had been answering his questions with an unusual accent, clipped and perhaps with some British influence, certainly not local. _Japanese, Taiwanese, Korean?_

"I am from the Kingdom of Thailand," said Pakdee. "But I have lived everywhere. Where do you come from, _Tanaka-San_? In which soil do your roots lie?"

He recoiled; off guard...she'd pressed a button somewhere.

" _Roots?_ I told you I'm with the FBI. _United States Department of Justice."_ Glanced in the direction of Hatfield sitting with Jackson, wanted to see how the old guy was doing. Turned back and moved closer to her. Eye-contact, he could read a lot from people's eyes. All he saw in her was pure black, the pupils, nothing he could see...nothing to tell.

"Anna. Did you kill Billy-Bob Hatfield?"

" _No I did not._ You have no idea what you're talking about do you?" She turned to the old guy, then Tanaka. "Please, I must see him."

Tanaka got up and spoke with Hatfield a moment. Looking back at her, whispering, he was leaning over and negotiating with the old guy. He came back over and nodded. She was on her feet already. She'd been reading their lips the whole time.

"I'll take you in," said Tanaka.

"Thank you," she said _. Just want to see him, one last time._

The mortuary worker removed the linen covering the body. Tanaka did not look at the remains, he kept his head down but his eyes firmly trained on Anna, on the other side of the trolley. She handled it well, considering. She gasped. Tanaka couldn't miss her teeth. All metal, silver; couldn't call them braces. Same kind of thing as the Hispanic gang-bangers, they'd get all their real dentures removed and replaced with solid silver ones, some of them even had diamond studs planted.

Came from meth abuse...wonder what's her story?

In her ears, tiny little enameled studs, a black ace on the right and a red heart on the left ear. _'Creepy'_ wasn't a description for a lady but it suited her. Both hands adorned in thick heavy rings; jewelry that was sharp. She had a tiny bow-tie. No trace of make-up.

"Any ideas then?" asked Tanaka. "You know who's responsible for this crime?"

The Filipino technician covered up the body. Pakdee turned quickly and walked out of the cold-room. Entered the waiting area and walked directly to JJ Hatfield.

"I am so sorry," she said. "They will pay the price, I will make certain of that."

Hatfield didn't reply.

Pakdee straightened up and headed for the big set of swing-doors, exactly the same way she had entered. As she passed Tanaka, she nodded discretely. He followed her through. She stopped and checked the big doors had closed properly. Through the glass cutaways she could see Jackson standing in there, watching them but he stayed put.

"I cannot say much in there. I need to know right now: are you from the embassy here in Manila?"

"No, I'm not. I came out from Washington; that's where my HQ is-"

"Don't patronize me," said Pakdee. "You're the immediate supervisor of that other agent, I can tell."

"Actually, I only met him yesterday. Yes, I do outrank him technically but-"

"Do you have a good heart, _Tanaka-San_? Can I trust you?"

"If you cut that _Tanaka-San; Tanaka-San_ routine." He pitched his voice high, mimicking her. Not quite. Her voice was husky, silky. "We're heading back. Come with us. You can talk there-"

"No chance." Pakdee tilted her head to the waiting room. "Not with him."

Tanaka lowered his voice: "Mister Hatfield or Agent Jackson."

Now she turned and slowly began pacing, toward the entry bay to the road outside. Tanaka followed. They were outside. She checked the place, looking everywhere like a pilot in a dogfight and stopped near a gate pillar, stood behind that.

" _Who do you think?_ Will's father would never hurt me," said Pakdee. "He didn't know about me. He's sick, _you know that?_ We helped him...sent him money, paid for his drugs." She held up her hand and counted on her fingers. "He's dying, Special Agent Tanaka. Has a year at the most. Will Hatfield was amassing money and a lot of it...to pay for everything to cure his father, _you know that?"_

Tanaka's cell rang. She watched intently and kept her eyes fixed on the cell.

"Yep, I'm with her now." He nodded. "Stay with JJ Hatfield. Talk soon." Dumped it back in his pocket. "Need to make a call?"

She shook her head. "Chinese messages only...I cannot risk being tracked."

"Speaking of _tracking_ , how'd you know we'd be here today?"

"I have eyes on the street. I have been watching _him_." Pakdee jerked her eyes to the left, the reception room where the others waited.

"What's your beef with Jackson?" Tanaka asked. He had private misgivings about the Manila attaché, now he wanted her side.

"Listen to me," said Pakdee, changing the subject. "I have a proposal. There is a United States naval vessel from _Task Force 40_. It is due to arrive in Cebu Harbor in two days' time. Get me on board. Get me to Guam so I may continue."

"Thought you didn't do sea freight," said Tanaka. The sheer lunacy of the statement made him chuckle. "Why Guam? How about Pearl Harbor? I'm from Hawaii, we could sip cocktails by Waikiki Beach, watch the sunset-"

"Do not mock me," she said. "If I can make contact with my people they can have this approved. My controller has the contacts. He does the _Cobra Gold_ exercises, logistics. Just get me to the ship. I cannot risk any communications from here."

"You're nuts," sniffed Tanaka. "Come with me to the embassy, sit down and give a statement, you assist with the case and I'll see what I can do. An arrest and we'll do more. Conviction and we're talking rewards. That's how the government works."

"If I'm nuts then you're completely useless. No different to your colleague. I don't need _rewards,_ " she spat.

Pakdee started walking now; she moved out with Tanaka in pursuit and broke into a fast walk. She didn't wear normal secretarial shoes; they were flat things...ideal for running in.

"So who killed Billy-Bob Hatfield," he called out. No answer. "How did you know him? Sleeping with him?"

She stopped. "Do _not_ get personal with me!" she called out. "I employed him. I was his boss, _you know that._ "

"For a customs agent... _get real_. Hatfield's son had a master's degree in business admin. What were you guys really up to? What were you sending to Egypt? I know all about that too."

"No you do not -- _liar!_ "

She huffed and stormed off, up the street. Had a gator-skin handbag with a strap, a small thing that hugged her. It looked heavy.

She's packing. Tooled up. Thought so.

"Anna, what's in the bag?" asked Tanaka, pointing with his thumb at her.

Pakdee tossed her head over her shoulder. "A present for some people...something...a big surprise." Turned and kept going, Tanaka caught up and seized her arm. She whirled around in the opposite direction dislodging his grip.

Tanaka was panting, one hundred percent humidity, the sun was out...eighty-five degrees and rising fast.

" _Who killed William Robert Hatfield?!"_ He cried out behind her.

"Go home if you know what's good for you. Leave me be. You're useless."

# Chapter Eleven

Nobody knew better than Special Agent Tanaka, but when a number of people witness a dramatic event there will be as many different versions of what went down. He still hadn't any inkling that by close of business they'd all be giving their own formal statements to the hierarchy. Everything was about to disintegrate before his eyes.

The division of Don Suarez was roasting now, the sun came through periodically. Anna was striding down the road, Tanaka behind her trying to talk and reason with her. Just like your average, everyday domestic.

Two desperate urchins, a boy and girl no older than ten were tugging at his shirt sleeve. Acting up like they were in the throes of starvation -- most irritating. Anna made a hissing sound and they fled on cue.

She knew how to control them; did a better job than their parents could. Maybe these beggars were her eyes on the street.

He kept following and noticed she had snapped the flap on the compact hand bag, her right hand stroking the contents. She was looking toward the opposite end of the cluttered street, scanning the area like a fox, nostrils flared. Tanaka drew level; she stopped dead and sidled up to a parked car.

The question would be asked and it was something he most certainly considered at the time: _Why didn't he and Jackson take her down -- whoever she was?_ After all, Anna was the best lead they had so far. Two FBI agents; they could have restrained her; disarmed her...they could've called for backup from anywhere. There were armed guards out front, marines at the embassy a few minutes away, and even local cops as a last resort.

So they all thought. Then none of this would have happened today...war on the streets of the big city. Oh, for the benefits of hindsight.

She sidestepped a tad, catching his wrist with her left hand. Some kind of hold, she twisted and he doubled over.

"Get behind me, _now_!"

He missed it but she saw it. He'd trailed her along the façade of the Santa Lucia clinic, heading west on the southern side of the road. _Against the traffic_. A scooter had cruised along at walking pace in the same direction they were going and without warning it crossed over to the wrong side. Two on the machine, full-faced helmets, as it drew level the pillion stood up on the back pegs. That was the sign...she knew how they did it back home. A drive-by hit.

One single movement and Tanaka was knocked to the ground. She had the big auto out, a double action it was ready to go. Got off two shots, a double tap but the bad guys ducked and she missed. Sent the shooters flying though, they hit the ground, rolled like wrestlers and ran in opposite directions. One was firing as he was bolting away and the other fumbling for his weapon inside a shirt. He was down and she was up -- twin shots, dip the muzzle them another two shots. The stainless finish glinted in the rays of the sun.

She dragged him bodily toward the wheel of a parked vehicle and he landed hard, shoved tight into the hub, it shielded him. Another volley of shots came and these missed, striking a shop front behind them. They were taking fire from two directions. Pedestrians scattering like billiard balls, shouting and yelling and other motorists had stopped dead or accelerated away.

"Okay?' whispered Pakdee. "This way, back this way, _move_ it!"

They disentangled and bolted toward the hospital lobby which was too far away; they wouldn't make the distance. More shots and they leapt between a delivery van and an old Nissan Cefiro. One of the shooters was crouched in a building entrance on their side of the street and showering them with volleys of fire, only pausing to change magazines. Again she raised her weapon. She spun around and leapt over Tanaka, her knee slamming into the side of his face. She started firing opposite at the first assailant who had flanked them. They were caught. The area was sprayed with glass and pieces of debris as the battle escalated and they were now being fired upon from two directions. On their side of the street the discarded scooter was still running, its rear wheel spinning aimlessly as it lay on its side, revving and belching exhaust fumes.

Every time a round struck glass, pieces were jettisoned over the area. Laminated windscreens held firm but side windows from parked vehicles burst into pea-sized pellets that covered them, filling their hair and clothes. Brass cases clattered on the ground. When a slug struck masonry it threw up gravel sized chunks which rebounded along with the ricochet and resonating with a high pitched hum. The triggermen kept firing round after round. She was double-tapping. Finished one magazine, Pakdee flicked the gun and the empty clip jettisoned on the ground. Tanaka pinned to the road, his hand being burned by scalding green fluid pouring from a radiator. He was dizzy, deafened and sweating profusely with no time to speak or think. His right eye was closed after debris had entered and a small amount of blood was in his hair from jettisoned glass. Silence for just a moment, enough to register his heartbeat thudding in his ears, blood pressure up as she bobbed down, breathing over him. She was protecting him with her body.

In reception Hatfield and Jackson heard the volley. Sounded like a string of Chinese firecrackers, stopping and starting up. They charged out and got to the gate, to the left Hatfield spotted the shooters so he dropped back behind the gate pillar. He then saw Anna and the G-man. They were stuck fast; trapped.

Hatfield looked over his shoulder. The security guards had dropped down and they had their revolvers drawn, no match. Much more concerned about scuffing their neatly pressed shirts. Jackson was in front of them poking his head about, no idea where it came from.

" _We need backup right now!! Call up, get some help!"_ yelled Hatfield.

Jackson bobbed up, saw the old guy then moved to the side of the building. _"I'll go get the limo!"_ Jackson called back. With that he was gone.

Hatfield turned and grabbed the handles of a large utility bin; it had wheels, low to the ground and loaded with food scraps. The janitor had cleared out abandoning it, blocking the way. It was solid with heavy sheet-metal sides, it could protect him. He took an almighty gasp and heaved. It moved with all his weight behind, out the gate, barely fitting on the sidewalk...into the line of fire.

She leapt up and let off another two shots at the one opposite then the sidearm locked open, empty. She bobbed down and stared for a moment before whispering with resignation rather than anything else:

" _Finished...out."_

An ornament on the end of a heavy silver necklace had dropped out from the front of her blouse. She touched it to her forehead and tucked it back in. Something precious...A pause then silence, save the adjoining cityscape in the distance but this street was deserted. Tanaka cautiously peered along the building line where the first assassin had positioned himself, careful not to take fire. Up the end he saw the trolley moving toward them. It was when he cast his eyes downward he saw the blood flowing in the gutter, only this time a lot of blood.

"Miss. _Miss_ ... _answer, damn it!_ You okay? Are you hurt?"

"Call me Anna...and yes, I'm okay," she whispered. "You okay?"

He turned opposite toward the position of the first gunman, searching for any sign of movement, any hint of danger, careful not to expose himself. Nothing beside a few cuts in his scalp and some glass in his hair; she was unscathed and looked exactly as she had a few hours ago.

_Immaculate_ , he thought, _then why the blood_?

An agonizing pause during which Tanaka became aware of his own heartbeat thudding in his eardrums, he could hardly see and his cheekbone was numb where her knee had connected with his face, hard.

Pakdee was transfixed on the position opposite the street, her stainless automatic still locked open and held upward -- empty and useless. As Tanaka turned in the direction from where they had come fled he now realized a figure was standing over them. The trolley with old Hatfield behind had stopped.

"Drop it if you would, please."

Clear English but a foreign voice. There was no hint of urgency, just a robotic command.

"Drop it and please stand, slowly. _Now!_ "

A voice with a strong accent. First it was Tanaka and then Pakdee saw the figure, a motorcyclist, in a full racing outfit holding what looked like a machine pistol, covering them from a distance of about five feet away, the extended magazine of the gun well below the handle. Tanaka's eyes darted up and down the street searching for any sign of danger.

"Dead," the voice replied as if in answer. "They're both gone."

The scooter-jockeys who ambushed them now lay lifeless -- _that_ was where the blood came from. A set of perfectly placed two hundred grain 'subs' had come out of a silenced rifle somewhere and landed in rapid succession and nobody heard a thing, least of all the shooters who lay dead.

The old guy watched it all unfold. One hundred shots he figured and four new motorcycles arriving like phantoms; they'd clicked neutral and cut the motors, cruising silently by him. _'Somewhere'_ was at a different vantage point...all Hatfield saw was a split-second glint of sunlight. He squeezed his back into the trolley and focused on where it came from: a telescopic sight lined up perfectly with his eyes. He couldn't read for nuts but his long-range vision was fine.

Ever so carefully hands on top of the head and clench them together. Knuckles white and hands tight...lower the head a bit and keep your eyes on the enemy and pray he won't fire.

As they stood the first arrival moved closer, ignoring Tanaka completely. A second fully jacketed figure had materialized and the two exchanged some words in a foreign language. Tanaka was jerked from behind. The first arrival opened the visor on his helmet, gloating at Anna like admiring a trophy. The second figure began securing their hands with small-gauge zip-ties, one per wrist and interlocking. Professional and well prepared.

More foreign words. More cycles, four now. Quickly and efficiently one of the figures was attending to the dead triggermen, removing the helmets and photographing their faces, removing their gloves and fingerprinting their dead hands with some pocket sized device.

The second one approached, with SWAT gear on. He stared at Anna, holding a piece of paper up, had her picture on it. _"Gotcha!"_ He cried out.

"Who are you?" mumbled Tanaka.

The SWAT-suited man lifted his machine pistol and aimed at Tanaka who lurched to one side and his badge clattered on the ground. He was staring down the barrel, literally. They saw the badge; another one picked it up, he tossed it back and started arguing with the one aiming the gun at Tanaka.

"I'm with the FBI, United States Department of Justice," said Tanaka. "This woman is with me; she is in our custody."

More chattering; somebody was controlling the operation. One of the crew began scattering handfuls of local currency and tiny nickel-bags of narcotics around the lifeless triggerman. Each time he completed this he then drew his machine pistol and fired a burst into each body making them convulse.

Tanaka lurched and attempted to break free but was caught by the second one who hurled him against the side of the delivery van which had sheltered them. They eyeballed other as the crew waited for the next set of instructions.

To fire or not to fire, that is the question.

"Listen," panted Tanaka, "She's with me. FBI, you understand?"

"Keep quiet. This one is ours."

"Shoot me and we will hunt you to the end of the earth," he panted. "Every one of our agencies will be on your miserable ass."

" _Quiet!"_

As the team leader spoke into his microphone, Tanaka and felt something cold touch the left hand side of his neck. A jolt of electricity through his body and he shuddered once and collapsed to the pavement. It was a genuine shock-device, not something purchased from a department store.

They tossed her, their prisoner, over the motorcycle like a sack of bananas. They'd sprayed something over her face and nostrils. It had a sweet odor but tasted bitter when it entered her mouth and she became dizzy...chloroform with a knockout from a pressure pack. Pakdee had seldom used any form of pharmaceutical drug in her entire life, not even headache tablets and this substance paralyzed her, and it worked well.

The four motorcycles of the apocalypse roared into life and they were gone. So was she.

" _Move your ass. Get up."_

Through a dizzy haze he saw the old guy's craggy features. Tanaka let out a grunt and shifted forward. _JJ Hatfield_. He'd stayed put, his eyes fixed on the sniper who'd spared him. Hatfield moved his right shoulder under the man's bodyweight and heaved himself upright with all of Tanaka's bulk upon him. Like a fireman. Hatfield staggered toward the hospital gate. Now the street was alive again, worried bystanders running back and forward and onlookers gathering.

Hatfield yelled out loud. " _Shoot!_ Where's your buddy? Where's Jackson?"

Then a honk from a car horn, the black vehicle reversed and parked up, Jackson at the wheel and the Filipino driver in the passenger's seat waving his hands. Hatfield hurled Tanaka into the rear and jumped in, careful not to land on top of the agent as Jackson floored the accelerator and squealed the tires in a cloud of blue smoke and steam. They were out, by the skin of their teeth. They were safe...for now. Like an evening in Tornado Alley things had gone from calm to chaos, in a moment.

Hatfield's chest was heaving. Jackson was chattering non-stop and Tanaka had propped himself up -- _he'd live_. Hatfield shut his eyes and pressed back into the seat as they accelerated; his heart was racing. Then it hit him, that day: one Sunday afternoon so many years ago:

Sitting, watching the world go by. Watching the cars go by. Between patrols, a few hours off-duty. A dysfunctional city on a dreamy afternoon, the Catholics returning home from church dressed in their best and the Buddhists and Chinese; it was business as usual. Women in their 'Ao-zais' strolled by, arm in arm. Hot, sticky and tense...the place was no longer like it used to be. They could still swipe a Jeep and get out, away from base and have a look around. Night time too dangerous to move anywhere, even in a tank. All sides pushing for talks and the whole thing gone to crappers.

A hundred and three in the shade, the suds went down well. Atmosphere dripping with humidity and fragrant garlic mixed with fumes from two stroke scooters. A noodle vendor right next to them; she was popular with the GIs. They flocked to her, she did good business. Maybe that's what it was...

Two wiry Vietnamese guys with wraparound sunglasses, dressed in tight slacks and body-shirts. They whipped out a piece with no warning. Two shots, the noodle lady went down in a spray of blood. They'd hit her twice in the side of her throat, she was floundering everywhere knocking stuff over and upending the steaming pans as she bled to death, or choked to death.

The marines hit the deck and then the real fun started: South Vietnamese soldiers, security guards, shop owners and everyone else joined in. A free-for-all. They kept their heads down; the entire city opened fire. When the dust settled the two punks lay dead next to the noodle lady they'd just killed. Terrorists, armed robbers or extortionists?

Welcome to Dodge City, 1972...

They were still yelling after they had gotten away. The black sedan hit the curb as it lurched around a corner and Hatfield struck his head on the side window. He let out a howl of pain. Tanaka was clutching the burn on the side of his neck and the chauffer up front shouting directions and pointing as Jackson held the wheel for dear life.

" _What the hell happened back there, did you see them?"_ cried Tanaka. " _Where is she?"_

"No idea." Jackson shook his head.

" _Assholes!"_ yelled Hatfield.

Someone retorted, indignant: _"What?!"_

"Assholes." Hatfield glowered at Tanaka, waited a moment and caught his breath. Wanted to hit someone. " _Damn you man_ ," he snapped. "You just gone and dropped me in the middle of another war."

The special agents would be under the pump, grilled for more than two hours each. The ambassador would get involved. The hierarchy would be pulling them out the second Billy-Bob Hatfield's remains were sealed and signed for. The field trip was over as quickly as it had begun.

Special Agent P Kelvin Tanaka spent his entire adult life as a policeman and nothing came anywhere near this -- all the arrests he'd done back in the days as a uniformed city-hall cop on the beat. Call-outs, emergencies and takedowns. When asked, he answered they had no jurisdiction whatsoever to detain her, nothing.

Nobody said it out loud. It was lucky for them they didn't try to pin her; if they had they'd be going home in caskets along with Hatfield's son. Anna would have dropped them both in a second.

Without a second thought, she would have shot them both. Then the security guards at the door. Then the kidnappers would have probably killed her. Fight to the bitter end.

He was there he'd seen her for what she really was. The key to unlock the whole crime; now she was gone, taken. Still, he had no idea who he was dealing with. Nobody had any idea. And she'd disappeared like a ghost on the highway.

# Chapter Twelve

Total blackness. Her nose, eyes and mouth still had traces of whatever the mixture was -- maybe solvents and Rohypnol -- used to disable her. A sickly-sweet substance mingled with a bitter taste, the concoction had floored her. At last, it was leaving her system. She could think, she could function. Right now there was an overpowering fish and seawater odor and she couldn't see a thing; they'd covered her up and stuffed her in. There must have been air though, flowing in a drainage plug at the end. Otherwise she would have suffocated.

A crash as the lid was torn open, she felt the wind. Hauled out of the tackle box and to her feet the black cloth hood covering her head was removed. Slowly she regained her senses; she felt cold and her throat was parched. She was shivering, even though at sea level and so close to the equator. It was well into the evening, perhaps twelve hours after the 'extraction'.

Pakdee gained her bearings...bobbing in the rough sea in the middle of nowhere. A small but potent floodlight beamed down on the deck from a derrick that stood over the deck. The craft tossed in the ocean and an electrical storm drifted by.

Upright, she swayed and stumbled now; she was fastened with zip-ties and surrounded. Likely some of them were the same assailants who seized her that day, she could not be certain. All of the hands on board were young and like football players, save two -- one older man with very short hair and a female with raggedy blonde hair. Not-so-golden locks that came from the sun's rays instead of a bottle.

The plastic things binding her arms behind her back were beginning to cut and constrict her flow of blood. The older man was kneeling before her...not in worship. He was fastening a coil of galvanized marine chain to her ankles. To her horror she saw the end of it, anchor attached, dangling over the starboard side brushing the ocean's surface. Flashes of green phosphorescence in the water which was choppy and spray whipped upward in the strong breeze. The nearest land was miles away and in the distance a magnificent thunderstorm reflected with a stroboscopic effect, lighting up the jagged peaks of Luzon to the north; Oriental Mindoro to the south.

The man at the helm cut the engine of the old fishing trawler in the middle of the straits; to the north the lights of some coastal town. A modern gas-turbine plant twinkled in the distance and to the south they could just see the town of Puerto Galera. Far away a huge white passenger ship cut through the black ocean on its voyage from Manila to somewhere down south. The civilized world sailed on by this evening, blissfully unaware of her plight.

All alone with strangers on a leaky, thirty-foot tub in the deep waters of the Verde Island Passage and it was a million miles from anywhere. Strangers who meant business \-- tonight would be no pleasure cruise.

" _Soong, soong...soong_ " (stand tall, persevere) she whispered to herself.

Facing her was a man with nondescript features. With close-cropped hair he could have been a monk although he was dressed normally and his face had no expression. As this man leaned towards her the two on either side tightened their grip on her arms. One of the kidnappers from this morning, she was sure of that, and a female on the other side.

The older one addressed her in English: "Miss Pakdee-Chaiyochaichana, I presume...how nice it is to finally meet you. We know who you are. Do not be surprised. I apologize for any discomfort you may feel this evening but I have been hoping to speak with you. I am hoping for your help with a slight problem I have."

His eyes...like a wolf's eyes, clear and cold. At least he got her name right, said it just like a native speaker. It was a worry, though.

"I _know_ you can understand me. I would like you to assist us. I think you can. Tell me what were you have been doing here this past year. You and the American."

She kept her silence. The male and female restraining her arms held her firmly, both hands locked to each arm and in a forward stance. The others on the boat had light weapons all muzzle-down pointed seaward rather than the deck. The old one doing the interrogating, the boss, had the appearance and demeanor of those westerners who frequented the saunas and boy-bars of her home. Guys like that were clean cut, well preserved and had plenty of money. He was the same size as she, maybe a few pounds heavier. He had forearms and hands like Popeye. No tattoos or other markings. An old puncture or two in the earlobes and a chunky Breitling on his right wrist... _Definitely not into the ladies._

Major Lowenstein held up both his hands opened, palms facing her. "Miss, _please_ consider this. On my right hand I can make you an offer. You help me and I shall help you. I can give my word, our government will protect you." He then indicated the inky black waters lapping at the side of the boat. "On my left hand I can only guarantee bad things for you..." His voice trailed off and he tapped the chain twice with his left foot. _"_ You be the one to choose."

Again she did not reply. The only sound was the wind and the choppy water lapping around the vessel. Distant thunder...Pakdee could smell the salt, diesel and paint and the rocking of the stationary boat unsettled her. She had to persist; she had to keep it together -- this was a test for her. A seafarer, _she was not_.

The man swore in her language as he slammed his left hand upon the cowling covering the engine bay. She flinched. _A foreigner who talks too much Thai...no good._

He repeated the question: "What were you two doing in Manila? Tell me. Do you want me to speak Thai? Shake your head if you do not understand and please excuse my accent."

"I think I can speak English, _more_ than you," she hissed.

He withdrew a hand Taser and discharged it, inches in front of her face and she lurched back. Those on either side only squeezed harder.

"Smart a bit on your fillings, miss."

"Not fillings, _Scheissen-hausen_ ," she snapped. _He sounds like a German._ "Platinum prosthetics with titanium anchors, five in total -- more than _you_ can afford."

He didn't reply. He barked some orders to the others in a language she did not understand. She was fluent in so many but not this one.

Arabic? Turkish? Yugoslav maybe; no idea.

Now they let go and stepped away from her and Lowenstein moved forward. He reached and picked up the anchor on the end of the chain. He lowered it into the water, another fathom, and then some more. With every new link dropping below the ocean's surface he was straining and the veins in his arm bulged.

"I do not have time for this. Tell us about your work here and I promise; I give you my word I can help you. I can give you new identity, anything within reason; a foreign passport, perhaps."

Pakdee shook her head, mystified. _Why on earth would a good Thai girl need a new passport? Traitor!_

" _Shut heads!_ Untie me now," she demanded.

Lowenstein faced her. "Last chance..."

"Last chance for what-"

Just like slow motion; he let go and she could only watch as the stacks of marine chain started unwinding, clattering as it tore away and over the side of the boat. The others had jumped well back and watched in disbelief -- she would be snatched from the deck and dragged to the floor of the straits, half a mile beneath the keel. The precious prisoner, ' _The Cat'_ , whom they'd risked their lives to locate and capture. But she stayed put...the last of the chain flicked up and nearly tore Pakdee's head off as it went over.

Sadist. He'd cut it.

A few feet of the chain remained on the deck. Pakdee looked down and drew a deep breath. She looked around at the horrified faces of the others then back at the man who was sneering. She smiled at him. Then she laughed in his face.

"Coward!" She snapped. "Don't have the bottle, _you know that?"_

The man leant forward. "There's another one on the bow of this thing."

Lowenstein nodded to one of the crew. "Stay with her." Stepped over to the female with the raggedy blonde locks and tugged her sleeve. "Upstairs a moment please, Ms. Blue."

They headed up to the wheelhouse, about eight feet above. Lowenstein lit a cigarette and offered one to the rider who shook her head.

"You know, we may have caught ourselves a tiger, not a cat and we're holding it by the tail." He inhaled. "What's your take on this, Ms. Blue?" He peered out into the distance. The storm was receding but the waves had picked up. "I've seen grown men, even the guys from our elite units that I used to instruct, they'd literally piss themselves when we did that."

The rider thought about this. "It's very strange indeed. She's a nasty little thing. Give me five minutes alone with her-"

"That's my point, she almost seems glad to see us. I am wondering -- was she expecting this?"

"Should we even be speculating on this, Mister Gold?" She glanced behind; _The Cat_ was standing there with the others around, watching her.

"Very true, Ms. Blue," he replied.

"What is our authority with her?" she asked. "Are we to interrogate her, or just locate and render?"

"Well if you remember the briefing, the boss told us to locate and work out whether she's neutral or hostile." The running man took a deep draw. "I've reported back already. They passed on their _congrats_ ; job well done and all."

He took a last drag from his _Lucky_ and flicked it in a shower of sparks. "A _Shekel_ for your thoughts, Ms. Blue? Having fun so far?"

The rider nodded. "Sir..." she replied. The rider averted her gaze, uneasy at the running man's question, unsure of how she should answer him.

No longer in uniform; a new game in a different part of the world with totally different rules.

Lowenstein slid down the stainless ladder and barked at the crew: "Get those ties off her, give her a blanket, sit her down and get her something to drink." Time to move; the wind was picking up. _"Start her up!"_ he cried out to the rider, up at the wheel. "We set sail to Puerto Galera. Follow the lights. We can drop anchor and spend the night there."

The _Gardner-Six_ diesel coughed into life and the vessel tuned south. Below deck Pakdee washed and changed into some borrowed clothes. They were loose and crinkled. Her black outfit was filthy and reeked of fish-scales. The gun she used was long-gone, of course.

Secondhand rags; possibly belonging to the tomboy with the bad hairstyle.

They were nearly the same size, baggy. The cabin was cramped but well appointed. The lights drew close. The little ship rounded the cape and past Sabang Beach. Music thumped from some bar or another, they heard the noise from the beach. Two in the morning, the party never ended there...past another headland and south into a cove. The rider cut the engine and the tub glided to a halt. The anchor at the bow crashed into the shallow water...the _real anchor_ this time; it was a rusty old sculpture.

The others squeezed in next to her and they slept, exhausted. She drifted into a fitful sleep but the dreams always came.

Phayao...before electricity came; before they put the second reservoir in.

Childhood...in the old days before television came; after they put the rice-crop in.

Life was simple then. School, taking care of the water buffaloes, making sure they never got sick. Making sure the wild boars didn't break the fences at night, they had traps. Up well before dawn; work in the rice-fields then school. More work...worship at the temple. Cockfights -- if they had a few spare copper coins they could place bets.

Always a ceremony of some sort or another. The elders would gather at night, they'd drink moonshine and sing.

And the waterhole, the one with the tamarind tree leaning over it. They'd jump from the tallest branches. That's where they would gather in the evenings of the rainy season. The waterhole...that's where Daow drowned that day. Her sister; one afternoon they both went down there and only one returned.

But her sister never let her forget. She came every time, especially when danger was near. The village never let her forget. Forever jinxed. She carried it round like a monkey on her back. The monkey was still there, everywhere she went; it came along for the ride.

Pakdee let out a tortured yelp and lurched awake, clipping her forehead on a timber beam. The others were asleep in the cabin and she wrinkled her nose when she realized a pair of feet had been only a few inches from her pillow. None of them snored, they slept silently. None of the others had washed that evening; they were on a mission but she always did without fail, even if it meant a half bucket of seawater. _Three times every day, a cold shower...just had to do it._

She inched out carefully, like a cat. That was what they called her.

" _Halt right there,"_ whispered a man slouched at the stern, one of the crew. Held a machine pistol, trained on her.

She stayed put at the hatch. "Wouldn't shoot an unarmed lady in distress, would you?" She batted her eyelids. " _Glock 18_ with selector? Easy to control?"

"Stop and stay there," he whispered once more. "Don't come any closer. Try to escape and I will fire."

"No you won't," replied Pakdee. "You'll jump me and cry out to your friends and then that beastly Russian lady will tie me up again."

"She's not a..." He stopped, mid-sentence. _Almost..._

Pakdee crouched down where she was, she gazed upward and back at the crewman. A cloudless sky now, the storm had drifted out to the South China Sea. He'd removed his protective vest, for comfort and probably against orders. His face, it was gentle with soft brown eyes just like a deer. Yet he had a powerful and lean physique. He was no deckhand; he was a specialist...like all of them.

She watched him with harmless curiosity. _It had been a while_ , she thought.

He watched her every single move like a hawk.

She reclined -- as she gazed toward the heavens a shooting star passed overhead trailing a spray of sparks. Pakdee was reminded of her lost sibling's name so many years ago: ' _Daow'_ ...their word for _star._ She felt a shiver on the back of her neck. Surely this could be a sign, a message. Far to the west the lightning flickered. It was so eerie.

She thought of Will Hatfield and Port Barton, where they stayed one weekend just before this all went down...that place on Palawan with the huge black and green butterflies everywhere. They sat on the beach and watched the sun set. It wasn't too far away from here, perhaps two hundred nautical miles at the most.

Right now, they might as well been on the other side of the universe. Everything changes with time.

# Chapter Thirteen

"Excuse me, Excellency."

The setting at the prestigious Bangkok Golf Club looked as good as the weather that day. _Magnificent._ On the tenth hole a Thai man was enjoying a game with the ambassador of an EU nation, business mixed with pleasure. A meeting of the rich and powerful on the greens.

The Thai golfer was annoyed at being interrupted and fumbled as he dug his cell out of his rear pocket. It was one of three he kept and the only one he carried at all times; the sole callers with that number being his wife, his immediate superiors and his ninety year old mother. He wished he could turn it off at times; it seldom rang but when it did it meant something major.

"Hello." He listened carefully.

"What do you mean by _'my little offshore project'_? What's going on? Heard anything?"

He whispered; he knew the ambassador spoke his language and could overhear. His heart rate suddenly jumped. He listened to the caller who spoke for well over three minutes as he nodded. He replaced the phone and stared ahead for a while, leaning on his putter.

"Everything okay, _General_?" asked the European.

He turned to his VIP guest and chuckled politely: "Of course, Excellency, you know how it is, always on the march."

The general was a champion golfer. That afternoon he had fully intended letting the ambassador beat him but since taking the call he didn't need to fake it. He'd read reports of street battles in Manila in a recent upsurge in violence over there. The _Arcana_ crew, they hadn't been in touch. He'd have to check. He knew all about them but they knew nothing of him...that was the whole idea.

_The offshore project._ He hadn't heard anything for a couple of weeks now, most unlike her; she reported in her every move, she did anything asked of her without question.

He had to find out where she was right now. And hope nothing had happened.

The trawler upped moorings and chugged north to Manila Harbor at dawn. They moved quietly and efficiently, attracting no attention from Customs or the navy; if they did their documents were all in order, visas and a cash float to smooth the way...it wasn't needed. A covered van met them near the dock. Pakdee and others sat in the back on bench seats but it was covered so she couldn't get her bearings. They'd placed hinged cuffs on her. They knew she'd been there nearly a year; she knew her way around. They didn't underestimate her, not in the slightest.

It was a relief when the tailgate dropped, with a crash. They had backed up somewhere and still under cover. The place was a small factory located an industrial estate somewhere in Manila that manufactured and delivered animal food supplements. The arrival and departure of the six-wheeled vans didn't raise an eyebrow anywhere. Ideal cover for storage and transit, and keeping her out of sight...

The warehouse was subdivided to the rear. Sealed off, that's where she was holed up. Amenities adequate, she couldn't complain. Somewhere to sleep, wash and sit down. A specialist posted outside to keep her on watch, at least the guard was considerate. They let her keep her timepiece. It was midday. That's when the interrogation began:

Getting to know you.

She was on one side of the desk and they sat on the other side -- Lowenstein, the team leader from the boat with the raggedy blonde, van de Meuwe who steered it. The rider looked at the captive with a mixture of contempt and curiosity. _People like 'the Cat' were predators and home-wreckers; this one would be no different._

The running man opened the door slightly and requested some bottled mineral water be brought forthwith. He was to play the role of _'good cop'_ throughout. The Thai woman's stoicism impressed him. He knew them well; after all he had lived there once.

"Ms. _Jaisuwan Pakdee-Chaiyochaichana_ ," he began. "Firstly thank you for agreeing to be with us at such short notice."

Did she have a choice? She only made eye contact with the guard outside. Pakdee was working on him -- the one with the big brown eyes.

The rider spoke: "My identity is ' _Code-Blue'_. Present also in the room is _'Code-Gold'_. The time is twelve-hundred hours and sixteen minutes." She checked. "You have no rights whatsoever...in fact if you choose _not_ to assist us you will disappear. You will never get anywhere near a lawyer, in fact if you attempt to contact anybody, you will disappear. What you do say must be of assistance to the State. If you do not assist you will disappear. If you lie to us, lots of dreadful things will happen to you. Do you understand this total lack of rights?"

The rider tossed her head sideways. "The front of this factory is a processing plant that converts fish byproducts into granulated prawn feed and poultry products which they bag and export all over the region." She leaned close to Pakdee with a sinister grin. "And I'll knock you out and toss you into the boilers in a second."

Van de Meuwe the rider, made a pinching gesture with her thumb and forefinger. "Come out looking like coffee powder."

" _I don't scare so easily,"_ replied Pakdee. "I don't talk to you... _I talk with him_." She crossed her arms and swiveled in the chair, facing the running man with the crew cut. "I'll tell you anything you want to know," she said. "But your Russian girlfriend remains quiet. Carry on, then..."

The running man had come into the interview prepped, still part of the psychology was to leaf through, shuffle papers. "Can I get you anything, Ms. Pakdee-Chayochaichana?"

There were three unopened bottles of water on the table. Pakdee gathered them. "I'm thirsty. Pick one and drink half first."

He opened one, drank at length and passed it back. He then dumped three sheets of paper on the table. "Miss, I am presenting an airway bill from a shipment of goods that was sent from Manila to Cairo this year. From a company listed as _Aseancon Freight Forwarders_ with whom you worked. Cell phones and digital cameras; read it please. Care to explain?"

She took a glance. _The same ones._ "If I can correct you there I was the manager," said Pakdee. "These goods were Chinese knockoffs, shockproof and waterproof -- ideally to for a parent to give to a child to stay in touch. They just don't have all the functions."

"Going to Egypt, right?" The running man and the rider exchanged looks. "Why there?

"Guess the Arabs care for their kids, too... _you know that_? They were dirt-cheap. Not too many sheiks or petrodollars in that part of the world. _"_

"Dirt cheap...not according to the letter of credit. I don't think so _,_ Ms. Pakdee-Chayochaichana-"

" _Anna,"_ she interjected. "Less of a mouthful..."

"Anna," he continued. "I'll cut to the chase. Do you know anything about the trade of illegal arms, either here or in the Middle East? Take a moment to think about this."

Pakdee didn't need a moment. She was laying the bait and they'd bitten. _Time to make them think I've come clean_.

"That's exactly who I was working for," she said. "Arms traffickers, who are domiciled in my country. They sent a death-squad to get me...get me and William Robert Hatfield, the victim. They once supplied the Tamil Tigers; that's how they got established. I have no idea why they moved into electronics though. Maybe you could enlighten me."

The running man kept firing questions for the next two hours non-stop and Pakdee laid the whole thing out. Except for whom she _really_ worked for and exactly what was in those goods. She knew it was something bad; it was something everybody was after. She knew lots of things but she was careful how she fed it to them. The land unit could well be her ticket out.

They kept on pressing her about the pallet of bogus cell phones and toy cameras. She kept playing ignorant, in part this was true. It was early evening when the running man and the rider sat themselves down once more. They played a digital recording taken from the hospital entrance...the gun-battle...the stainless M9. A helmet-cam from one of the extraction team. Looked good; better than a lot of action sequences.

"Impressive," said the running man. "Where'd you learn that?"

"Competition shooting is an interest of mine," replied Pakdee. "We have access to such sports in my home...if you have the money or time."

"You're a financial trader and auditor, I'm told. So tell me this..." He leaned close to Pakdee. "How does a nice young thing like you manage this? Against mercenaries, if what you say is true."

"Practice when I can," replied Pakdee.

The running man didn't believe a word of it. _She's working for someone else._

"Look, I'm going to send for some rice. Hungry?" he asked. He opened the door and spoke with the specialist then sat down again.

"So tell us about yourself. Which part of Thailand? I've was there for some time."

"I can tell you've been around...and for what it's worth, I was born in the far north _\--_ halfway between Chiang Mai and Laos," replied Pakdee. "I was adopted at age eleven after I ran away from home... _Protestant missionaries_. They were Dutch. Raised me as one of their own. Educated me. Helped me. Saved me from the pimps when I was young. They still live there. I send them money for the orphanage. And the chapel. And the authorities-"

The rider interrupted in a sarcastic tone: " _Spreken Nederlands my liewe?"_

Pakdee spoke fluent Dutch. This person spoke it rough.

"Clearly better than you do... _liewe?!_ "

_Not Russian and certainly not from Holland...but they weren't speaking in Afrikaans earlier on._ Pakdee now had some idea who she was dealing with. But she kept quiet. The raggedy blonde glared at her... _if looks could kill_. Then they left the room.

"Watch it, Ms. Blue." Lowenstein nudged van de Meuwe as they walked out. "She's trying to _suss_ us out. We ask the questions but please be careful what you say...after all everybody knows it was us but always after we're long gone. And nobody can prove a thing."

Lowenstein needed to report to headquarters. In the communications room was the signaler -- C41 -- except this was modern day skills, not Morse code. Aside from world-class communications skills and computer hacking the young expert had two other interests in life: on-line gaming and cage-fighting. C41 had the highest possible clearances. He could never be captured alive. He was a bit of a loner...a geek who knew how ruin somebody's whole day, be it with a timely signal to a sniper, a press of a button or a booby trap stashed in a car.

Access to C41's task and equipment was also restricted, the land unit knew that.

"Code Blue, go check on 'the Cat', please," ordered the running man. "See if she needs anything or has anything else to say.

"Yes, sir." She clicked shut the door of the communications room and returned to the captive.

The rider returned and dismissed the specialist outside the door. She entered the room alone and glared at Pakdee. Death-stare.

That was her first mistake.

"You realize what you've gone and done, don't you? Aiding and abetting a terrorist organization -- you're in deep shit, lady. Two of our best chopper pilots are dead, no thanks to you."

"I don't see how sending a bunch of 'phones somewhere is channeling aid to terrorists," replied Pakdee. "Are you going after every single exporter of cell phones and digital cameras out here? Good luck-"

"Cut the crap, damn you. These things were used to manufacture weapons components..."

The rider's second mistake.

Pakdee said nothing; now she had some idea: why the cargo was so valuable, why Hatfield was dead and why her controllers in _'Bangkok RHQ'_ were interested in the things. They were computers or circuits of some kind. She also had some idea who _they_ were.

The rider got up and moved around to face 'the Cat' and spied the little necklace she was wearing...a talisman of some Buddhist relic in a casket. No bigger than a thumbnail. The rider was breathing heavily, wired up and incensed. She grabbed at the chain.

"I'll be taking this. You could use it to self-harm or attempt escape-"

Big mistake.

The commotion lasted about ten seconds. Sounded like somebody inside had let loose with a sledgehammer. When the specialist who'd been guarding the door returned to investigate he was barricaded out; somehow the lock was jammed. He raced around the side and saw 'the Cat' pounding the living daylights out of Code Blue through the one-way-mirror and screamed for help. He was joined by two others who smashed the metal door in with the help of a fire-axe and a heavy CO2 fire extinguisher. Took all three of them to subdue the captive and drag the rider out. Just in time.

Lowenstein was furious when he found out after the long-distance discussion with Colonel Hirsch; he poked his head in the first aid room before checking on 'the Cat' who was trussed up.

"Put her in the next strong room," he yelled at the specialists. "Two bodies watching her, at all times -- _no exceptions!_ "

He returned to the sick bay. By this time he had cooled down. The best way to show his displeasure at the rider: he roared laughing, in her face. She was on a bed getting checked over by the Special Forces medic.

The rider was doubled over but she'd live. She was stunned; she was five-ten, an unarmed combat specialist who could floor most opponents. Despite being smaller 'the Cat' had dropped her easily, stopping just short of maiming her. The rider gave the running man a wounded apology.

"Forget about it, Ms. Blue. But don't go near her again, _that's an order_. Get some rest."

The rider lay back on the bed, sore and sorry. She could settle up with _Suzy Wong_ at a later date but for now she'd need to swallow her pride and carry on as ordered. It had been a good learning experience.

Lowenstein locked the door behind him and held three whiteboard markers, all different colors. He laid out his notes on a large table and started marking the whiteboard, it was a big one and he'd need the space. After an hour and a lot of rubbing-out he was done; he stood back and peered intently at the diagram he had in front of him.

'The Cat' located, William Robert Hatfield deceased.

The death squad...two killed by his specialists and the remainder, headed up by a UK national. Most likely on the run by now. They had a good description of the 'Englishman' but no name to match the face.

The remainder of the Syndicate in Thailand, somewhere. Their structure: _one naturalized Canadian_ , Sri Lankan by birth. _A Nigerian_ who had graduated from the underworld into partnership with the Canadian. _A Chinese national_ , location unknown -- possibly Bangkok. He was the one supplying the missile components, he was the brains.

And the triggermen? _Arcana_ were still waiting upon the fingerprints but from what Anna told them they were Nepalese...they looked just like Filipino, Thai or Malay but nothing could be further from the truth. They were _Gurkhas,_ possibly a dozen who took orders from the UK national. And that meant a dozen big problems. It would be the first time in his country's history they had faced these sturdy and fearless killers. None of the others knew much about them but Lowenstein did, he knew his military history.

At the bottom of the whiteboard were three names: those of the FBI agents Tanaka and Jackson along with Jesse James Hatfield. They were easy to take care of, Hirsch and the others back at base would lean on their contacts in the CIA and have the investigation shut down. Operation Arcana was _their_ baby. Lowenstein took a green marker and placed a tick next to these names; he did the same next to 'the Cat'.

Slowly and in a respectful way, he drew a line through Billy-Bob Hatfield's name, with the green marker. He took a different marker, found the word _'Chinese National'_ and circled it in red. Finally he stood back and read the board before taking a digital shot on his Blackberry. Then he erased everything before soaking his own handkerchief in rubbing alcohol and cleaning every trace.

And the circuits? Defense R&D had one sample locked up somewhere out in the desert where nobody could get it except their engineers. The rest of that particular shipment had been located and destroyed in Cairo.

Any others in existence? For all anybody knows there could be an entire warehouse full of the things out there. Or they could be in the wrong hands already...

Pakdee rubbed her arms and wrists; still sore. She stretched before checking out her new accommodation. The other one was wrecked and the door gone. This one looked exactly the same. Outside, the two Special Forces including one from the boat; the one with the gentle face and soft eyes. They were having a joke about something -- _most likely her_ \-- they'd be making all sorts of insinuations about her and what she'd done.

She didn't have the luxury of writing materials right now. She didn't need them, only a time-line inside her head...a chain of events that imploded in the middle of the year when that pallet of goods went through, minus just one of the units. It hadn't gone unnoticed.

Pakdee bent over and let out an audible noise. _Why did you remove the box? Why did you show it to the FBI? What have you done?_

She hadn't been in touch with _the general_. He'd be worried. She had to make contact with her controllers somehow, any way she could. Right now she was going nowhere fast.

# Chapter Fourteen

' _WAR ON THE STREETS OF OUR VERY OWN MANILA!'_

' _From the information at hand it appears that drug gangs have been caught in a deal gone wrong and two baddies have been gunned down in broad daylight. It is estimated over one hundred and fifty shots were fired in Don Suarez subdivision yesterday morning, in a rampage resulting in loss of life and damage to buildings and vehicles. Terrified bystanders had a close call when hoodlums traded shots in a busy street in the old sector. Righteous citizenry are now outraged and up in arms. Enough is enough! Our very own beloved capital is looking like downtown Beirut after a battle. Gangsters and rascals beware! The authorities have collected a large amount of evidence including many packages of 'Syabu' (methamphetamine) and tainted money from the scene. We all rest assured police are certain to make arrests soon...'_

"Yeah, right."

Tanaka snorted and tossed the tabloid where he found it in the lobby. The condescending _journalese_ had a cartoon-character tone, if the reader ignored all the Technicolor gore plastered on the cover. The Philippines had a lot more gun-crime than the US in any given year.

Strange, though...they're so laid-back about everything. Just don't get 'em off-side.

So far every single Filipino he'd met was a nice person; the place just didn't function the way he'd expected, that's all. Their smiles were warm and genuine; they were more like Pacific Islanders than the rest of Asia. When PK Tanaka was growing up in _'Lulu_ he'd befriended many Filipino-Americans. There were several hundred thousand living in Hawaii. They made loyal friends and terrible foes. They appeared to be a matrilineal society.

Now he had a much more serious problem or two to be precise. Anna was missing and he'd just been caught up in a double homicide. Washington was furious. Every move he made from now on would need to be signed off. There were few leads and the only help he could get had vanished with her. As far as the PNP were concerned the gun battle involved local gangs.

Jackson was beginning to get on Tanaka's nerves -- he'd remained hidden in the Santa Lucia hospital lobby, turning up in the car while it was JJ Hatfield who had hauled him back to safety. Nearly given the old guy a hernia. Now Hatfield was safely within the confines of the embassy building, much to the protests of all and sundry but it was not worth the risk of placing him in a hotel. To lose the old guy would be a career ending event.

Tanaka began leafing through the documents and files he had with him. The name ' _Inspector R. Guinhava'_ of the local Police area command jostled his memory...he dug the report out and read it. It was the best lead so far. Jackson hadn't contacted the guy. There was a number but Tanaka was in a dilemma: Agent Jackson was being more of a hindrance than help and he had to think of a means of bypassing him now.

Unbeknown to him this dilemma would soon vanish.

He spent most of the day assisting Hatfield in the morbid task of repatriating the remains of his son to the States where he could be laid to rest. The old guy had no intention of returning just yet; he was baying for blood and badgering both agents, demanding arrests and insisting upon payback.

The clock was ticking; Tanaka had half a day to get hold of Inspector Rocky Guinhava. Figured it was best to front up there and wait. Tanaka knocked on Mike Jackson's door. "Just reporting out for a couple of hours, won't be long."

"Wait up; I'll be with you in a moment."

"Forget about it," replied Tanaka. "Just remembered, I need a tetanus shot. The medic didn't give me one. I should have asked." He rubbed the graze on his face where Anna's knee had struck. Turned into a nasty bruise by now; made for a good excuse.

Jackson was satisfied. Tanaka spruced up, wanted to make an impression. Stopped by Chuck Cortez' room but the DEA agent was gone for the day -- not to worry, he'd manage.

Out the gate he hailed a cab and after some banter repeated the words _'Police Headquarters'_ which only made the driver ask a lot of questions. The cabbie agreed and Tanaka seated himself next to him. Despite the age of the vehicle the air con worked a treat, a welcome change from the steamy conditions outside. Tanaka was captivated by the delicate little shrine of the Holy Virgin, intricately crafted and encased in a glass case attached to the dashboard. After a while the driver remarked upon his fare's interest; for PK Tanaka it was all very Mexican.

"For _safety_!" said the taxi driver in a gravelly voice. "Faith in our Lord, for me and my family...for safety." The driver gave a conspiratorial grin and lifted his trouser leg revealing his inner left ankle. Strapped there was a holster with a snub-nosed revolver, perhaps a family heirloom; an ancient Dick Tracy type thirty-eight.

"Also _this_ , for safety!" The taxi driver smiled and pushed his trouser cuff back. "Kind sir...if you would lock your door please..." They paused in traffic and the urchins were trying to mob the car.

"Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition," mumbled Tanaka but the driver did not say much more for the rest of the drive.

Would've been quicker to walk, anyhow. Stuck in traffic most of the time. When they arrived the fare was cheap...about seven bucks. Tanaka tossed in an extra note as a tip. The cabbie leaned over; he whacked Tanaka's shoulder-blades and shook...nearly tore his arms out of the sockets.

_Unlikely any Punjabis would try muscle in on his turf_.

He entered the building housing the Philippine National Police precinct and waited in front of a young policewoman who was engrossed in the computer.

Looks busy, probably social-networking.

Tanaka was struck by the fact there were no members of the public waiting in the lobby, only cops. If there were any civilians here they were probably locked away in a dungeon somewhere. Then he remembered Agent Jackson's comment -- _Filipinos never bothered with the police._

The lady cop looked up. She said something in _Tagalog_. It was a rapid sentence.

"I'm sorry Officer, I only speak English," replied Tanaka. "I'm an American."

She giggled, covering her mouth and answered in a chirpy voice: "Oh, sir I apologize. But how can we help?"

He produced the report and handed it to her. Had the official seal and the inspector's signature; it'd impress them no end. "I was hoping I could find Inspector Rocky Guinhava. Does he work here?"

She read the document and beckoned a young male officer. They perused the piece of paper for a minute and woman looked up. "Inspector Guinhava is a very busy man, sir."

"Identification please," said the male officer with an officious tone, now they wanted to know who might be after their boss.

Tanaka produced his badge and green passport and passed them over. Their eyes widened. Like dinner plates. He had their attention now.

" _Special Agent P. Kelvin Tanaka, United States Department of Justice,"_ the male cop read out loud. He held Tanaka's ID up to the light like a gold doubloon washed up on the shore.

"Sir, you are with the embassy here?" asked the young woman. "Official business?"

"I guess you could say that. I'm not with the embassy though; I'm from Washington DC."

"I'm sorry sir; I thought you were one of us when I first saw you," she replied. The male officer was dialing a number on a land-line as fast as he could.

"I'm a US citizen, of course," replied Tanaka. "The Federal Government only employs citizens of the United States," he added.

"Special Agent... _Tanaka_ ...What _kind_ of name is that, sir?" the female cop asked looking at him intensely.

"It's a Japanese name," replied the agent.

The bright and chirpy sparrow evaporated in a second, replaced by a black and sulky look. She frowned disapprovingly and the male cop dumped his ID on the counter.

" _There."_ She abruptly pointed to some plastic chairs and said nothing more. He was dismissed for the time being.

When Rocky _'Rambo'_ Guinhava of the PNP showed up he was apologetic. "We have had a terrible week. Even for here..."

The two men shook hands and proceeded up the flight of stairs, followed by the stares of the uniformed cops behind the service counter.

"First this very sad case about the Hatfield boy followed the spate of killings the other day," remarked the inspector. "You heard about the big gun battle at Don Suarez?"

"I think so," said Tanaka in a guilty tone.

"Everything is out of control these days," Guinhava continued as he led the agent into his office, closing the door behind them.

Coffee was ordered and they spoke at length. The Filipino cop had never met a real FBI agent, or anyone from the American embassy before. Tanaka was mystified as to why Jackson had not arranged a meeting, even as a courtesy. Not even a telephone call; nothing.

"You know, your people would only liaise with our NBI," Guinhava sniffed. "They are the equivalent of your FBI from our standpoint." The Filipino lowered his voice. "Agent Tanaka, they would never deal with mere mortals like me."

Tanaka was impressed at the degree of care and diligence put in. Guinhava showed him reports completed by the PNP's scientific services along with witness statements and numerous crime scene stills that had never even made it beyond Jackson's desk. It was clear the local precinct had left nothing unturned in the investigation but they'd ended up against a wall.

Tanaka raised the subject of the Santa Lucia hospital shooting: "Do you think these two crimes may have been connected in any way?" He asked gingerly; he did not wish to push his luck.

Inspector Guinhava paused before answering. "I don't think the murder of William Hatfield was linked to drugs." He looked intently at Tanaka, eyebrows raised. "Do _you_ think there is a connection?"

"Did you manage to locate any associates or friends of the victim, Inspector?"

The Filipino grinned. "Funny you should ask. He had an associate, apparently -- a lady friend. Both of them worked in the same place. They were legit and their work permits were in order." The inspector pulled another file from a cardboard box and handed him a scan of a passport image: the Thai woman. "She has also vanished, off the face of the earth. For all you and I know she may have been killed too."

"Guess it's likely," said Tanaka.

"After we found the young man's remains I organized a raid on the apartment. It had been burgled and we didn't find much. _However_ ..." the inspector continued, "I did locate some correspondence addressed to Hatfield from a local bank, being held downstairs at the guardhouse."

Guinhava produced an invoice for a safety deposit box leased out to Billy Bob Hatfield. "Whoever got into Hatfield's apartment may well have been the same person who killed him. It seems they had no luck getting into his bank deposits but it was no problem for me..."

Jackpot!!

Tanaka's heartbeat raced and his eyes widened as he looked at the prints. Sure enough one of them mentioned a deposit box located in the center of Makati City.

"Inspector, how difficult to get a warrant for this safe deposit?"

"One better, my friend...I have them already. Took 'em as soon as I found the invoices you've got there. Excuse me..."

Guinhava got up. On the walls of the office framed pictures, trophies and awards. The guy was an achiever. A few minutes later he returned with a paper bag, an evidence brief resembling a shopping bag. Clearly marked, taped and sealed.

"Never ceases to amaze me," said the inspector as he sat back down. "Everybody is so busy and important; nobody has the time to do any legwork." He looked seriously at Tanaka shaking his head. "I was the only person who even bothered to check the fellow's condo."

Tanaka wanted to keep the questions coming, wanted to find out more but he just sat there looking at the things once they were on the inspector's desk. He couldn't say a word...there in front of him: one US passport, a bundle of greenbacks, a key ring and two little packages. Opened them up like they were alive and wriggling. The very stuff Billy Bob Hatfield had taken from the bonded warehouse that day. The first box had a digital camera, a web-cam attachment and had a CD-ROM; the other box had a tacky little knockoff cell phone with a charger. One possible key to the investigation. He felt uneasy.

"Inspector-"

" _Rocky_ , my friend," the Filipino cut in.

"Rocky...does anybody else know you took these things?"

"Only the clerks and the guard in evidence pool," replied Guinhava. "Like I said, none of the other agencies even bothered to return my calls..."

He looked wistfully at a framed portrait on the wall, one of himself and a top-ranking officer pinning a medal on his tunic at a parade. "I'm a caveman who kills bank robbers and I keep this city safe." He grinned and made a pointing sign with his right hand. "All the big-shots and tough guys in this city...they know me well and are afraid. All the gangsters in this town know my name and tremble when they hear it _. I shoot to kill,_ Mister Tanaka. I don't miss _._ "

"PK," replied Tanaka. "All my close friends call me PK."

Tanaka bundled the items into the evidence bag. The Filipino cop pointed at the floor

"Don't forget the dough, my friend."

_Oh, no..._ Tanaka cringed; he was a little edgy and hoped the inspector didn't take it the wrong way. It really had been knocked off the edge of the desk.

"Rocky, could I trouble you for a squad car to run me back to the embassy, please?" The packages felt like dynamite in his hands. He stood up and shook warmly and thanked the inspector. Wanted to hug the guy.

As Tanaka left the building the same policewoman was seated behind the reception desk. When she saw him she narrowed her eyes.

_Little wonder so many things in this country are named after MacArthur_ , Tanaka thought, _they really do have long memories here._

Her hatred of the Japanese had come from her father and his father before that. Generations. _The Philippines!_ They'd forget to meet you at seven-thirty this evening but they sure hadn't forgotten the war.

Little could he have guessed but the strangest introduction was about to take place...just before the embassy closed for the day.

Tanaka returned to the compound and carefully stashed the things given him by the Filipino policeman. He found JJ Hatfield and stopped by Jackson's office; that was when the line on the desk rang. Jackson received the call and then passed the handset to Tanaka.

"For you," he said.

Tanaka spoke briefly to reception on the other end before replacing the handset. He was puzzled. "There's some Irish guy wants to see me, down in the lobby."

He looked around at the old guy and Jackson. They headed downstairs and entered the waiting area which was quieter in the afternoons; visa applications closed after midday and the crowds of hopeful immigrants had gone.

Lowenstein hadn't waited too long, they came downstairs right away. He'd put in a lot of effort, preparing for the meeting. He knew all about the three Americans, his Intel was precise and accurate. He rose when they came down and offered his hand.

"Special Agent Tanaka, I presume. My name is Brian Flannery. Pleased to meet you."

The _'Irishman'_ had a thick European accent.

"If you're Irish then I'll be a monkey's uncle..." Tanaka mumbled. "How did you get my name?"

"We get what we want, when we want...most of the time." After a pause the man turned to Jackson.

"Sir, if you would please excuse us. I need to speak with these two gentlemen-"

Jackson was quicker off the mark in his reply: "Hold it _Pal_ , what's your game here?" he demanded. "I've got every right to be here; this is _my_ investigation. Who the hell are you, anyhow?"

Tanaka gave a look of disapproval but kept quiet.

"I think it might be a good idea to get back to what you were doing and leave me with Mister Tanaka and Mister Hatfield if you wouldn't mind," said the man with the Irish passport.

Jackson began arguing. The running man removed from his pocket an internet phone, switched it on and passed it over. It was playing something. Jackson hurled the device on the ground. _"You asshole! I'll fucking break your arms!"_

Tanaka grabbed Jackson and held him back. Jackson was young, buff and clearly fancied himself. The one-time linebacker stood at six foot one, weighed two hundred pounds and had been a Taekwondo black belt by the time he was twenty two years old. The running man, who was short and decades older, calmly stood his ground; relaxed with his arms folded. Only he knew many different ways to kill a person with his bare hands and he _had_ killed -- more times than he cared to remember.

"I see you've met the charming _Matilda_ of the Red Rocket Club in Makati," said Lowenstein. "We pay her a lot more than you do...we have done so for years." He smiled. "And we've been keeping an eye on you, my friend."

Lowenstein held up his arms. "On my right hand I can make you an offer. You get out of my sight and do not let me see you again. That footage of you with the bargirl shall disappear forever." He took a breath and made a stern face. "On my left hand your little escapade will be uploaded and go viral; I promise you that. It'll make the Secret Service scandal look like nothing...I'm told your employers have a zero-tolerance for this kind of thing, especially by a bum who makes his living terrorizing fellow countrymen who own girlie bars..."

"But...I...she...that's not what you think...that's not what it looks like," stammered Jackson. He'd turned pale and was shaking.

Lowenstein leaned forward and quietly spoke, one last time to Jackson. "If you would _kindly_ excuse us..."

By the time Jackson had retreated up the staircase the man turned to Tanaka and Hatfield. "Coffee, gentlemen? My treat...there is something you might want to hear. Please come with me; we can walk."

PK Tanaka and JJ Hatfield trailed after the running man who looked back over his shoulder as he walked out the gates.

"Do not concern yourselves with Mister Jackson...he'll be leaving the bureau soon."

# Chapter Fifteen

Shopping malls! Love the atmosphere, crowds of well-meaning afternoon shoppers and those looking for a decent meal, won't find one down on the streets.

It started pouring anyhow, the heavens dropped just as they made the entrance.

Hatfield got searched as Tanaka and Lowenstein shuffled on through, the armed guards weren't worried over the obvious. This was where the new middle class came. The hyper-rich would be found in more trendy places...Dubai, Paris and Milan. The poor stayed outside and crouched away from the torrents that emptied straight onto the road.

Up to a second floor, some joint that served ethnic food, it was the latest fad. Healthy stuff...

They squeezed through and found a vacant place to sit or maybe it was kept there. Strange, considering the crowds. Took a first look then a second look, there she was over the other side of the hall: Anna and two others -- a couple seated. They'd been shopping too.

_What's in it_ ; _a hand grenade or two picked up on a pre-Christmas sale?_

Hatfield, Tanaka and the running man one side...and the rider, the specialist team leader and ' _the Cat'_ on the other side of the Lebanon Cedars Café, like a reunion of sorts. Tanaka was jumpy. Anna!! _She'd made it._

"Can we talk to her?" he asked.

"Sure. Wait here." Lowenstein got up to order.

Tanaka followed him to the counter. "Who are the others?"

The running man motioned to where the old guy was seated. "Go sit down-"

"What is your interest in Jackson?" Tanaka whispered. "What happened before?"

"Listen up. I don't even need to be talking to you. This is a courtesy call; nothing more. You know your investigation will be pulled..."

PK Tanaka was dumbfounded. _"Pulled?_ By whom, exactly? _"_ Hatfield was watching them. "Who organized the attempt on Anna's life outside the mortuary?"

"Nobody you know," replied the running man.

"Is Jackson involved somehow?"

Lowenstein took a moment to answer this one. The coffee was dumped on the counter by a cashier who was in a rush. He paid. "Jackson is involved in everything but this incident. We checked. We've had him under surveillance for several months."

"Why?"

"We intercepted a call from him to Cairo, Egypt. Several months back...we were tracing an import-export operation there."

"I gotta know...did Agent Jackson organize the hit?"

" _Categorically, no_ ," replied the running man. "He's mixed up in all sorts of other things, I dare say. The shooting was somebody else."

"And you think he'll be leaving the bureau? Why do you say that?"

"Consider this -- the young man who was murdered -- he removed a sample of whatever it was and reported his concerns to Jackson because he didn't trust the local authorities. Fair enough, considering."

" _And?"_ Tanaka asked.

"And in doing so he signed the victim's death warrant. _Think about it_. Special Agent Jackson tipped the terrorists off by the single act of calling the place in Cairo. Dumb move, but not intentional. That's why we moved in when we did. But the syndicate moved on them first."

"How long did you know?"

"We've had the operation under surveillance a lot longer than that," replied the running man. "Let's go sit down."

Tanaka stood in front of the running man, blocking his path. "Listen up...Connelly, Flannery... _whatever_ ... Are we in danger of any sort? You know the guy so well, what is he capable of?"

Lowenstein sized the agent up then relaxed. His eyes flicked up. "If I were in his shoes I'd want them to be good shoes...for running as fast as I could."

_Fair call_ , Tanaka thought. He moved aside the followed the 'Irish' gentleman back to the dining area. He'd certainly want to hear the Manila Attaché's version of events though.

JJ Hatfield looked at her long and hard across the tables, Anna looked down. He turned to the running man. "What's going on? What is this, anyhow; _who are you_?"

"Firstly," said Lowenstein. "We're sorry for your loss."

"As if you'd understand," mumbled Hatfield.

"I can only sympathize. We too, we suffer. And we have so much more to lose-"

"How?" snarled the old guy. "The only thing I ever had, the only one left..."

"How did you know my name and where to find me?" Tanaka asked. He was suspicious of everything now...even being here could be a problem. He got up and nudged the old guy. "We're outta here. Let's go." He pushed the coffee away.

" _Wait up!_ Do not concern yourself with security," said the running man. Like he'd read the agent's mind. "The couple with your lady-friend there, they come well prepared."

On the other side of the room Pakdee was checking the surroundings; unlikely the syndicate would try again in a shopping mall. She wouldn't have anything to do with the rider and the feeling mutual. She tugged the specialist's sleeve. " _Ladies..."_

The specialist nodded to the rider. They got up and left.

Like every other piece of real estate in the city the wash rooms were packed like sardines. When one of the cubicles was vacated Pakdee turned and gently rubbed the rider's hand and whispered in her ear: "Come with me?" She pouted her lips and cocked her eyebrows.

The rider jerked her hand away in disgust and backed away, scowling. "I'll wait right here, if you don't mind."

Pakdee entered the cubicle. She had to think and fast. Next to her she listened to the repetitive beeping of somebody texting, the national pastime. Took one thousand Pesos from under her top and carefully placed it on the floor between the two cubicles and held it there firmly with her thumb, beckoning downward with her other fingers. The walls separating the two pedestals were raised at least a foot off the floor and a few seconds passed before the noise from the texting stopped. A curious face appeared below the thin wall, straining to look at whoever was handing her this unexpected tip.

Pakdee gestured with her other hand for quiet. She her hand upright, twiddling her fingers, sliding the money further toward the other lady. Seconds later she had the cell phone in her hand. It was a very old model with English keys, worth only a fraction of the cash she had given to the owner. Muted the noise function then she started texting:

' _ENGL/ TXT BCK/ URGENT/ ASEANCON/ PHMNL/ SAFE OK ONE PAX'._

She held her breath, hoping the line would connect. Need to get out, get overseas. She checked the sender's number was activated. She prayed silently. Began a keying in a second message:

' _URGENT/ MERCH GONE/ URGT/ RAID SHOP ASAP'_

The delay in the reply was excruciating. A tap on the door _,_ from the rider.

"How much longer? Having twins or triplets?" she demanded.

"Still here -- afraid I've vanished?" replied Pakdee.

Finally the thing vibrated. _It went through_. The reply wasn't what she was hoping for but at least they knew she was okay...and still on the job. They wanted her out of there.

She deleted every message function then slid it under the wall along with another banknote of less value. The owner's face appeared again; this time she clenched her fist as a warning and made an audible hissing sound as she flushed. The Filipina nodded and returned to her aimless texting. _One thousand Pesos for a ten Peso text; not bad...the national pastime._

"Come out all right?" chirped the rider sarcastically, as her hostage washed up.

"Not really," replied Pakdee.

They got back out to the eatery and sat down. Same place, staring down the others across the tables. Lowenstein nodded. The three on the other side got up and came over, they sat.

"Anna...nice to see you're still-"

"Not my favorite style, this place," Pakdee said. Once they were seated she looked at the running man. "Sushi station just there. Coming?"

" _Again?"_

"Not my style -- Arab food not so good," she replied.

As they were window shopping for other food they made small talk but did not purchase anything. "I wouldn't know the first thing about sushi except you get parasites from eating raw fish," grumbled Tanaka. The running man was right behind the two of them as they were checking out the different things on display.

Pakdee flared her nostrils and inhaled. "Smell that? _Delicious_ ," she said.

A few yards from the sushi station was a barbeque front and over the smoldering coals was a whole suckling piglet, hanging from a stainless hook. Bright orange and dripping; it glistened. She turned to the others. "Look! They have skewers and spareribs too."

Lowenstein took one look at the whole piglet, turned a shade of _chartreuse_ and screwed up his nose. "I'll be sitting where we were. Don't go far," he gagged through his fingers. The overpowering aroma of barbeque pork and sizzling bacon caught him unawares; he detested it with a passion and he felt queasy.

"We'll be right back," said Pakdee. "Hungry?" she asked Tanaka who had not eaten a square meal since the flight. When the others were out of earshot she murmured: "I can tell you what those things are."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Try not to move your lips -- he's watching," she whispered. "I know what the goods were."

"What then?"

"Did Jackson give you a box with a cell phone inside it?" asked Pakdee.

Tanaka did not answer. The cashier handed them a pork sparerib each, wrapped in a paper towel.

"Tell me, did he give you a box with something inside?"

Tanaka took a mouthful and again did not reply.

"Please...do you have items Will Hatfield showed to the FBI here in Manila? I need to know."

"Maybe...you tell me; what's so special about them?"

Her pedantic on healthy living did not extend to vegetarianism. Pakdee took a hearty bite of the sparerib and the bone and when finished she spat the sentence out in a single breath: "It was something developed by a Chinese engineer who was living in my country. They were hidden inside the phones. Something for missiles or bombs."

Tanaka stopped chewing; all of a sudden the dish had lost its taste.

"Somebody has been selling these things to terrorists and this is what all trouble is about. The company I worked for was moving this stuff around the globe and my friend Will was murdered, almost immediately after reporting to the embassy. I would have been next."

This angered Tanaka. "If you knew about this you could be complicit in working for a terrorist organization. _Ever heard of Guantanamo, Lady_?"

"At first we didn't know, I swear," shaking her head discretely. She glanced toward the café and realized the running man was moving toward them. "When they took me I found out through her." Pakdee nodded at the woman who was sitting with the others. "I had no idea what the circuits were intended for until I learnt the helicopter was shot down-"

"Helicopter...what are you talking about; _which helicopter_?"

" _Shhh_ ...keep your voice down." She discretely motioned toward the running man with her thumb. "In the summer of this year a military chopper belonging to one of the most powerful armies on the face of this earth was shot down by a terrorist group not too far from the Egyptian border, _you know that?_ _It was one of theirs_ ..."

"Oh shit," sighed Tanaka.

Her face had hardened. "And this is why my country wants these things. If you have the items you must please give them back. I know you have the ones removed by Will Hatfield. I have been ordered to get them back. This is my mission. This is why I am here. If you do have them I will take them, you know that?"

"Take them? You and which army?" mumbled Tanaka, reeling.

Anna dropped the unfinished takeout into a trash can next to her. "Please give me the items. I am asking in a nice way." She turned to the American and hissed: "Trust me, _even a special police officer from the FBI would not wish to meet my army...ever!"_

Her jet-black eyes met P K Tanaka's and neither blinked. The running man was beside them now. He tugged Anna's arm and steered her back to the others.

The one person left out was JJ Hatfield. No idea. "Thanks for nothing," he sighed.

Pakdee touched Hatfield's wrist and gazed at him. "I am sorry, too much. I had to see you today. I am sorry for your son. I feel-"

"Yeah, yeah, so you said before," grumbled Hatfield.

When she looked back at him her eyes were moist. "I promise to you I will make this right." Slowly she spoke: "There has been a killing and they will pay...they will be punished."

Hatfield could only stare back at her, hadn't touched the Turkish coffee.

"Goodbye Mister Hatfield..."

They got up and left the table and headed to the exit.

"I hope this has been of some help to you," the running man said. "Perhaps you are a little clearer on this issue."

"No thanks to you and your boutique-band of mercenaries back there," snorted Tanaka.

"If you say so..." The running man gave a disappointed frown. "Sorry you feel that way. Agent Tanaka, if I may ask...tonight please check your signals. You will be receiving instructions from your people in the States."

" _Whaddya mean?_ I report in every day; bureau policy. Since when do I take orders from you, anyhow?"

The running man gave him a conspiratorial wink. "There are forces far greater than you would know and the same goes for me and my people too. Get on that 'plane and go home." He nodded at JJ Hatfield and extended his hand. "Trust me sir, we will locate those people who murdered your son. Their actions have cost lives in my home too. And my government is not willing to consider the option of a prison sentence, if you catch my drift."

Slowly Hatfield extended his hand and shook. He had no energy now.

"How can we trust you to do the right thing?" Tanaka asked.

The running man chuckled. "My friend, we've been carefully guarding your oil fields in our region since 1948. No reason to change sides now."

He smiled, then he too got up and turned away, he blended into the crowds and he was gone. They would never see him again.

"Satisfied?" Pakdee hated the running man now.

"Not until the job's done." The running man was clicking through a cell phone, a late model with a large screen, making tut-tut noises and raising his eyebrows. "About time we got that fool Jackson out of the way..." He then launched into a conversation with one of the specialists. Pakdee didn't catch any of it but they were clearly amused by something.

"Let me see?"

"Not suitable for a lady such as you," said the specialist with a smirk.

She snatched the iPhone and held it. A movie file and a good one complete with high definition sound. It showed Jackson with some Filipino woman engaged in a tryst.

_Must've been what set him off -- creep_.

She scowled and started clicking buttons. Other files. Files protected, took her a second to crack the password. She opened the first file and her disapproval became outright disgust. She closed it. _Arcana_ had missed this. He had an entire pay-per-view website with advertising, the works.

She turned the iPhone off. "May I please keep?"

"Why?" asked the running man.

Pakdee stuffed the iPhone in her pocket. "Tell me something," she said. "Is that agent -- _Jackson --_ involved in terrorism?"

"Certainly not," answered the running man. "Yes, he is incompetent; yes he may possibly be corrupt and on the take. But no he is not in bed with terrorists."

"What were you planning to do about this?"

" _Nothing_. We're here unofficially. We needed this material to get him out of our hair. Same with the father and the agent from Washington, except the other two are straight...bystanders in all this; innocent victims."

"Where did you get this cell phone?"

"That's on a need-to-know basis," said the running man. "We have technicians and sources on the ground in Manila."

"There is damning evidence in there. Jackson must answer for this."

"Making a naughty tape with some showgirl?" This amused the running man. He remembered her lot, they could be surprisingly prudish. "Tell me you've never looked at porn-"

" _You need psychiatric help!"_ She scowled at the running man and the specialist who were trying hard not to laugh. Their 'technical officers' couldn't have been that good. Now she'd made up her mind. She would deal with Jackson, her way.

Pakdee bathed and changed and assembled her things. The danger had passed for the time being; the syndicate henchmen were on the run now and had probably fled the islands already. She cooled down and meditated for a while. They'd let her out of the strong room although she couldn't leave the factory. She found the running man after a while; he was reading something which he slammed shut when he saw her.

"Miss?"

"Still got the launch?"

The running man grinned. "Thought you'd had enough of boat outings by now?"

"I need a ride," said Pakdee. "Cebu City. I can make my own way from there."

He thought about this. "We can escort you to Bangkok-"

"I need to return as soon as possible. I would like to take a friend with me..."

He shook his head. _If there's room for one, they'll always try and squeeze in more._

"They know nothing," said Pakdee. "There are some Thai women stranded in Angeles City; they took care of me after Will Hatfield was killed."

"So that's where you got to...you're good aren't you?" He smiled. "I'll think about it. I can get you on a boat by first light."

"I need to make a call, _you know that?_ "

Lowenstein was impressed in a sense. He moved right up close to Pakdee. "Why don't you tell the truth? You're not an accountant. That whole trade operation was a smokescreen, wasn't it? Who are you really working for, Miss Pakdee-Chayochaichana?"

She smiled back. They were no longer in control now, and he knew it. "Get me and my friend on that launch," she snapped. "Anything further happens to me or my friends and you'll be out of a job. You'll find out soon enough. All good things come to those who wait."

# Chapter Sixteen

Tanaka needed to locate Jackson, however since the confrontation in the ground-floor lobby the Manila man had gone to ground. The only trace was an unclassified email notifying HQ that he would be out of town pursuing enquiries relating to local issues, no further details provided. This was an annoyance to state the obvious as cracks were appearing in Jackson's running of the case: firstly there was the mishandling of the air freight business but now there was the more serious allegation as stated by the land unit that he could be complicit in extorting nightclub owners. The first could be dismissed by any self-serving bureaucrat as an oversight but the second was simply inexcusable.

Tanaka had taken the step of collecting the broken cell phone -- the one Jackson had hurled onto the floor -- and whatever was on there could possibly be retrieved by experts if called for. He wanted to at least give Jackson the opportunity to explain and if this was not possible there was only one other recourse: escalate a report and hope the sharks would go easy on him. Silence on PK Tanaka's behalf could be complicity in this day and age.

He needed to find Jackson; get his side of the story.

Tanaka checked on the old guy who was curled up on a sofa in a room on the ground floor at the rear of the embassy grounds, one of many within the compound maintained for short term accommodation be it for suspects for extradition, visitors or asylum seekers. Hatfield was in obvious discomfort.

"Where's you pal from the bureau -- the one who's meant to be looking after this?" he moaned.

"Not sure, Mister Hatfield. I need to have a word with him myself."

The old guy struggled to pull himself up and sat. He rummaged around and gulped down some tablets from a container. Looked bad, better to stay indoors.

"Can I get you anything?"

Hatfield held up a plastic bottle of mineral water and shook his head. "Leave me be," he said glumly.

Tanaka backed out and eased the door closed. He returned upstairs to his makeshift office and sent an urgent email marked: _'In Confidence'_ to Jackson before dialing his cell and leaving a recorded message. He needed a shower and change, and as he passed by some offices and found DEA Special Agent Cortez who was working late.

Tanaka knocked. " _Wassup, Cortez_ ...seen Mike Jackson?"

Chuck Cortez motioned him inside. "Close it," he said. "Gotta be discrete, that's all." Put his finger up to his lips like a concerned mother-duck. "How's it winding up -- any problems with the repatriation?"

"Okay,' replied Tanaka. "Any idea where Jackson's at?"

Cortez gave P K Tanaka one of those Mexican smiles through his _'stache_ , could've meant anything. He just made the _'hush'_ gesture again. "Heard about the blow-up in reception," he said. "You were there, so I'll leave it there. Love to know what's going on; this thing's getting crazier by the minute."

"Yeah, you said it. We're all confined to base. Pity we can't go out-"

" _Forgeddabowdditt,"_ snapped Cortez in true _wise-guy_ style, spent a lot of his life playing the part. "Next time I make it over, we outta go hit the town. Since we're both bachelor-boys now."

"Yeah," said Tanaka. "Look forward; maybe see you in the morning. Gotta go check the repatriation for the ' _vic'_."

No sooner Tanaka stepped out his cell rang -- he was hoping it was Jackson but not to be. It was his boss, calling from DC. He checked what time, it was late here.

Must've been pretty early over there.

Just like the little Irishman said so, he was being pulled out. Along with Hatfield, they were heading home. _Just like that_.

Makati City was a modern development situated five miles to the southeast of the old capital. It resembled any modern city; the streets were wide and clean. The skyscrapers were no different to any back home. It was the financial centre and its dwellers worked late, often spilling onto the streets for a drink or feed later than nine and sometimes to patronize one of the many bars and nightclubs. In contrast to others in the country these were high rolling establishments with matching cover charges.

On an avenue that stretched downhill was a row of such bars, all with blacked-out windows and cover-girl receptionists at the doors with armed guards and hired muscle behind in case the wealthy patrons caused problems. In the middle of the line of neon lights and flashy posters was a glittering illuminated bar lit in red.

A black Vios reversed in several feet down a side entrance and cut the ignition, nose facing out. A tall, clean cut foreigner stepped onto the pavement. Looked like a _missionary_ , and they had Mormons canvassing the city but this one sure wasn't...it was Jackson, and he was on the warpath. He nodded to the doormen who threw the curtain back and opened the door leading into a well-known establishment managed by a Chinese-Filipino named Terence Chiu. Chiu was descended from _Hokkein_ traders; a mid-range player in the Makati club scene who had Jackson on his payroll.

Mike Jackson nodded at the barmen; normally he would have accepted a beer and whatever else was on offer but not this evening. "Terry here?"

The barman smiled back and motioned for a hostess with a blue gown with a split up the side. Dressed in true Hong Kong-style but a Filipina; one of the _Sarong-Party_ girls. Jackson held up his hand.

_Shame, maybe another time_ , he thought. "I'll find my own way," he said.

It was still early and the place was relatively empty. He stopped by the gents' restroom, discretely donning some latex examination gloves before continuing up the stairs. At the top of the carpeted staircase he knocked at an office door, waited a moment and let himself inside, something he had done many times in this place.

" _Mikey!"_ The gruff whisky and smoke laced voice boomed. Chiu had a thin moustache and dressed like an actor from a spaghetti-western. He'd been an extra once, years ago. "Great to see you, _the main man."_

Jackson sat before him, his hands in his pockets. "Was in the area, just thought I'd mosey on by. How's things?"

"Fine; fine, my friend." The Filipino hoodlum oozed phony charm. "How about yourself? Enjoy last week?"

Jackson chuckled, averting his eyes. "That's kinda what I was here for." His look hardened at Chiu's expression. "That lady Marina; _Matilda_ ...whatever...if memory serves me."

"Ahh... _Tilly Superstar_ , the performer extraordinaire. She was a fashion model once-"

" _That's the one_. She on tonight?"

Chiu looked unsure. "Good question. _Problem?_ "

Jackson reached into his tropical jacket and removed a shiny little Air Weight revolver. The Filipino stiffened up in his chair, even less comfortable, and then he spotted the latex gloves. Jackson took a suppressor from his trouser pocket and fixed it to the end with a clockwise turn and soft click, straight over the foresight. Chiu shat himself.

"Guess you could say she took away some memories we had together." Jackson leaned forward. "Don't dick me around, Terry...where is she?"

The Filipino was perspiring now and worried. "Mikey, I'd tell you if I knew but she absconded. Nobody's seen her since the party last week-"

The gunmetal on his flesh muted him.

"Where did she come from then? I'll find her myself. _Talk, dammit!"_

Chiu was stuttering by now, petrified. "She... _she's_ _Cebuana,_ from down south. Honestly Mikey, I haven't seen her. Please believe me..."

"Where was she working before this place?"

He sputtered and coughed again, shaking his head urgently. "She had returned from overseas. Said she was a travel agent-"

" _Where!!"_ shouted Jackson.

Chiu was sweating like a racehorse and shaking. "I'm not sure Mikey. Matilda _did_ mention to the cashier she'd been in a resort on the Red Sea." He turned to Jackson, pleading. "Look, if she has taken money from you just say the word, I can give you anything-"

_Enough!_ Without saying a thing Jackson flexed his hand and fired the revolver into Chiu's right temple once, dodging the squirt of blood from the temporal artery. Made a ' _clack'_ like a tablespoon being struck on a large metal can; just one shot with a soft-nose _pill_. The nightclub owner swung forward then back before lurching to the side. Same as an epileptic seizure, only a lot more of the red stuff; it gushed as the hood croaked.

Jackson waited till he was most likely dead or out of blood for that matter, then he gently placed the gun into Chiu's right hand, enclosing it before prying it loose and dumping it on the floor. He did remove the suppressor and pocket that, however...they were a difficult item to find, even in a crazy town like Manila.

All done, he removed the recording disk from the CCTV and bundled the unit under his arm, then tiptoed out closing the door behind him. He walked calmly along a hallway to a secured metal door at the rear and after shorting the magnetic trips he slipped the deadbolt with the aid of a lock-bump. Out the back, down an iron ladder and followed some lane out to the street where the stolen Toyota was, where he left it.

He drove north through Quezon toward Angeles City. Dealing with the man from DC was off the table but he turned his attention to the woman _Anna_ , or whatever her name was, who'd showed up at the mortuary. Now she was gone, abducted by a group who had vanished along with her. He'd never met her before, only Will Hatfield and he decided the best place to start looking was in Angeles; there may be people who knew where she was. Jackson's priority was to cover his tracks; the whole thing was getting more complicated by the day.

Had to cut the scene now, Chiu had contacts...a lot of contacts.

How did that guy get the footage of him and the woman Tilly?

Jackson had to get his priorities right: get to Angeles City and work his way back from there. Once upon a time he'd blown his load all over ' _Tilly Superstar_ '; looked like she'd disappeared and was dead set on returning the favor. _A hundred times over._

Thirty five years old, Jackson could retire now. He had a collection of foreign exchange accounts in Singapore, Macau and even Liechtenstein and he had a folio of backups in the form of dual and false nationalities. His very own subscriber's pay website filled with pure, unadulterated filth. He could sense his career with the Feds was drawing to a close, better to walk away than be made to run -- that was his philosophy. Put the Phillies behind him and start a new life...Panama, Rio, Castro's Cuba maybe. Anywhere but here in Asia or back in the States. What he didn't want was anybody playing catch-up down the way.

Everything had turned lousy since the _Aseancon_ case. He had to find Anna, the one who hated him so much, the one who blamed him. He blamed her, he'd need a place in the queue; everyone else was looking for her as well. He had to find Tilly Superstar, that ex-cover girl, the magazine model; she or somebody else had set him up. He needed to walk away...walk before he had to run.

Special Agent Tanaka was the total opposite to Agent Jackson. Born in Honolulu to third generation Japanese American parents, he was a picture of integrity and ethics. Everything by the book. Didn't speak a word of his forefathers' language; his parents forbade it inside the house, even when family and friends came around. His parents attended church, observed Christmas and were on the local school PTA. Went to all the baseball games. He was a studious youth but there were no shortages of schoolyard fights and the usual growing pains. Tanaka was no extrovert but he always stood his ground.

In high school he was a constant visitor to the museum, he was fascinated by the islands and he spent all his spare time there as a school student then a volunteer on weekends, loved the hills. _Dreamt of being a volcanologist_. That all changed one day after he had graduated high school; his mom had been attacked and robbed returning home one evening. Race-hate crime or robbery, nobody knew and the culprits never apprehended. Outraged, the young Tanaka applied for and was accepted into the Hawaii Police Department.

At age twenty seven he hooked up with his wife, an ambitious court reporter from the mainland; she had plans for him too. Tanaka returned to night school and studied law. Then the big move...away to the east coast and a new life. He applied for entry to the bureau, a job and a life on the career ladder.

He'd been in the Feds a couple of years by the time _Nine-Eleven_ happened. A new era of reshuffling took place along with the soul-searching and blame-game, the enquiries and the shake-ups. Tanaka spent the days after in a stunned state of shock, unable to comprehend how anybody could have dared or even wished to do such a thing. Came as no surprise though, to many at the coalface. As he threw himself into work, like everybody around him his personal life was suffering.

Family breakup; followed by the failing health of his parents, and then the loss of his mom. He took leave on compassionate grounds and then returned with a new vigor -- the FBI _was_ his family now and he knew little else. He had the highest prosecution and conviction rate in his section. But promotion had passed him by. He was a field agent for life and the best in the game.

Major Lowenstein and his controller, Colonel Abraham Hirsch, knew all about the two agents as well as the old guy. The spooks who fed the Intel, drip by drip, knew a whole lot more than they did.

JJ Hatfield would have made a great contact, at least back in nineties when he quit the marines. The running man felt sorry for him, the old grouch. Couldn't have been much older than he was. Same era; just different wars. Only Lowenstein backed the winning side, every time.

They had PK Tanaka's file, his school grades the lot. Tanaka was about as much use to the service as a G-string in a snow-storm, he was so straight and narrow the unit felt it was better to get him pulled out. _Staunch sucker like that, he'd try to arrest the land unit, given half a chance._

They knew all about Mike Jackson before _Operation Arcana_ even began, right back to his frat-days. They knew all about the call from Jackson's line in the embassy to Cairo. They'd started digging, worried there may be terrorist links; they pulled as much dirt on him as they possibly could.

They found no such ties but what they did find was a crooked little bureaucrat who was lining his pockets as fast as he could. Made no difference at all; on the wrong side of the law or the right side, the spooks had hundreds of people -- maybe thousands -- like Jackson on a leash. An ideal mark for blackmail, he was more value to them alive than dead, no matter who he worked for.

Bad luck for soon to be ex-Special Agent Jackson...there was somebody else out there who didn't quite see things that way.

# Chapter Seventeen

Tanaka and Hatfield flew PR102 direct to USLAX with Billy Bob's remains hermetically sealed in a casket on the same airplane and the two boxes of things that started all this. When they arrived at Tom Bradley they had several hours to kill. The Atlantic coast had been inundated by blizzards with many flights cancelled so they spent the time in a bar.

Hatfield sipped iced tea and picked at a plate of corn nuts and Tanaka devoured a roast like it was his last supper.

"Sure hits the spot. Glad to be home, huh? No idea how the folks handle it living in that poverty," said PK Tanaka, between mouthfuls.

Hatfield brooded...times spent on R & R, the base at Clark, good times between missions. The present day only made him more miserable. "Totally different nowadays, might've said. When I was there in the seventies the place was fantastic. Gone to the dogs like the rest of the world," he remarked bitterly.

"When you were in the marines, sir?" The question was innocent enough.

"That's it...guess it's not really anything to speak about," Hatfield mumbled.

"Basically it's just been a life in the government for me," said Tanaka. "Can't say I'd know what it's like to be in a war. Anything like what happened the other day I wouldn't particularly be enamored by it."

JJ Hatfield nibbled on some more corn nuts and gingerly sipped the ice tea. His stomach wasn't the best. Hadn't eaten anything on the 'plane. Felt like throwing up right now. The agent's talking was getting on his nerves a bit...

"Yeah; yeah as they all say -- you never know if you never go," murmured Hatfield.

" _Hmmm_ ...I had a relative who served, you know," remarked Tanaka, as an afterthought. "My old man's father... _he_ was in the big one, alright. Wounded twice; first one they bandaged up and sent him back to the front. Second one got his left leg. Limped around for the rest of his days...caught a slug from a German rifle, two Purple Hearts and he was sent home... you ever heard of the 442nd Regimental, Mister Hatfield?"

_The 442nd!_ The old guy coughed when he heard that like he'd been slapped on the back and a handful of nuts fell from his hand back into the bowl. They were legends, beyond reproach. They stood tall, etched in history. Learned about in schools, had memorials dedicated to them. Everybody who ever served in the military had heard of them. They were folklore. The marines knew about the 442nd. So did JJ Hatfield. They were the right stuff, the ones everybody aspired to...

' _Go for Broke'_.

They were the Japanese-Americans, they were the volunteers whisked away from the pineapple plantations and fruit groves following Pearl Harbor. Tossed into a bloodbath in Italy, twenty-one Medals of Honor; the most decorated unit ever in the history of conflict.

It dawned upon JJ Hatfield... _this guy wasn't off the boat, not at all._ The G-man was for real. Hatfield suddenly felt guilty, the way he'd treated him since the day they'd met.

"You...you never said anything." Hatfield was shocked. "I never would've known..."

"You never asked," replied Tanaka. The old guy was still staring at him. "You alright?"

Hatfield stopped chewing and stared at his pitcher of ice tea awhile. He didn't know what to say or feel right now. To be honest, the agent had followed his son's case with tenacity and guts, he'd never let up. Latched on and never let go. Walked into a firefight on the streets; nearly got killed. Handled it like a champ, damn fine. He'd organized the return of his son's body. Wanted to see the thing through but somebody had stopped them.

PK Tanaka washed down his mouthful with the last of his suds then stood and handed Hatfield a card. "Call me anytime. I'm available on that number all hours, if you need anything. Stay in touch." He looked serious. "If you ever see or hear anything, call me. Same goes if you receive anything in the mail; any outta-place calls or anything at all, just pick up the phone."

He checked the time again: "I've got a feeling this is not over yet, not by a long shot. You take care, now."

Hatfield stood. Bowed his head, shuffled his feet then extended his hand to the cop. _He had guts._ "I just wanted to-"

"Don't mention it." Tanaka stood and exhaled, he just shook the old guy's hand, had to get going. "That's my job. What I'm paid to do. And we're not done yet."

Tanaka hurried to catch his connection and Hatfield returned to his barstool. On the tarmac the remains of William Robert Hatfield, killed abroad some time after his thirtieth birthday by a person or persons unknown. The casket was being transferred to another aircraft for the final voyage home.

The passenger vessel jolted hard then it shuddered. The _MV Mary Joy II_ rounded the tip of Borneo and entered Sandakan harbor. The town was surrounded by luxurious jungle cloaked hills with miles of oil palms stretching out and beyond to Brunei. During the Second World War thousands of allies perished in this place, but today it gave sanctuary, albeit temporary sanctuary for those onboard.

A rumble from deep within the bowels of the ship as the screws thundered; metal clanging upon metal, the Mary Joy listed as she turned. Two passengers leaned upon the railings of the ship on the port side and watched as the ship banked toward the chaotic dock. Their hair caught the sea breeze, they were eye-catching, a sharp contrast to the hordes of scruffy illegal workers, families, traditionally attired Moro men and Malay women in their green scarves and tent-dresses. Pakdee of Phayao had her black silk outfit and next to her, Nattaya Coyote in designer jeans and full length blouse -- the tattoos out of view. They were covered up, very befitting for Malay culture but they'd still stop traffic.

The one in black reached behind her back, took out a _Baby-Browning_ from her waist, cycled it clear then dropped the gun over the side. Next to her, the coyote dancer clutched a parcel of her countrymen's passports, all destined for the 'visa run'. It was a ritual allowing the foreign bearers to legally remain in the Philippines. The documents were run through the terminals and stamped en-masse every three weeks, all for a handful of cash.

Regret as the tiny lethal weapon disappeared into the harbor's depths, fashioned many years ago in Belgium from hammer-forged materials no longer available. It had _provenance_. The twenty-five auto had been her security blanket for the last four days on the voyage and it had helped them sleep soundly but to be caught with a loaded pistol inside Malaysian territory was a capital offence. Pakdee of Phayao had no intention of facing the gallows for something her people viewed as a birthright; for her the gun and the knife were something to be kept within reach at all times. _Within arm's reach._

The land unit ferried them to the Visayas Islands in their trawler two days earlier. In Cebu City they snuck aboard the Mary Joy II, a decrepit hulk that flew across the Sulu Sea with enough knots to pull a water-skier behind her and leave any pirates in its wake. The lonesome Thais disembarked alongside a melee of three thousand passengers and waited for processing.

Nattaya Coyote felt uncomfortable. Anna had been snuggled up in their tiny room ten days; she had showed them all kinds of things about making money and how to deal with banks and business-savvy. Unnerving shit like how to blind someone with an ATM card; how to kill a person with a hairbrush...how to escape from handcuffs. She'd paid them on the last day. The three-on-one fistfight that night outside the nightclub, they still talked about it in the back streets and alleyways 'round Fields Avenue, all around town and the chat rooms.

They were sorry to see Anna go, her arrival had given them a diversion from their mundane, unromantic lives but lately she'd been distant. At the base of the gangplank they stopped.

Nattaya was curious, _what was on inside Anna's head?_ "Thinking about what, _Sis_?"

Pakdee looked up abruptly, seizing the coyote's hand and gazing at her palm. "Nattaya," she said. "Have you ever considered one day you will be very rich? _Rich!!_ Has anybody ever said that?"

The dancer was puzzled, she laughed. She shook her head and stared at the ground like a child. "Destiny for a good heart, but I must say nobody has ever told me! I am a poor rice farmer from the northern plains and I take care of my kids and Mama-"

" _Two million Baht,"_ whispered Pakdee. "All four of you could retire forever and you could give your children the best life imaginable. None of you need take your clothes off in a nightclub ever again. You could buy extra land and you would never be in debt...but its high risk. _Interested?"_

The Coyote frowned. "I'm listening."

"There is somebody who must die, a foreign man who works at the US embassy in Manila. He is a predator, he's corrupt and he must be killed. He has hurt me and made me lose somebody I was once close to. He's a federal official...and he may even come after you one day...I would like you to kill him. Do it as soon as you return to Angeles City."

" _Kill somebody?! Oieee...!"_ Nattaya Coyote moaned.

"And he's a cop! That's where the big money lies. Listen up and listen good..."

Pakdee outlined her plan and how to evacuate the coyote gang after the deed was done. Every detail planned with scrupulous efficiency, right down to the location and how the bad guy would meet his maker. The dancer only nodded, silent and more horrified with every word. She rattled off her a very large number, the one locked away in her apartment in Bangkok.

"Call me in exactly forty-eight hours, not a minute early; not a minute late -- Philippine time. The number I have given you is a fully secured and tested line, verified by our signals division in Bangkok RHQ. Free of charges; it will call-collect. You do this and your whole life will change. This is real and I am not some fortune-teller."

"Bangkok RHQ? _Signals Division??"_ Nattaya was uneasy, now. "Who exactly are you then?" she demanded. She'd known Anna only a short time yet she would never know her; nobody would. She feared her but trusted her in a sense.

Slowly Pakdee raised her finger and gently touched the coyote's lips. "Just make the call if you and your cousin want the job. If you don't you will never hear from me again, I promise. If you chose to accept it may even spare you from future dangers. I stress it's your choice but the one I speak of has to go."

They hugged before going their separate ways. The entertainer was to collect the bundle of passports once they had been stamped and return immediately but Pakdee was briefly in neutral territory and she could relax. Bangkok was a few hours away once she made the airport building. The cultural attaché from Kuala Lumpur was waiting in a hire-car outside the ferry-terminal. He would collect her and escort her home, diplomatic passage.

The irony, she had once looked down upon low class people like that yet the coyote gang had helped her out. This wasn't about money, she owed them. And the best way to say _'thank you'_ was with a quick but dirty job that would set them up for life, something she would have loved to do herself but could not. After what Jackson did, Pakdee could think of a thousand different ways to snuff the lecherous pervert.

Two million Baht...worth every penny; unlike the dancing girls she was not poor. _Low society_ , they all came from the mean streets: destitute farms by the Mekong and slums on the fetid canals; the underbelly netherworld of nightclubs; pimps that ran them, customers that drank in them. Insane places where husbands fought, mothers gambled, siblings munching red amphetamine pills like candy. Unwashed punters, pole dancing and organized crime that stretched from their homelands and outward right across the world. Like the tentacles on a jellyfish.

The coyote girls knew how to look after themselves. And they knew how to kill if they had to. They were survivors. If Armageddon happened they'd end up in charge...

Clark International Airport. Still small and basic compared to Manila but a convenient exit point...a group of the specialists were headed out here; others from Cebu disguised as scuba divers, it made a good cover, they knew their watercraft. Boat training was part of the job.

" _Buenos Dias!"_ The immigration guy smirked and tapped the passenger's passport, face-up. He checked the passenger out, carefully, as per instructions from above. A lot of weird and wonderful things had gone down in the republic of late. All foreigners were under scrutiny.

"Officer, we don't use _Español_ if you don't mind," replied the man in a frosty tone. Whether the officer was just plain ignorant, whether he was being facetious or just trying to catch them out, didn't work. "Portuguese is our national language. Or English too...but I don't speak so well..."

They held up their Brazilian passports; they aroused few suspicions and these nations were chosen identities as they had no enemies. The specialists were even given briefings on the nations whose citizenship they 'borrowed'. Brazilians loved soccer. They didn't speak Spanish. Many of the Filipinos did, however.

They would meet near Bangkok's Chao Phraya River and await further instructions. It was an area they would easily blend in as there were thousands of backpackers from all over the world descending on that section of the city in high season. Once they had cleared border security at the new airport the only challenging task for them was to keep a low profile for a few days and pay their room tariffs on time.

' _Arcana'_ had spread its wings now and was on the move.

Major Lowenstein and his expert from C41 were in a different part of the city and as the troops caught their breath he faced the task of logistics, assisted by the signals technician. They were in a modest bungalow close to Bang Saen on the Eastern Seaboard, leased by a European speculator with sympathies and ties to the land unit's controllers. The tenant was away on business and had granted a short-term lease to the running man and the land unit who would need as much space as they could lay their hands on.

This section of town had just enough foreigners as not to arouse excess curiosity, but not so many as to invite the attention they'd brought upon Pattaya, an hour to the south by road. In any case the businessman from Poland was reputed to have a close friendship with the police precinct, or so it was said.

The running man remembered the seaside town of Bang Saen well. It had changed and the prosperity and sheer energy of the place was in stark contrast to the decay and dysfunction of Manila, a place that was reverting to nature in some ways. Years ago the eastern seaboard had been at the centre of an undeclared urban war between several powerful families who had battled for the lion's share of a real estate carve-up. The factions had often been referred to as the _'unusually rich'_. Disputes over gold were settled with lead and by the mid-nineties the 'seaboard' resembled Chicago during prohibition but the dust had cleared in the present day. Now the area was safer than most western cities. These days the rich and powerful locked each other up in the courts.

He stood out on the streets that evening and lit up. _His first for the day._ It was nice to be back in the Kingdom again; the Asian tiger bounced along and things had changed. Young Thais cruised by on brightly colored scooters two and three aboard, tapping on the latest smart-phones. It seemed to him the traffic had abated somewhat on what it had been. Korean clothes for the girls and Japanese hairdos for the boys.

Those pungent odors still there, the same food trolleys and the atmosphere he remembered, raucous noise from television sets and vendors at the end of the street. Community! He smiled -- he was surprised -- pleased to be back again. The lights and labels were new but the heart and soul of the place would remain unchanged in another two hundred years from now. He stepped out onto the road and got a barbequed corn cob from a passing vendor.

Well over ten years. Enough reminiscing.

Inside was a mass of wires and other junk to be sorted, maybe a full evening's work to do. The running man would have loved to catch a taxi to the seaside, pull up a stool at a bar and have a brew; maybe a massage from one of the local guys. Not tonight.

A group had gathered that day at the lawn cemetery behind the country Baptist chapel. The FBI man had a wreath delivered; couldn't make it in person. College buddies, a couple of old friends and a handful of neighbors from around the district. The padre gave Billy Bob a good send-off and some parishioners from the chapel had assembled to sing. Hatfield was slumped and had been limping, he was having a bad day today and the gnawing cramps had gone to his legs and feet -- everything ached. His heart ached. He was the only one left now.

When the hymns started the sun came out and that was when Hatfield really hurt the most. Snow had fallen the night before and it shone back at him, dazzling him. He was sick and wondered how much longer he had.

JJ Hatfield was the last to leave, he sent the padre away, night fell and he stayed on then walked up to the shack. Bitterly cold that night, he hadn't lit a fire. He stood on the landing then back inside, took his automatic and stuffed it in his jacket. Went across the trail and slumped down by the side of the road. Took the gun out again, dropped the mag, then he whacked it back in and cocked it. The forty-five was heavy; he rested it on his knee.

That big ACP...one thing to just think about it but another go out and do it. Just the thing to shoot a rattler or scare away a brown bear. Or end it all, right here; right now. You could do it now, take the back of your head right off and there'd be nothing left. Just a dead guy in the woods, wouldn't be the first. Penniless, very ill and alone, what's the point?

A noise down at the neighboring farmhouse startled him, the widow next door and the two teenagers there. Heaven forbid if they saw him now. Hatfield watched one of them gather up some firewood and go back inside. Now he was getting cold, his butt was frozen. His Timber wolf sidled over and sat obediently, staring, clouds of condensate as it panted. Almond-shaped brilliant blue eyes. Eyes with no emotion, unblinking, it stared for ages, like it was guarding him.

"Alrighty, old fleabag, alright... _shoot! Git!_ "

He waved his arm at the dog, hauled his aching body up and crossed the trail. It ducked, circled round and followed him. It wouldn't let him out of its sight.

# Chapter Eighteen

Walker, formerly of Belfast and his Nepalese sidekick hailed the first cab they saw on the downstairs level at Suwannapumi Airport. They'd limped into Bangkok from Manila on Kuwait Airlines, the other two syndicate men lay dead in the morgue back in Manila. The first priority was to get decent medical treatment for the hole in his arm -- fate -- the bite had probably saved the Gurkha's life; had he been able-bodied it would have been him on the ground that day to catch a rifle slug.

_Not right._ Suspicions drifted from Anna; hate her guts as he did there was no way she could've taken out his guys like that without help. Another group of players had come onto the field but who _were_ they?

_Selling war-toys is always an evil business, sometimes worse than drugs. At least the Liberation Tigers had a clear cut objective. Things had become much trickier since the conflict ended._ The syndicate were dealing with criminals local and abroad and had contact with rebels in the Philippines, groups in Indonesia and they'd shipped a container of illegal stuff as far afield as Japan. _Top dollar, too... plenty of toes to tread on yet the boss_ _supposedly_ _had the authorities on side. Face it...we've all made a fortune but we've made even more enemies._

Walker patted his pocket, still had that hand-addressed envelope he got off Hatfield's body. _Bitch! An account printout. Six million; US. Their money, now in Hatfield's name. And now the prick was dead. Sending the damn thing snail-mail...brilliant! How many other letters; how much 'readies' had been taken? Bitch! Meant to launder it, not steal it all. Told them, time and again, warned everybody. Don't trust 'em._

He hadn't broken the news about the accounts yet, he had to see the others face to face. He switched on his cell once the green and yellow meter-taxi had cleared the ramp. They'd heard all about the rout in Manila.

" _Reggie_ , its Walker. We just got in. _Where are you, mate?_ " he snarled.

The cabbie caught the tone of voice and shot a look in the rear-view at his passengers.

"I'm heading up right now. We'll be up soon. We gotta talk. There's been a little problem...speak soon." He leaned over the seat and spoke to the driver in broken Thai: "Pakchong, mate. That's it; take a right after the next off-ramp."

Rough Thai...rude and crude...picked up in the bars. _Not impressed_. The cabbie turned and faced the big guy and the man next to him. Traditionally it was foreigners who were wary of Bangkok taxis but on this night it the driver's turn; he was nervous about the two fares seated behind him. They looked downright evil, particularly the little swarthy guy with big shoulders and no expression at all. Across the seat the blonde one reached and tucked seven thousand Baht into the man's pocket. The cabbie tried to wriggle away from the big paw-like hand.

" _Pakchong, I sez_. Got ears, mate? Surely that'll cover it...know what I mean, mate? Now step on it!"

The driver took his cell phone, an old 3310 from the console and held it up, looking back again. "I call the wife, okay?" He had a nervous look on his face. He cast his mind to the wad of cash that had just landed in his shirt pocket and tucked it further in.

"I don't care who you call, mate, just drive."

The driver would have a long night ahead of him. He was philosophical though: _Life could be worse, it wasn't every day a fare like that dropped out of the sky, paid up front with no haggling at all._

The cash felt like a warm pad in the front of his shirt, it gave the driver some comfort at least. He flicked his eyes in the mirror one more time; the two passengers were slumped back and silent. They only spoke again when the taxi had entered the township, an hour after midnight.

Home! _We've landed_. My land... _our land_. She heaved a sigh of relief as she stepped out into the tropical darkness, four am. That nasal, aspirated chatter around her, the signs and vehicle registration plates in her language. Somewhere normal at last. Home, every single face nearby, her people and the foreigners shared the same emotions. Everybody who was here on this night felt the same. Not a soul who entered the Kingdom was unhappy to be there.

The attaché from KL walked straight back in and caught a return flight to Malaysia. A government car waited, ready to whisk her away to her apartment in the city. She longed for sleep; she felt like she could sleep for days... _she deserved it_. Although the nightmares would come, although the struggle would continue, at least she was home.

There he lay. Special Agent Mike Jackson. Out cold. He'd let the Bureau down.

They hovered above him, the western man they had taken or rather he was the one who had taken them to the room...Nattaya Coyote and her friend who danced with her every night at the nightclub. Jackson out on his back, the moist towel falling away from him. Nat stood and shivered. Looked angelic, didn't even snore. Mouth slightly open. The dope crushed up worked a treat with the sweet local rum.

' _The Ativan Express'._ An express-train to twenty hours unconscious, out like a light.

"Double check your stuff and run the shower. Wait for me outside the door," whispered Nat. Her eyes went blank as her friend eased the door shut behind her. She rifled the stranger's trouser pockets then took the camcorder -- he'd insisted on filming the entire thing. She paused once more, listening to the water in the moldy shower stall.

" _Soong, soong...soong_ " (stand tall, persevere).

Nattaya Coyote crouched down and sat, her knees out front and legs tucked under, like in prayer, she'd dropped her clothes to one corner of the squalid room...she was alone now. Tattoos, they ran across her back, down her arms and up the sides of her legs. Not really a dragon, not a python nor a snake, a mystical serpent-creature crawled from her butt and finished at the nape of her neck. A sacred Buddhist prayer on her left shoulder and an eagle across her front, the claws covering up a caesarian scar. Sprays of colored flowers down one leg and fish chasing one another; head to tail up the other leg. A tiny inscription on her right little finger of a French name; some long-lost benefactor she once had.

' _Laurent'...but he drank himself to death by the Mekong River and the money-tree withered and died. Wife back in Calais took it all. Never knew he had a wife! Never said a thing; no more 'take-care-Nattaya'. Bad luck, Nat._

She reached into her handbag. In it were her worldly possessions: passport, an e-ticket, ATM cards and some cash. All she would need; all she would take along with the camcorder and his ID. And in the handbag was a meat cleaver, a heavy one at two pounds -- Damascus steel and razor sharp -- long as her arm. Her favorite for cutting garlic and pork; chicken-mince salad.

The money had gone into their accounts that morning. They'd split it four ways...no backing out now.

She held the chopper in her hand and looked at him one last time, and then she closed her eyes, thought about her life. About her young ones up in the rice plains, her eldest wanted to be a police officer one day and the younger one who was so clever...the brightest in the school, wanted to be a nurse and help people when she grew up.

A nurse...more like a doctor, she was clever enough.

She thought of the things she had to pay, the money sent religiously every month to her sister who cared for her daughters. Chinese loan sharks who arrived every month to collect the money her common law husband owed, the gambling debts he left behind when he'd deserted her right after the youngest one's birth.

She thought of the neighbor's son who raped her when she was just thirteen and she thought of her stepfather who hit her right up until the day he died...and the family that only cared enough to sell her into a sham-marriage at age fourteen to some guy twice her age who resented the cost and beat her and drank moonshine just like her stepfather did.

_Bride price, that's what the family got for her, less than a grand in dollars_.

Nattaya gritted her teeth. She was trembling. The adrenaline was going now. Surging like a flood.

She thought of the never-ending nights on the stage at that go-go place where she danced for eight hours straight and the pain she felt in her knees and ankles. Aching, and lingering cramps that only subsided when she slept. Headaches from the flashing lights and techno beats, her ears ringing and tinnitus that got worse with every year she grew older. Thirty six years old.

My two girls. When I come home, they run to me. Happy to see me. Even the dog barks at me, the neighbors laugh at me, they whisper, they point. Ha! But I have money; they do not. My two daughters, they have to grow up and take care of me -- their Mama. I want them to be good. I want them to work in a good job.

My two girls...one day they'll grow up and turn out just like me!!

And Nattaya Coyote was staring at a black vortex of a wasted life. There was nothing at the end. A wave of pure terror shot up her spine. She shook like a mild convulsion and her teeth made a grinding sound. Then she blacked out. That tiny little brain seized up like a dry motor on a summer's day. She had a big heart though, to make up...pumping one-eighty beats per minute tonight.

When she came to the first sensation she felt was a clammy wet sensation. A smell like fresh meat. All over her skin and a salty taste on her lips. The man, the _mark_ from the embassy, was no longer before her, at least not in human form. In front of her a once-in-a-lifetime scene, like one of those dreadful accidents in a metal workshop, like a blast in a marketplace, into a cage and mauled by a tiger....hair, blood, fingers and pieces of flesh; flung all over the room. More blood than a slaughterhouse. Things Anna had said: cold water and lots of it then bleach in the shower, don't touch anything and leave the murder weapon there once it had been wiped down. Plastic bags covering her bare feet until out of the seedy room, then shoes only when she got outside. Plastic bags over the hands; no contact with anything.

Nat crawled into the shower; she stayed there for ages until the last of the blood had washed from her body. She scrubbed her body for dear life; if she scrubbed much harder the tramp-stamp-tattoos would come off. She felt sick but kept it down; in any case she hadn't eaten anything all day.

Up the lane, a waiting taxi sat in the night. It was a minivan and her three Thai friends sat in there. Nattaya crept up to the side of the van; she got in and slid the door shut. The air-con was icy; the engine had been idling and the taxi waiting the last ten minutes since collecting the other two. None of the coyote gang would be reporting for duty that night. Never going back again, they were headed home.

"Manila International, right?" The minivan driver turned around and faced the women. "Manila Airport, you said? Four thousand pesos please ladies. Two-way trip for me..." He looked at each of them in turn. "You pay now, please..."

The one nearest to him was in no mood for haggling, she passed the cash over; the cabbie counted it and stuffed it into the console before easing away from the curb.

" _Nat!_ Okay or not?" Her dancing partner-in-crime, the one who had stayed outside the door, gingerly touched her cousin's forearm.

Nattaya pushed it away. "Please don't," she whispered.

Tonight she was free. They all were; the coyote girls. But Assassin-Coyote and friends had paid the price to purchase their lives back. The blood on her tattooed skin washed away in the cold water but the stains on her conscience would last. Her soul remained trapped in the upstairs room with Jackson, what was left of him.

_Freedom! Sometimes you had to sell something. Sell your body, your heart. Shut_ _your eyes and think of home. Shut your eyes and think of your life. Pay for it in the next one._

The old stadium: Bangkok, every Friday night _._ The crowd leapt to its feet and roared, the old timber stalls shook and the roof lifted. In the front row she sat, the fighter went down right before her. _Hard_ ...she felt the shock from where she sat.

The one in the blue satin didn't get up. She'd bet on red. The referee counted to ten...full KO. Boxing, it was the national sport. When the cheers died down she inched out of the ringside seat. Best seat in the house, cost a packet. No matter, she turned and found the guy, that bookmaker. _Thirty-nine thousand Baht_ , she always picked the winners, or most of the time. The bookie hated her, but he paid up. Never refused a wager from her, always a challenge...she knew the fight game as good as any. She'd been away for ages.

Pakdee squeezed past the ringside seats, found him and got the winnings. Made it to the exit then outside, found her black BMW and jumped in -- the one with twenty-four carat plate on the grill. Sat a while, she was elated. No idea why, she felt high...on a winner.

Just like the boxer in red.

# Chapter Nineteen

Two days in-office, mostly to get the reports sealed up and all the travel stuff. _Made it home in one piece_. Rang JJ Hatfield and got a florist to deliver something, just a thought; his sympathies. Felt badly he couldn't make the service. At work Tanaka was expecting the third degree but the hierarchy was doing all they could to avoid him.

It was on the second evening he got the call; it came in on his other 'phone -- the one that never rang anymore. Tanaka had trudged home through brown and slushy, three-day-old snow. It was a depressing time of year for him, being alone. All the stores were busy, Santa's everywhere, mooching for this or that, waving bells; collecting donations and struggling not to be bored.

He got in and changed and was headed out when the ringtone buzzed. He jumped, expecting to hear the voice of his ex, wanting something...still on speaking terms but only just. Instead it was DEA Chuck Cortez.

"PK, can you talk a while?"

"Hey Cortez, _wassup._ That was quick; don't tell me you're back so soon-"

"PK, hang up now and get to somewhere you can Skype. Something's happened. We're locked down. One hour from now, _max._ "

An hour later they resumed the conversation, Tanaka was in some mall. Christmas shoppers everywhere, it was hard to concentrate. Cortez wasn't saying a lot. Instead he scribbled something down and held it up to the screen.

"Can you see? Read it?"

Tanaka nodded, he scribbled it down.

"Okay, Buddy, I'll hang up now," said Cortez. "We're locked down, real-proper."

"How's that?" Tanaka asked.

"Can't say too much more, PK. Hold that thing up to the screen; I'll check it's correct. Make sure it's a public computer and go in through a search engine. That way it didn't come from this side of the world."

Tanaka held what he'd written to the screen; Cortez checked it and gave him the thumbs up before logging off. Tanaka fed a few more dollar bills into the ancient thing. He typed the stuff in Cortez had dictated and peered through it -- some blogger based in the Philippine Islands. It was covered in advertising banners. He scrolled up and clicked on the most recent entry.

A detailed account, the author was an insider, must've had some pretty good contacts...surely not Cortez? Nah! Spot a cop's writing a mile off.

That's how Tanaka found out. Kept going; read the whole thing out. He leaned back in the chair, scrolled down and hit another link. There it was. It made him reel in horror; he lurched in disbelief. Read it once more and closed the session. Didn't even register the cash chute spat one of his dollar notes back out. It drifted onto the floor.

The blog entry was a long one...it covered local gossip; ranging from long-term expats passing away through to the latest poor sucker who'd been fixed up in a drive-by, courtesy of some _wanna-be widow_. Couldn't be bothered waiting for the estate. The article got to the spate of shootings, then finally the last paragraph. It was a lengthy one.

It went on to tell how a young foreigner's body had been located, hacked to death by a person or persons unknown in a filthy short-time room behind a seedy bar in Angeles City in a street known as _'Blow Row'_. Didn't get a name like that from the typhoons either. The authorities there were leaving no stone unturned in their hunt for the killer or killers, believed to be suspects from the local area and clearly good with knives. The mangled victim's pockets emptied. A half empty bottle of liquor was also found at the scene with toxicology pending. The last sentence stated: _'Rumors have been flying thick and fast on the strip that the dead man was a bent informant who'd been working with US federal agencies...'_

It had to be him: _Mike Jackson...oh shit!_

The next day at his desk PK Tanaka braced himself for the inevitable, but it never came. He steeled himself at the sight of the boss circling around the office and chatting with the staff. It was her way of announcing her presence on the floor; it was really him she was after.

"Tanaka," the station super smiled coldly. "I appreciate the fact you made it in so quickly. We were very concerned for your welfare all things considered." She shot a look at his desk then back at him. "Look, I think given the circumstances, shouldn't we arrange a session with the doc. If you want we could squeeze one in on Thursday if you want to check yourself in."

"I'm okay, ma'am. I can have a session with the shrink if you want, but I'm recovered."

The Station Supervisor reached for the nearest vacant wheelie-chair and in a single movement she straddled it with the back support facing him. "Well...that'd be wonderful if you think you could, I suppose..."

_I suppose?_ "Ma'am?"

"Look, Tanaka," the super paused for a moment. "There are a couple of suits dropping in today." She was snooping around and saw the carry bag with the things retrieved from the inspector in Manila. It was headed to evidence shortly.

Don't kick it under the desk. If she asks, so be it...

He lifted the clear bag and placed it next to his keyboard, opened and thought a moment. "Picked up some Christmas gifts..."

_Not a second glance_.

"Very thoughtful of you..." She had something else on her mind. "I am curious Tanaka. I've had a briefing from the deputy director and there are one or two things concerning me." She stood up. Gave him one of those strange looks she was renowned for; it was like he'd come to work with a piercing in his nose. "Tanaka... _what really happened over there?"_

He looked perplexed; this had an ominous ring to it. News of Mike Jackson's demise wasn't yet released; Tanaka wondered what was going through the super's mind.

Did she know...most likely 'yes'.

"Ma'am, I can tell you exactly my take on what happened over there and it's all in my situation report, the one I already sent you-"

"Leave it for now. Matter of fact, leave everything. Take the day off, Tanaka -- that's an order." The _Super_ looked around the office then at his monitor screen then at him. " _I'll_ be the one doing the final report. Go home. Get some rest, whatever."

"This has gone diplomatic, hasn't it, ma'am?"

" _That's precisely what we're trying to avoid!"_ she hissed before striding away.

Tanaka had composed an apprehend notification with the scan of Anna; same one Inspector Guinhava had gotten his hands upon from the immigration gates. Double checked the entry, the identikit image -- it looked right -- and sent an _All-Ports Alert_ through to his boss who would sign for it before sending it out to CBP. In his haste he forgot the most important detail of all, her distinctive dental work. A passport photograph; they never smile. Her _'grills'_ couldn't be seen. She looked exactly the same as all the others from over there.

Millions of them.

PK Tanaka placed his hands on the bag containing the boxes. Where they once felt like dynamite, now they were glowing before his eyes. _White-hot_. Caught the elevator to the strong room, sealed everything in an evidence bag along with some of Billy-Bob Hatfield's personal effects and passport before signing the chain of custody log. By doing so at least his butt was covered and he could always retrieve all or part of the contents as he pleased; the custody clerks only checked the log. Some of the items would be sent back to JJ Hatfield.

When he made it back to his desk an executive order had arrived. He read it a couple of times, it said all kinds of things but the message was clear: _Case closed._

The workout session had been punishing. Brutal, her arms and legs throbbed. For now, exhilaration, tomorrow very sore muscles. Her overseas posting had come at the expense of her local network of fitness fanatics. Pakdee stood on the balcony on the seventh floor of an old landmark known as the _Marquis Appartelles_ , a middle range tower overlooking the old central post office in Bangkok. The Chao Phya River meandered below the complex. It was her home away from home...if she ever really had one as she was always on the move.

She sipped an earthen mug of _O-chaa_ and relaxed, leaning on the railings. Physically worn out but relaxed. She had spent the afternoon with her friend and instructor, _Kyaw Pyei_ , an expat Burmese resident of many years with whom she trained. When it came to the nastiest of street fighters, Kyaw was the best. Thai boxers may have been unequalled in the ring but for a good old brawl in a bar or an alley, a knuckle sandwich direct from the mean streets of Rangoon had it all sewn up. Master Kyaw was a fight-bookie, but he knew better than to wager with Pakdee. He was the meanest bookmaker to be in debt to; he wore several knife scars and a cavernous gunshot mark to his belly. Those who'd waved knives and guns at him were wearing a gravestone somewhere, usually an unmarked watery one out in the gulf. He was a fierce mentor and she paid him for the brutal four hour sessions. Kyaw did odd jobs for her from time to time. He'd been around...

She ran every afternoon at Lumphini Park, three sessions per week with Kyaw Pyei, and another twice-weekly session with a _Teow-Jiu_ swords-master who lived near the rail terminus. The Burmese style had grunt; the Chinese had grace. She strived to have both. Nearly twenty hours each week, something different from the mindless indoor gymnasiums with their electric treadmills, with their idiots glued to them.

Added to her professional duties, meetings and consultancy this made up what was her work-week; eighty hours during quiet periods and over one hundred when things were busy.

It was a pleasant time of year and she savored the cool breeze; it reminded her of the village. She was hoping for a quiet evening but this was not to be. On the street below a green Mercedes with a motorcycle escort had drawn to a halt and was turning into the entrance of her building on the ground floor.

Her controller, ' _The General'_. They had a lot of generals, but this one was special.

Likewise, Pakdee of Phayao was special to this general. _And valuable_. Born of Chinese and northern-Thai lineage she had left her home in the village following the death of her younger sister, followed by the accidental demise of both parents. She'd been taken into the care of Protestant missionaries. In her early teens, done a runner...headed to the bus station with the other castaways. It was terrifying. The pimps and crooks hovered around but the pastor's wife had seen her and intervened; suggested she come stay at the mission. It had been sheer chance but it changed the course of her life.

Continued and finished school, driven by a strict Lutheran upbringing after being adopted by the childless couple. One thing -- what she truly loved them for -- they never forced her to abandon her worship of the Lord Buddha. At age sixteen she declined confirmation in the church attached to the mission. She studied for hours late into the evening while her friends attended cinema and socialized.

Nowadays, in the second week of every month the tiny mission in the north received a handsome donation from somebody who never forgot -- wells built, family planning, literacy and English taught, supplies to the local schools. Their charitable work would keep them in the province forever. _'Anna'_ was one of the success stories. The endless trail of runaways into the big, bad city never ended. Human trafficking and unwanted youth was a problem all over the place, not just in the north.

A brilliant and dedicated student, Pakdee excelled in school before winning one of the rare scholarships into the prestigious Chulalongkorn University _._ Following graduation she borrowed heavily in order to further her studies in Singapore where she was dux of her year. She evolved into somebody who could think like and understand foreign ways as well as her own. By age twenty-five she was fluent in English, Dutch and Chinese-Mandarin, not to mention her national language and the northern dialects and could calculate the daily exchange rates in her head. She had one other ability, unusual in her culture. She could make crucial decisions on her own and _fast_.

After Singapore and armed with an academic medal she was snapped up by an international firm of auditors who specialized in fraud-busting. Misconduct that was thriving as the ASEAN economies had lurched from strength to strength. Risky business but Pakdee loved the work along with the expat salary.

One day she came to the attention of a powerful inner-circle group after exposing a deal gone wrong between a crooked arms supplier and a local conduit. Pakdee had been given the task of auditing a series of currency transfers between the Thai government and a group of companies in the Czech Republic and in doing so uncovered major fraud. She'd alerted the authorities and they'd pounced... _hard_. She'd saved her Kingdom precious foreign exchange as well as immeasurable face. The ' _Pacak Affair'_ they'd named it _._ One of the principals ended up doing a ninety-nine year stretch. The co-accused went head-first through an asbestos roof after a swan dive off a building. Feted by judges and politicians, she'd come from nowhere. Everybody wanted a piece of her after that. The military took the whole lot of her.

And that's how she met the general. In her the general saw a ticket on the ground and in him she hitched a ride for an opportunity that couldn't be missed.

Pakdee bowed low and placed her hands together in a prayer motion. "I thank you for your presence today, _My General_."

General Soronai Kitti-Khorn nodded and checked his wristwatch, a Patek Philippe. "Glad to see you're back safe and sound, Miss Anna."

He moved to the counter and picked up the bottle, exactly the same level as the last time he had come. Single malt whisky. She never touched a drop, she detested intoxicants. Hated the smell...she didn't even take coffee or soda. Only green Chinese tea.

"It was a close one, My General," said Pakdee. "The syndicate nearly got to me first, _you know that?_ My General, we need to locate the Chinaman. I could not recover the sample over there. I believe it is lost."

"Lost? _How_?" General Kitti-Khorn whacked down the shot glass, he pulled out a soft pack and lit up. Ancient and leaky kerosene lighter; it belched orange flame. A miniature fireball, ideal for repelling any stray leopards. For predators of the human variety, _Kitti_ , as he was known, carried a regulation sidearm and was accompanied everywhere by an adjutant who stayed with the Mercedes limousine this time. The adjutant was the size of a sumo wrestler.

Pakdee frowned. "My friend Hatfield smelt a rat. He took a sample to the FBI in Manila. I'm not sure what came of it. Maybe the FBI has it; I cannot say for sure."

Kitti strolled out to the balcony and looked out over his city. " _Arcana_ made it in without a problem?"

"Excuse me?" she said.

" _Arcana._ That's what they called the mission," replied Kitti. "They've arrived?"

"I think so, My General. They're placed as a sleeper-cell. They're awaiting my contact."

Kitti turned and leaned back on the railing, drawing the last of his smoke. "Well, I hope they're a little more punctual than last time. Nearly lost you, didn't we? Where were you, anyhow?"

Pakdee grimaced and turned away.

_Nearly lost me for sure!!_ She gulped _. Sadist...I am not amused._

"I found some Thai people in the provinces to the north," she replied. She bristled at his frivolity of the subject but kept calm. After all it was his training that helped her survive.

"Do the operatives from Arcana suspect anything?"

"Not certain," replied Pakdee. "After they captured me they took me to some place. The leader kept asking me over and over who I really was."

"And the crooks from Pakchong?"

Pakdee lowered her eyes to the floor. She thought about Will Hatfield.

"The operatives shot two in the street. The others escaped," said Pakdee. "They're probably sitting pretty up there, licking their wounds." She smiled. "I hurt one of them though."

General Kitti-Khorn moved inside from the landing and finished his shot glass. "We have been searching all over for the Chinaman. Any ideas?"

"I'll put out some feelers, too. I have a nasty feeling the operatives will be looking for him. After all it was he who designed the weapons systems-"

"And what makes you think they're a weapon?" Kitti interrupted.

"I know these things and more, My General," replied Pakdee with confidence.

_I'll bet you do, my little Poppet._ General Kitti smirked.

Kitti-Khorn helped himself to another shot of the pure whisky. They moved outside and watched the streets beneath them. It was a perfect afternoon. The photochemical smog made for a picturesque sunset. Somewhere, in the distance the national anthem of the Kingdom started playing. It was six p.m. The general and Pakdee stood back from the railing, to attention until the music had finished. It was a most stirring and inspirational tune, even to a first-time listener. It played for a couple of minutes and finished but they remained, standing tall.

"When I was a young man the entire city would stop, even the cars in the streets and we would stand, Miss Anna," said Kitti. "Our Prime Minster, the Field Marshall, decreed it. We had great love for him. Anybody who disrespected the order would be arrested. Society today; too much in a hurry and too selfish..."

"Yes, My General," replied Pakdee.

"Anna," snapped Kitti, in an assertive tone. "I want you to pull out all stops to find the Chinaman. Give it your undivided attention. I'll get to work on a plan to liquidate the crooks from Pakchong."

"Anything you say, General Kitti-Khorn," replied Pakdee. "And the operatives from Arcana, as you call them?"

Kitti thought a while; he pulled out another smoke and lit it with his pocket flame-thrower. "Give it a week and I'll send somebody to surprise them. I need to meet their team leader." He leaned over the balcony and waved at his adjutant who was standing at the fender of his limo. The big man, unusual for a Thai, waved back. "I'll be off then, Miss Anna. _Find the Chinese_. Before _they_ do..."

He buzzed the elevator; it was a secure lockable one that opened direct into Pakdee's apartment, accessed by a keypad. When it arrived he didn't enter the combination right away. "Anna, there's one other thing that bothers me...you mentioned there were FBI investigators involved. We're not going to have any interference from this side are we?"

"Not at all, My General," she purred. "They've all been taken care of."

Pakdee did not elaborate. But she was wrong on this occasion. They were all destined to cross paths, very soon. They just didn't know it yet

# Chapter Twenty

Tanaka was bored out of his mind by the end of his first day on 'stress leave'. He'd been stuck inside except a visit to the post office to mail some gifts out, down to Orlando; _should make delivery time._ He couldn't get out and do much, no car and didn't fancy walks in the park. Another storm front with blizzards had crossed over the border and was blanketing the east coast, he missed being at the office. They'd reassigned him with a new case; something to do when he made it back in.

He thought about the old guy, felt sorry he couldn't get up there when they buried the kid but it wasn't a good idea to get involved in cases -- especially the victims. Only so much love to share around. Figured it may be an idea to drop him a line; nothing wrong with that.

Staunch old bigot. Must've been rough on him.

He opened his wallet and unscrewed the piece of paper, the number he'd jotted down. Hatfield's landline. He dialed and it rang out. Tried again, rang out again. Still early...strange. The old guy could've been out. Now it bugged him; he had to check up; see he was okay. Dialed a third time then called the sheriff's office in Raleigh County, got through to Lt. Roy Hernandez, the deputy he'd been dealing with.

"You sure 'bout this Special Agent? _Hell_ , he should be at his place."

"Would've thought so myself," replied Tanaka. "The old guy's not the best; I had to practically carry him back from the Philippines."

"Yeah, doesn't sound good. I'll send one of my deputies up and check him out."

"Call me."

Two hours later Hernandez did call. _It was the last thing anybody wanted to hear._

"How long, you say?" barked Tanaka.

"Three days ago. My man found the place empty. Checked out the neighbor though, as she tells us Jesse James Hatfield gave her two hundred dollars cash to drop him down at Charleston, Yeager Airport. Took his vehicle, she came directly back and parked up."

"Hatfield say where he was headed?"

" _Nothing_. Neighbor told me old Gunny'd be gone a week and mentioned she's taking care of his dog."

Tanaka drew a breath, resisted the urge to slam the receiver down. "Sure the neighbor had no idea-"

"One other thing, Special Agent -- yesterday she cleared the old guy's mailbox -- thought you should know."

" _Know what?"_

"Two letters. Surface mail with no return address, mailed to Billy-Bob, Hatfield's son." There was a pause. "From the Philippines ages ago, it may have something to do-"

"Sheriff, I'll have a warrant done up and I'll scan it to you. Get your guy to pick the letters up. I'll see what's happened to Mister Hatfield."

A check with Immigration Barrier confirmed his fears: Hatfield had gone out of LAX on a Thai Airways flight, round ticket.

For PK Tanaka, it was all new. Just another case, suddenly he was in over his head. He sat in a daze, watching the screen, an old black and white, some war movie. The sound was dead.

Tanaka snorted and tossed the phone down _. Should've called after the funeral service; knew I should...damn! The old guy knew the place real well, that was thirty years ago. He was over there no doubt looking for her, he was clutching at straws, had nothing left to lose._

But PK Tanaka had everything to lose, yet he couldn't let this one go for some reason. Destiny, now; he had no idea why but he had to go and get Hatfield. He had to find him. He'd only just started and he'd see it through to the bitter end. Hang the consequences. They both knew there was a strong link between Anna and Billy-Bob and there was a possible link to her and Jackson's murder. Jackson's homicide had been hushed up but there were whisperings. Tanaka wanted to see Anna too and ask her, to her face.

Whatever was inside those boxes, it must've been bad.

Tanaka knocked on the super's door. "Ma'am, yesterday you mentioned something...some vacation?"

She glanced up, visibly relieved, one less problem. "Really? Good timing."

"I'll forward it right now, ma'am. Better I take your advice, all things considered."

"Here's one more." She stood. "Tanaka you listen to me and listen good: Stay away from this case."

"I won't go near anything that resembles work, ma'am. You have my word after all's gone down."

"Fine," she replied. "Where are you going, just for interest's sake? In case we need to get in touch..."

Tanaka poked his head back through the doorway. "Thailand. Guess I've always been meaning to see the temples and sample the fresh food..."

He closed the door behind, him; didn't wait for an answer.

Tanaka checked his suitcase, a Samsonite he'd picked up after leaving work. Then it hit him, he was headed into a megacity he'd never set foot in. Ten million-plus people. He had two weeks to locate and hopefully find the old guy, that's if Hatfield hadn't been kidnapped by now, or worse. He had an idea; he dialed a contact, an attorney who defended cases. He could start with translators, interpreters, and accredited staff...somebody who knew the place. Had to refrain from panicking, he was scheduled to leave in a day. An attachment arrived, a file with a list, mostly unpronounceable names. He took the printout with the image of Anna. Her name was no different...her real name, nearly half a line of a page long. He started at the top with the first name, _'Aroon'_ , some post-grad student. He dialed and she answered. They spoke agreed to meet...on neutral ground, some coffee shop near the campus she stayed.

"Miss _Leepha...pakchai_ ..." Tanaka stumbled on the name.

The woman at the table rose and smiled. _"Tom,"_ she said.

"Tom?"

"My nickname; _Aroon_ is my real name."

Tanaka didn't flash his badge this time; he'd checked it in along with his firearm and other assets after submitting his vacation forms. He did have a stack of business cards, he handed one to her. She was his age and wore glasses. She looked academic.

Tanaka cleared his throat. " _Tom_ ...that's a man's name, usually."

"You may call me Aroon if you like. In English it translates as 'Dawn'." She read the card and smiled at Tanaka. "Why did you ask to see me? You need a translator?"

"Not exactly," replied Tanaka. He felt uneasy. She was sanitized. _Those specs_. Been ages since he'd been near a lady; shared coffee and made small talk. She sat close to him like she had no sense of personal space.

"So you're asking me on a date then!" She laughed and Tanaka sat back, upright.

"Why no...not at all. I need to pick your brains, if I may. And I apologize for-"

"Mister _Tanaka_ ...what kind of name is that?"

"It's a Japanese name. But look, I assure you, I'm one hundred percent-"

She cut him off again: "Are you on duty then?"

Tanaka shook his head. "No, not exactly. I just wanted to ask about Bangkok. You're from there?"

"I studied there. I come from out of town..." She changed the subject. "Mister Tanaka, may I ask you something? I may also need assistance." She moved back in her seat, sipped from her cappuccino.

"Sure, if I can."

She frowned, and then covered her mouth with her hand. "I have a slight problem. I have been here in Washington three years now. Study, you know. But I have some problem. I already have a green card. But I am seeking residency."

Tanaka moved in his seat. "You have to be patient, Aroon. These things take time-"

She moved closer and whispered: "I am ashamed at this. But last month I have been caught DUI in a vehicle that belonged to a friend of mine. She was in the passenger's seat. I go to court in three weeks. But I worry, you know."

Tanaka cringed. _Always a catch with these things_. "Aroon, I'm sorry to hear about that. There's _no way in the world_ I could interfere with this."

"No, no...that's not what I meant." She sat upright and shook her head rapidly. "I understand in the west, the authorities are honest. Everybody is very honest here."

Tanaka laughed uneasily. "Well, _mostly_."

"Mister Tanaka-"

"PK, Aroon. My friends call me PK."

"Ahh...PK...would you please write me a character reference? And sign it with your name and official status?"

She took a file from her handbag and passed it to him. "These are all cases where I have done translating and interviewing for police and other agencies since I have been here. When I appear I hope to plead guilty and accept a fine and suspension. I have a good lawyer...but a character reference may assist. My attorney hopes to have no conviction recorded."

He leafed through the papers; it was true. She had been busy; all that and her dissertation as well. He thought it over. "I don't see a problem with that."

Her demeanor changed and she talked non-stop. Tanaka remembered he had a flight to catch in a few hours.

"Aroon, I really came here to ask about Bangkok. I'm looking for somebody." He opened his attaché case and showed her a page with JJ Hatfield's face. " _This man_. He's gone there without telling anybody. I fear for his safety."

Tanaka turned on his laptop and started typing. A character reference, saying what a nice upstanding person this woman was, someone he'd only just met. Legit, though. As he typed she made a call on a cell phone, chattering in her language, only pausing once to ask which flight he was catching and what time he would land.

"Aroon should I email this direct or would you prefer I sign and scan it to you?"

"Sign and scan it, please." She passed the image of Hatfield back.

"Any ideas then?"

"None, sorry. Bangkok is a huge city."

"No idea where to start?" He was impatient now.

"No idea at all. But my brother will help. I just called and spoke to him now. It's morning there and he was in a traffic jam." She giggled, cupping her mouth. "He will meet you at the airplane and take you. And he is very grateful and passes on his thanks to you." She broke into a broad smile. "Thank you very much."

"Meet me at the airplane, you say? _How so?"_

"My older brother is a very important man, PK. He's a senior officer in the Thai police force. He can find anything you want." She wrote something on a business card, one with her credentials. "Major General Leepakchai. And that's his number. But, trust me he will meet you and escort you. Thank you -- this means a lot to me."

Tanaka stood and his eyes followed her as she walked to the exit. Couldn't believe his luck. She stopped and turned.

"Call me when you get back. Maybe we could do lunch. Tell me about your trip..."

' _Do lunch'_. PK Tanaka chuckled under his breath -- _that's rich_.

"I'd like that," he replied over the heads of the other patrons.

Overnight in LA and a stopover in Seoul, by now close to midnight local time. Just like she said some officials appeared in the aisle and he was hustled off the aircraft, ahead of the first class passengers, into an electric golf buggy through to immigration and straight into a police vehicle -- a dual-cab with a driver in police uniform. The driver saluted Tanaka.

"In the front, mister," said General Leepakchai who yawned and was clearly tired; not a fraction of how Tanaka felt, he was beyond sleeping. Still felt strange; Tanaka had hauled suspects off airplanes before but he'd never had it done to him. The translator's brother was a big shot; somebody high up.

"Where you stay? You make booking already?"

His spoken English was straightforward but not perfect, nobody here spoke it perfectly, not even the people on the flight. But Tanaka understood. And his host understood him, which was the main thing.

"I never made a booking. Any ideas? Preferably somewhere cheap."

Leepakchai scowled and thought for a while. "I take you to Siam Square...not too far from my office. Maybe forty US dollars a night."

The toll way had taken them several miles, each time they reached a booth the driver slowed down then charged away, without paying. Now the vehicle had exited an off ramp and was stuck.

Tanaka watched a traffic cop at work, even though the intersection had lights. He pointed. "Nobody take any notice of red lights, General?"

"Welcome to Thailand, Agent Tanaka," he replied with a chuckle.

"PK," said Tanaka. "My friends call me PK."

"And my friends call me _Lek_. Tell me something. I noticed you only have your normal passport."

_The guy didn't miss a trick_. "Two weeks' vacation, Lek. Plus I'm looking for something...or somebody to be precise."

"A friend of yours?"

"Guess you could say that. He's an old soldier." Tanaka pulled the passport image of JJ Hatfield. "I'm over here for a look at Bangkok. Never been abroad much. But like to catch up with him; check he's alright. He's an old pal of mine."

The dual-cab pulled in at the lobby of a small hotel and the uniformed driver jumped out and took Tanaka's suitcase. It was damp from the humidity. As they walked up to reception the lady behind the desk glanced up briefly then she took a long look at the uniformed man with the case. She took an even longer look when General Leepakchai flashed his ID and spoke to her. Tanaka didn't catch any of the chatter but it was clear -- the general and his driver had given the receptionist the riot-act. They were bringing a _special_ guest.

"I'll see you tomorrow afternoon at three p.m., PK." Leepakchai checked his watch and looked at Tanaka. "You're on local time?"

Tanaka held his arm up so the general could see. "Changed it on the airplane. Thank you very much for-"

Leepakchai held up his hand, smiling. "Don't mention it. It is I who must thank you for the way you helped Aroon. I'm disappointed in her...she's normally such a good girl."

_Girl? She would've been pushing forty_ , Tanaka thought.

Tanaka was feeling lucky and on impulse pulled out a scan of Anna, the one he'd managed to get from the Philippines, courtesy of his PNP contact. He had thought about searching for her but his main goal was the old guy.

"This is just one other person I am interested in..."

The general examined it for a moment then raised his eyebrows. "Hmm...a Thai citizen. A lady-friend?"

"Just somebody I met recently. Thought I'd look her up, now I'm here and all. Lost her address."

Leepakchai dismissed this. "Don't worry, I can find anybody I want in this city. You get some sleep." He reached into his pocket and handed Tanaka something -- his card. Looked good, too. Had the Official seal, gold borders; the works. "Call me if you need to. See you tomorrow."

But he couldn't sleep. Tanaka was in the best room the establishment had, it was a room on the top floor and he was paying forty dollars a night for it. In a city where money talked loudest he was getting a bargain, most likely having a police general as a friend.

He showered and changed then went back down to the lobby where he stood for a while outside watching the procession in the humidity and stifling heat. Three a.m. now and he strolled onward and stopped at a huge intersection. It felt different to Manila. Energy and an insane pace even at this unearthly hour. The city had bounce to it. They smiled at him here too, but not the spontaneous Filipino smile...here the Thai smile held a line of crocodile teeth behind the façade. And a feeling of menace; couldn't quite get his head around it.

_Menace_ ...he could feel it now. It burned like the desert sun. It flowed in the water in the gutters; it glowed from the neon signs. _Menace_ ...it came from the gorgeous freelance hookers hanging around the sidewalks, dangling in front of him like exotic fruits laced with strychnine. Stray dogs and real Siamese cats loitered. Fierce looking young hoods sitting on their motorcycles, they stared, they joked with one another, one of them was playing with a gun-magazine; feeding rounds in and flicking them out into his hand. PK Tanaka felt like he was inside a zoo after closing time, all alone, a park where the cages were unlocked and the denizens of the night were given free rein to roam when and where they pleased. Nobody bothered him, though. He looked like one of them.

Menace, all around. It was everywhere.

He entered a tiny supermarket and bought a large bottle of beer -- one with an elephant on the label -- and strolled along the curb, watching the city that never slept. Then a most incredible sight: Buddhist monks filed out from a temple and walked barefoot clutching stainless bowls. The indolent cats and dogs moved out of the way. Those very same dwellers of the city's underworld now dropped to their knees and prayed before the holy men and gave offerings; in turn they were blessed as they kneeled down on the soaked streets...prostitutes, hired guns, drug-dealers and the homeless.

He drained the last of his beer. One of the monks in a saffron robe drifted past, looking straight in front taking great care not to step on anything sharp.

It was starting to get light...daybreak in the first City of Angels.

# Chapter Twenty-one

Tanaka stretched and yawned. He shivered. He'd cranked up the air-con full-bore after returning from the streets and dozing off. Thrashed around for a blanket, anything to warm up then he sat up and stumbled to the curtains, thick brown ones that cloaked the room in darkness; mid-day according to his wristwatch on the bedside table, that Seamaster his ex-wife had given him. He managed to get the hot water running; he showered and afterward sat on the bed before changing. Wanted to take a walk around, maybe a taxi. See some of the city. Had a couple of hours to kill. Then the phone by the bed rang:

" _Mistah_ -Tanaka. Good afternoon. Some friends to see you...can send him up, _okay-mai_?"

A minute or so later a knock at the door. Tanaka opened it a fraction, it was the translator's brother, accompanied by another man. Police-General Leepakchai was in uniform but the other one wasn't.

Tanaka shook hands with Leepakchai and invited them in, they sat. He reached and put on his watch, stealing a peek at it.

"I should apologize, PK -- we're a little early." He turned quickly to the other man who sat saying nothing, still had sunglasses on. _Indoors..._

"Something came up." He turned to the other man. "This is a friend of mine."

Tanaka stood and shook the man's hand. But no reply, nothing...unsettling. Something had spooked Leepakchai.

Tanaka wanted the info he'd asked for. "Gentlemen, I was going to get some tea or coffee sent up. Or would we like to head downstairs for something?"

Leepakchai nodded but the second man spoke now: "Do not trouble yourself, Mister Tanaka. We were just passing through. Just as you are."

' _Just as you are.'_ Didn't sound right.

"Well, I'm just on a short vacation, sir...I'm sorry, and I didn't catch your name."

The second man muttered something to Leepakchai who removed from his pocket the image of JJ Hatfield and unfolded it. Then he rose and paced to the window, opening the curtains some more, staring into the distance. Tanaka noticed the man's complexion, his arms. The guy was lean and wiry; he turned and removed the ray-bans, carefully placing them in his pocket and withdrawing a cigarette that he lit with a silver Zippo. Tanaka watched, intrigued by the huge orange ball of flame that shot up from it. Some local brand, the smoke was strong. Just like Turkish tobacco; stank the room out.

"We have located where your friend is staying, PK," said Leepakchai. He took some paper and handed it over.

Tanaka studied the address and name of the place, an easy one to remember: some joint called the ' _Malaysia Hotel'_. A number and underneath the address in Thai. The script flowed, it was artistic.

"Show that to anybody, they can assist. Or we can take you if you wish-"

"No, that's all right. I can manage. Thanks anyhow."

"Then we'll be on our way, Mister Tanaka," said the second man. "Oh, when you locate your friend...you can get a lift to the airport with General Leepakchai." He squinted. "Sometimes the taxis here are not the most reliable."

Now they stood and they moved to the door.

"General, any luck with the other person -- that lady?" asked Tanaka.

They stopped and turned, could've heard a pin drop.

"I'm sorry, I could not...we were unable to locate this person," said General Leepakchai.

The second man turned around and came back through the door. Stood close to Tanaka. "How do you know her?" he asked.

Tanaka thought quickly. "Uh...I met her in Manila airport. We had breakfast together. She told me I should get in touch but I lost her email-"

"So somehow you got her image-capture from passport control at Manila Airport?" He gave Tanaka an even harder look, and shook his head. "Must have been some breakfast you shared..."

"Well...not sure if General Leepakchai -- _sorry_ \-- Lek, my friend here told you. I'm a cop..." Tanaka chuckled nervously. "Sure she wouldn't mind. You know how it is."

"Your friend, huh?" The man's face hardened, ice-cold. "This person does not exist on our records. Maybe she hasn't returned to Thailand in a long time. Maybe she had fake travel documents. These things happen."

The second man spoke for a while to Leepakchai; he stared at Tanaka, and then strode out to the elevator.

"Sorry we couldn't help. You call me and I'll take you to the airport."

Tanaka forced a smile through the veil of lies. "Thank you, sir. And I'll check on your sister Aroon, when I get back."

"You've done more than enough, PK. Be safe."

In the foyer the elevator made a ' _ping'_ sound and they visitors were gone.

On the street below they stood, General Leepakchai and the other man who had lit yet another cigarette. They said nothing for a while then they strolled to a silver Mercedes 'Kompressor' with red plates and the second man opened the door. He hopped in the passenger's seat; the driver was a bull-necked man in a safari suit.

"I apologize for this but we weren't to know," said Leepakchai.

"No problem so far. But I would ask you one thing -- keep an eye on them. Two days, then get them out of here. I don't care how you do it, arrest and deport them if you have to."

Leepakchai checked his vehicle; it was still double-parked in the same place, his sergeant at the wheel. The twin-cab started was idling, rattling as diesels do. He turned round and stepped back on to the curb.

"Anything you say, General Kitti-khorn."

Both of them being generals as they were, in this town the police would defer to the military. _Always._

Tobacco fumes still lingered in the room, late afternoon by now. The mini-bar, that iconic draw card of any hotel. Tempting by day and a noisy compressor that keeps you awake at night. So enticing...three different brands of local as well as German and Japanese beer, other drinks and cashews. All of it past the 'use-by' date, the beer was probably fine but to drink one now would have written off the entire day. Tanaka picked out a plastic bottle of mineral water and returned to the window. At a cost but not as high as the cost of dehydration or stomach illness, though. He could feel the heat outside even though the room was cool. Condensate had formed on the outside of the plate glass and every now and then a droplet zigzagged down. He followed the droplet as it snaked its way downward, it joined with the others then disappeared.

He kept two notebooks always -- old-fashioned scribbled ones that couldn't be altered; if one was pulled for evidence he always had a second. The official one could be tendered in trials. That one was with his other stuff at HQ but he had another, identical to the first. He flipped through the pages: dates, times; in fact everything from Jackson's call that night right up to now. He thought about Jackson's death. Billy Bob Hatfield's death.

Dead people all over the place, they led a trail right to this point, just like Hansel and Gretel.

Peered out the condensate window and braced for it -- _that menace_. They'd be watching him now, his every move. Might as well make the trip in style, they'd given up the place Hatfield was staying; they'd expect him to go straight there.

He had one single thing in his favor -- he looked just like they all did, just like a local so he had to dress like one. Don't try to speak. At the reception he hired the valet-car, a black Nissan. Looked flash, logo on the side and black...make it easy for his observers; lull them into a sense of security. Act deaf-mute, smile a lot and wave the hands like a deaf-mute. Nod at everything. And try not to perspire too much...

The 'Hotel-Malaysia' was the same age as Special Agent Tanaka. If these walls could talk they'd have more stories to tell than the Dead Sea Scrolls. The GIs came, they left, the travelers and hippies came, they left, and then came the junkies, then the whoremongers who also moved on, along with the girls. The Orient's very own serial-killer, Charles Sobhraj and his groupies had once sat in the lobby here and lured backpackers to their deaths. _The Manson Family of the East_. Nowadays it was gay scene, while the junkies still drifted round the laneways like zombies, ethereal figures...seen and never heard, from time to time carried out in bags to be cremated. No name, no next of kin, just ashes and a certificate to the consulate. The smack in this city was still pure as it was in the old days.

The GIs couldn't have ever imagined it now. JJ Hatfield couldn't have imagined the place now. He was easy enough to find.

Tanaka felt walked in the lobby of the pre-fab building then through to the swimming pool; he heard the ruckus and followed it. He shuddered -- there was the old guy, next to a whole lot of empty beer bottles knocked over and a half full bottle of Bourbon next to him. Hatfield was soaked in sweat, looking terrible and muttering and cursing out loud. He squinted when he saw Tanaka then tried to sit up, toppling the bottle as he lurched forward.

"Well, speak of the devil. Man, you just don't know when to quit, do you?" Hatfield picked up the bottle and thrust it at Tanaka. "Welcome to my old R and R, _Special Agent_!" He coughed. "C'mon, have a drink with us."

Tanaka cringed and checked out the poolside. A couple of other westerners, about his age. Bodybuilder types. One of the Europeans on his belly, face-down getting massaged from a local youth, at the other end a group of teenagers hanging around...not a female to be seen. He turned back to Hatfield and gently prized the bottle from the big leathery hand.

"Hey...enough for now, don't you say?" Tanaka spoke softly, soothing, trying to calm the atmosphere a little. The air felt electrified. Wet, dripping; about ninety and a total lack of sunlight. Just overcast grey. The group at the other end; they were staring. So was the western man nearest them.

Hatfield spluttered and grinned like a demon, then shook his head. "Used to come out here during the war, just our lil' gang..." He pointed to the lobby. "See that there coffee shop? Had a harem to us, a whole bunch of 'em. Used to give 'em names...days of the week, you know... _Girl-Monday, Girl-Tuesday, Wednesday...never remember their names_ ..."

Then he stood up and teetered, he sneered at the other foreigners. "Full of damn queers!" He growled at the others. He shook his fist and shouted across the pool: _"Fairies!!"_

"Hey, asshole." The foreigner nearby stood. "Say something? Wanna repeat that?" The voice had an American or Canadian accent, with a lisp but the man was big.

Muscles in his shit...

Tanaka moved in front of the old guy. The group at the end of the pool started wandering over now and the one getting the massage sat up. This looked ugly. This could get ugly \-- it was Bangkok, being an FBI agent meant nothing; possibly made matters worse.

_About to be lynched...lynched and drowned_.

Tanaka stiffened and straightened up as the bodybuilder walked toward them, Hatfield completely out of his mind and grumbling on, oblivious to the danger striding over in the form of a gay-porn-star with a fake tan. There was never any sunlight in this city.

"Hey, asshole." Wannabe porn actor got close then grabbed at the old guy, Tanaka stepped in then Hatfield somehow got up. They started swiping at each other, lurching to and fro; Tanaka in the middle trying to separate them. The others who had been staring from the other end were moving in for the kill.

It may have been pure instinct; Tanaka grabbed at his wallet and tore at it, whipping out the card the policeman had given him. He held it up and stood in a stance like a karate student. The first teenage hoodlum snatched it, shot a look at the card then passed it to his buddies; same reaction as a winning lotto ticket. It stopped the hostile group of Thais in their tracks. The gay crowd noticed this too; they moved back. With his left hand Tanaka forced Hatfield back into the deckchair behind, knocking over the bottle of spirits.

"That's right, gentlemen," whispered Tanaka in a hoarse voice, all the while struggling to contain the adrenaline. His eyes darted round the area, expecting a piece of rebar, a brutal haymaker from one of the Thai boys or a heavy ashtray on his skull.

"You heard my friend," he continued, trying to control his breathing. "As it happens I really am a special agent...and this card belongs to a good friend of mine...a _general_ with the Thai police force. They're probably watching us." He held the card higher. "Tell you what. The old guy wishes to apologize. So do I for that matter. We'll be on our way, now and I'll promise you one thing..." Tanaka drew a deep breath as a couple of the masseurs spoke to each other in Thai then glared back.

"Any of you so much as lay a finger on me or this man and a thousand cops'll land on this place and destroy everything here." He nodded behind to Hatfield. "Through your rooms, your computers and your bank accounts -- everything."

Ever so slowly Tanaka crouched down beside Hatfield who had at last shut up. "We've gotta get you upstairs and get you a shower." The old guy was soaked, he was a mess. "No more trouble from your end, okay?" Hatfield nodded sheepishly; he now realized he wasn't popular here. He grunted as Tanaka pulled him to his feet.

" _Shower!"_

The two of them lurched through the lobby and Hatfield freed himself, he didn't need propping up since the heat of the moment had sobered him up. "Wait here damn it, I'm not a three year old. I can take a shower on my own, for _Chrissakes_."

"Well don't act like one then."

Second time Tanaka had heard him cuss. Then again he'd sunk enough spirits to run a T-Model Ford up the side of Mount Everest. He stood in front of Hatfield: "Listen to me..." He pulled the image of Anna from his pocket and unfolded it. "I'm trying to track her down. Take it you had the same thing in mind? You oughta walk away...told you to leave it to me."

Hatfield gave Tanaka a puzzled look this time, as if he didn't quite get it. Almost looked hurt. "You never would have come here if I hadn't, am I right in saying so?" he mumbled.

They made it through reception under the baleful stares of all and sundry. Hatfield stumbled up the stairs and out of view and before Tanaka could follow his cell phone buzzed -- it was set for international roaming and it was the first text he'd received in a few days. He looked at the screen, a number from the States, not any of his contacts:

' _TO TANAKA/ MY BRO SPK TO ME/ YOU ARE DANGER PK TANAKA/ LEAVE NOW.'_

Tanaka dialed the number. When it answered it was _Aroon_ , the translator.

" _Get out of Thailand now,"_ she blurted.

"Says who?"

"Just leave now. This is dangerous. The army is involved...Thai army. I tell you more but only when you return."

The line went dead. Tanaka tried calling back, no luck. He looked around; nowhere to be found, the old guy must be up in his room. He crossed to reception and asked one of the girls where Hatfield's room was. She only looked blank.

Unexpectedly, there was a huge noise outside the lobby from the direction of the hotel pool. Like a storm wave breaking and water rushing, then people running about. Tanaka raced over to the door and his heart sank and blood froze.

Hatfield had jumped.

Pandemonium and ambulances, shaken and stirred as the emergency vehicle crashed through the streets. The same gay sex-tourists who'd wanted to beat them up earlier on pitched in and helped get him out of the pool -- unconscious. Hatfield staring up from the gurney and Tanaka glaring back, all the time blinking. This time pure anger.

The ambulance pulled in at an ICU somewhere and that's where Tanaka got that feeling, this vacation could turn out to be a very expensive one indeed. He'd had to swipe his credit card, rejected, an urgent call to his hotline then accepted...second time lucky. They wheeled him off. This was turning ugly, the old guy could send him broke at this rate.

The physician, a well-spoken doctor, came in and talked briefly -- minor bruising and winded, along with a burst ear drum on the right hand side. The ICU was in a major hospital; they only cared about payment but the standards were good.

Just like the medical system back home.

Tanaka waited and paced up and down the hall. Kept going to the nurses every ten minutes badgering them -- more blank looks, no smiles -- it was emergency section this time. He gave up and lay down on a line of plush lounge chairs on the ground floor.

Tanaka was shaken out of his slumber by a security guard with one of the medical staff in tow. It was daylight. They led him up to a room.

The old guy was awake now but Tanaka just glowered at him. Hatfield wheezed slightly and chuckled. "That's nothing," he said. "I used to jump from a balcony on the fourth floor last time I stayed here. New Year's Eve 1971, to be precise."

"Lucky you didn't kill yourself. What were you thinking, anyhow?" Tanaka sniffed. Sat down on the end of the gurney. Stared into space, what now; what to do...

Hatfield moved to sit up, he groaned. "Look, I know I haven't been too smart. I just wanna find the guys-"

"We've been warned off," said Tanaka. "Thought I'd struck it lucky before I came after you. Met a lady in DC who is a certified translator. Her brother's a big-shot cop -- some general. He told me where to find you."

"You know, PK...I don't have much time. Got about one-year-tops."

"Your liver?"

"Maybe self-inflicted, maybe Agent Orange, or maybe a combination...who knows."

' _Agent Orange'._ Jolted Tanaka's memory...

"Tell me, how does that senator come into this? He scared the pants off my bosses."

Hatfield rolled his eyes. "We still keep in touch. He was a graduate of West Point. One of a handful of black commissioned officers; the first I ever worked under. Good family from Chicago, his pop was also a soldier who became an inventor. Discharged, started some automotive business after the Second World War and struck it rich..."

The old guy sat up, and the memories flowed now.

"Our old CO was shipped out with malaria. Nathanial Henry was on the ground a whole week and they sent us down to a demolitions job on some bunkers near Cu Chi in the delta. Told us the place was empty, we walked straight into an ambush. Cut a long story short he was hit, we lost a couple've marines and we had to wait till nightfall before we could get out."

"Lemme guess...you saved his ass?"

"And maybe his career." Hatfield was lost in thought for a moment. "Least the guy was honest though-"

"Before he entered politics," said Tanaka with a grin.

"Yeah. Pretty much sent the dispatch as it happened. That's how I got the Silver Star." He looked at Tanaka with a guilty look. "That day after you came up with Roy Hernandez, I was mad as hell. Had nobody else I could talk to, so I called the senator at his home, bawled him out. Sorry if-"

"Never mind. If you hadn't my superiors would have dumped it back on Philippines Station." Tanaka turned and clasped Hadfield's shoulder. Images of Jackson's murder came to mind but he didn't mention this to the old guy, not right now.

"JJ, promise me one thing. Don't move from this room. _I mean it._ I'll be back in a day and then we're leaving while we still can. You'll be safe here."

"Where are you going?"

Tanaka stood up and over Hatfield who'd lain back down. "I'll try 'n' locate Anna. See what she has to say for herself."

"Hey, Tanaka..."

The agent stopped at the door of the emergency room and raised his eyebrows but the old guy waved him away. Hatfield stared at the door for a few minutes. _You'd have to be the most persistent sonofabitch I ever seen_ , he thought. He shuffled, he tried to get comfortable. His side hurt.

Tanaka had done all the counter surveillance courses at the bureau; little call for it in Financial Crimes and he was rusty but finally he could put the training to use. He casually strolled down the corridor of the hospital then into a service elevator just as a janitor was closing the door. The cleaner gave him a strange look but nothing more. At the basement he walked through a plant and generator room before ascending a flight of stairs then out an alleyway behind the building into the early morning light where he flagged a taxi. It took him two or three blocks then he jumped on the back of a motorcycle that rode another block, he dismounted and kept walking till he found a building that housed an array of stores specializing in computers and other electronics. He didn't stop or look back at any stage. Rode two floors up on escalator stairs and found a place that sold re-birthed laptops, rest of the place hadn't opened. Student types, he asked a few and they returned blank looks. Finally a nerdy female with braces; most likely a college student. Coke-bottle spectacles. Shy but she spoke English well.

"I need some assistance with something."

The young woman spoke with a squeaky voice: "You want to buy laptop? Blackberry? Have velly good quality-"

"I need to log on to something. I need information." Tanaka unfolded the image of Anna and passed it to the student with a five hundred Baht note. _"Quickly."_

She pouted and began tapping. The passport scan also had Anna's name in the all-important Thai script. After a while the student turned the screen to Tanaka.

"Cannot do," she said.

Tanaka saw for himself: things that were all blacked out. _Censorship!_ It was impressive here; the Kingdom had one of the world's most effective internet censorship programs, often staffed by volunteers and other people very similar to the young person sitting next to him. Primarily to block out inappropriate websites and anything else deemed defamatory to Thai society or culture. He had to be cautious and move quickly. The student was scowling now.

"Go into _'web-dot-archive-dot-org'_. Type in these letters-"

"I know; I know _Mistah_ ..."

She typed and they waited. More links appeared, this time some of them showed. One tiny image caught Tanaka's eye.

" _That one!"_

It was a front page from a local news rag, years old the censors had missed. Her alright -- Anna -- same black suit, on the steps of some building. She looked exactly the same, except for one thing: she was flashing a broad smile like a celebrity. The teeth were her real ones back then. She was surrounded...army officers behind; news cameras in front. Tanaka leaned across and hit control-plus and tapped, expanding the image.

"Read it out, please. What does it say?"

The student's lips moved slightly as she scrolled down and by now another of the shop's employees had moved behind watching with interest. She looked up at Tanaka, then at the young man standing behind. She was serious and stern but her expression became one of fascination.

"Mistah, dis abou' some years ago," the student blurted out. "This story; it say she have some company. _Banking!_ _Oooei_ ...this lady _velly_ smart...she catch some people who try to steal from our government. _Velly big money, Mistah_ ..."

"Where was the picture taken?"

" _Newspaper!_ She come outside from number-one law courts here in Bangkok. All people -- government of Thailand; judges, lawyers -- want to listen _she_ side of the story."

Tanaka leaned back and the wheels on the chair rolled slightly. He wanted to know more, but no time.

"What is the name of her company? Does the article say?"

The student started checking the search engines; equally curious now. The results led to two websites; different names but same location, Tanaka could tell from the street numbers but everything else was unintelligible.

" _Please_. Write this down in Thai. I need to show a taxi."

Tanaka flipped the scan and grabbed a pen. The male shop assistant started writing and Tanaka got to his feet; it was then he saw the computer screen had frozen. The student was tapping away to no avail, becoming more anxious as she pounded the keyboard. Tanaka backed away, taking the piece of paper with him, leaving the jammed computer and the shop staff to figure out how to reboot it.

# Chapter Twenty-two

The green and yellow cab lurched and weaved, the driver -- a Thai Muslim -- flailing at the gearstick and Tanaka munching handfuls of Pringles from a tube he purchased on the ground floor of the electronics complex. He hadn't taken a decent meal since the flight over. There was no shortage of food on the streets; in fact it was everywhere. All they ever did was eat. DC was awash with Thai restaurants and they were his favorite haunts but the fare in this city was strange, pungent and totally foreign. He also picked up a local-language newspaper, an ideal thing to hide behind.

The driver slowed after half an hour and pointed to a place on the left. Tanaka indicated to the driver to keep going and he jumped out further up the road; it was busy now with the morning rush. He doubled back and walked past the place, glancing at the numbers on the piece of paper.

What to do; what to do...

The direct approach had gotten him nowhere so far. As he walked by he saw a lane with an expensive black vehicle parked. A couple more steps along the sidewalk and found a place to sit, he ordered some noodles and a Coke. Picked at the dish and waited. An hour passed.

Couldn't eat the stuff, whatever was in it...braised alley-cat and enough chili to strip paint.

He wanted to go knock at the door but didn't, he just sat. Someone came out, it was her alright. Tanaka dropped the chopsticks and lifted the _Thai-Rath_ broadsheet, peering over it. He watched as she moved behind the black BMW and popped the trunk, taking something, crouching down and stuffing whatever it was into the cuff over her ankle. Was she armed? No slinky black silk today, this time camouflaged gear. Survivalist gear; up for a big day out. Or a big fight.

His eyes followed... Anna approached the group of motorcyclists wearing tunics and leapt on the back of one of them, commanding the rider to move and move quickly.

Had to be somewhere, faster than driving in her own car so she was taking no notice of her surroundings. She never saw the man with sunglasses jump on the motorcycle; by then she donned a crash helmet; only looking ahead, not behind.

Tanaka shoved a bundle of small notes at a different _moto-taxi_.

"Follow that one," he said.

The cyclist gave him a blank look so he pointed in the direction the first one with Anna riding pillion. He proffered another note, a large purple one. The cyclist handed him a helmet; a plastic dish you could get arrested for wearing in many countries.

" _Go!"_

This time the cyclist understood perfectly.

No looking back today. The Chinese simply had to be located; everyone wanted a piece of him: the syndicate wanted him to remain under wraps, the Thai military wanted the guidance boxes and Arcana wanted him permanently out of the picture. Double the frustration, everybody had screwed up. Even her own people. The Chinaman could have been taken off the streets ages ago. He'd gone to ground; nobody had seen or heard from him. It was down to her and there wasn't much time.

Pakdee of Phayao understood perfectly. Had to get control quickly, regain the upper hand.

Tanaka held on for dear life. The cyclist was touching seventy as he raced over the Thai-Belgian Bridge on Rama Four Road, weaving in and out of all manner of traffic -- vendors on smoky two-strokes through to twenty wheelers. Even more terrifying, the fact he kept his eyes pinned on the bike ahead, but they couldn't quite catch up. The death defying ride continued for miles. Anna and her rider were constantly stopping, in and out of buildings, waylaying people in the streets, asking directions and information. Then they pulled a U-turn and headed west. They slowed and stopped; this time she was off the bike and paying the man. Tanaka clasped the shoulder of his cyclist and jumped off. He nodded at the fellow, handed over the helmet and ran, heart pounding as his feet pounded the sidewalk, dodging the crowds. The terrifying ride had energized him, he could see her but she could move like a ferret. Difficult for him, he tripped on things and bumped into pedestrians, now he was on foot nearly getting killed by cars a couple of times...they drove on the wrong side of the road here.

Ahead of him he could see her darting in and out of the way, she could shift. He was panting, out of shape. Never had trouble passing the annual fitness protocol but that was more to check all the bureau people weren't tied up on leave, keep insurance costs down. This was becoming a marathon, until she darted inside some place. Enough for now. He stopped outside. This was it -- he'd _have_ to front her.

She got the breakthrough she needed. An off-duty uniformed-cop who worked as muscle in a massage parlor near the terminus had overheard a conversation somewhere. There was a regular customer who was Chinese; he could neither speak Thai nor _Teow-Jiu_ dialect very well but had been chatting with the service-girls in Cantonese when he was with them. The twins from Chiang Rai were gossiping, how he had told them he was bored in Bangkok and how he had owned a workshop in Klong Toei which had mothballed operations. The man had bad teeth but plenty of cash and was due to arrive that day as always.

She had been searching in Klong Toei when the moonlighting cop called her so she turned back and rode along Rama Four as far as the railway station. The general had been ringing through but she wasn't taking his calls. She made a beeline to the lane where _'Hi-Soh KTV'_ was located and barged in the entrance. The policeman was out directing traffic. A pair of hoodlums with shoulder-length hair attempted to manhandle her until they saw the PPK. The Chinese wasn't there yet, so the two minders said, they stuck to their story. They didn't deny they knew him, they just wanted her out of the place...having cops there wasn't unusual, plainclothes detectives could be a concern but a lone female in the lobby of a brothel waving a gun around...big trouble. For all they knew she could have been somebody's wife.

Pakdee shoved through the heavy curtain out onto the street. Straight into PK Tanaka.

" _Anna!!"_

Pakdee arched up and her jaw dropped. She froze. "Oh, my Lord...how-"

Tanaka put up his hand. "We need to talk." He looked up and down the street, any time expecting to be accosted; possibly he'd been tracked here too.

Pakdee squinted. "Why have you come? Not a good time."

"Billy-Bob Hatfield's father. He came here looking for you. He's been hurt..."

She pushed past him out on the street then turned back. "Tanaka, you cannot be here. Not now. Go to your room. I'll find you."

"Anna, wait up!"

Tanaka drew a deep breath and started running after her. He was still exhausted. _She can move, gotta get into shape,_ he thought as he huffed and puffed through the chaos of Chinatown.

In the fall of 1968 _Chen Hsieh-Tsu_ was a Red Guard aged seventeen. One afternoon he and a group of hand-picked _cadre_ armed and accompanied by soldiers arrived at a local elementary school and summoned the headmaster. The group stripped the accused _'counter-revolutionary'_ and frog marched him into a packed quadrangle, hurling insults at him and painting a red-lettered slogan in Mandarin upon his chest in front of an audience of jeering teenagers. When school was dismissed that day Chen and the gang bound the teacher and drove him to a quarry where they shot him. Hands strapped, head bowed, on his knees; straight in the back of the head...one shot with an SKS rifle.

_Crime?_ Discussing something the beloved Peoples Chairman had said, in front of an assembly.

In the seventies Mister Chen had become an avionics engineer and by the late 1980s he was a shop-owner who viewed the protesting students with disinterest; Premier Deng told everybody being rich was good and Chen set to, obediently doing just that. The family electronics business in Beijing had its ups and downs until the arrival of the age of video entertainment when he amassed a fortune selling pirated games and accessories. Such wheeling and dealing progressed and it had been by accident he began designing and supplying military electronics to customers who paid. Governments paid well, terrorists paid handsomely.

He arrived in Thailand by invitation and had been managing a factory set up by an associate. He hoped to migrate to a western country and he could then retire and send for his wife and family; they would benefit greatly from a fine education and they could all live happily ever after on their investments in a canal estate somewhere. Singapore, Florida; Surfers Paradise...anyplace that wanted his money.

Chen burped loudly. The _kuay-thiow_ noodle soup was the best in that section of town. He stood on the side walk and lit up a Double Happiness once he settled the bill. As he inhaled he relaxed and thought for a moment; it was a pleasant day and he began to walk down a lane where his favorite establishment was located. He looked forward to the next two hours where he would be pampered and given a soapy massage by a pair of pale-skinned bunnies from the far north. Being unemployed irritated him but being paid for doing so by the syndicate had its perks and he was assured, things would soon be back to normal.

Didn't register, he had been tackled...he struck the pavement hard face down, then he tried to stand but he tottered like a drunkard. He could barely see the figure sprinting down the lane as he righted himself and attempted to call out. He knew he'd been mugged, possibly an addict. His wallet and cell phone were missing, taken after the cowardly fellow had hit him from behind. Chen swore, it was mostly his pride that was hurt and at least he still had his timepiece, the most precious thing he ever carried with him.

Savages! In China, those criminals were shot after a ten-minute court appearance!

He cursed again; he would have to walk back to his room and the masseuses would have to wait. Chen hobbled toward the rail terminus. Out of nowhere a scooter stopped, blocking his path -- two westerners fronted him, speaking in some foreign language and attempting to comfort him.

Typical backpackers, like something the cat dragged in.

To Chen's amazement the one of them had his stolen wallet and handed it to him, opening it and fingering the money inside which was untouched. This was beyond comprehension; the mugger was nowhere to be seen. When Chen accepted his wallet he removed several banknotes and more amazingly the two young people were smiling, laughing and shaking their heads; neither of them would take the cash from him. They hopped back on the scooter and it was then the lady who doubled back with his cell phone in her outstretched hand which she held briefly before reaching and delicately slipping into his trouser pocket. More smiles, more gestures, a rev of the bike and they were gone.

As Chen was counting his money he couldn't believe his luck. He'd always regarded Westerners as untrustworthy and he was delighted that he had encountered an exception that day. His thoughts were interrupted yet again by the flip-phone in his pocket vibrating. As he reached to take the incoming call he thought he could hear somebody screaming in the distance. Toward the main road he could barely make out two figures heading toward him, maybe calling out although his eyesight was not the best at his age. Somebody was running in his direction. Still, he opened the phone and lifted it to his ear. Reflex action.

It was the sight of the foreigners astride a scooter -- maybe drifters from 'the hippie triangle' -- then she spotted the blonde hair. They were a distance away but they stood out; this section was not a backpacker center and she stretched for a better view. They had been talking with somebody... _the Chinaman!_ She quickened her pace and then she saw one turn for a fleeting moment and hand something over...she got a full view of Chen's face.

Fifty yards away and she broke into a sprint; she ran, weaving through the traffic toward them and clipped her thigh on the front of a vehicle, regained her footing and kept going. Now the cyclists were no longer visible and she charged like an athlete; the Chinese had a wallet in his right hand and as she drew closer she called out, waving her arms; frantically trying to attract his attention. Briefly his eyes met hers and then he looked away as he reached into his pocket to answer the flip phone.

The charge fired precisely with a _'whack'_ when Chen spoke into the handset. Particles expanding five times the speed of sound, straight through him. Just like a twelve gauge shotgun but sharper, faster; more piercing, less echo. A quarter-ounce curved slice of RDX on a one second delay detonated, vaporizing his hand, shattering his forearm and caving in the left side of his head leaving shards of flesh and blood on the ground and down Pakdee's front. The Chinese collapsed to the sidewalk in a small cloud of red and gray smoke, barely an arm's length away. His head was still there but now looked like a basketball that had been stabbed...one side pushed in.

A harsh slap and the heat upon her face then she was on the ground. Pakdee saw Tanaka's face and screamed once, nothing came out, couldn't hear a thing. The cop was trying to say something to her but she was deaf...ears hissing like a heat exchanger. She lunged at the American and grabbed him by the collar; she pushed back hard, then tore at the ankle-holster above her left shoe and clawed at her gun tucked in above her shoe. For a few moments after the blast Chen's heart kept beating.

Diminishing pulses of arterial blood squirted out and pooled next to his body. An odor like chlorine. Mister Chen all over her.

A flash, like a camera bulb, Anna in front a few paces, she blocked out the full force of the explosion but Tanaka felt it, he dropped, looked up, crawled along the ground. A split second everything stopped, time stopped. He made it to her, her face was black, had spots of the victim's blood all over her. She was up and next he knew he was pinned to a wall, she'd hit him hard. _Rammed him into a wall._ She had her thumb jammed into his larynx; he struggled to move. She was choking him.

Bystanders panicked and scattered. Just like Manila, only this time he'd saved her...if he hadn't showed up; if she'd have got to Chen when the device exploded, it would be her brains all over the sidewalk as well. The whole of Chinatown was running now.

" _Gotta get outta here,"_ gasped Tanaka.

She released her grip on his throat and brought the gun up to his face as she inched back and away.

" _Don't touch me!"_ snarled Pakdee. _"Back!!"_

He could only see the black eyes and the black muzzle, closer now to meeting his maker than ever, she only had to flinch. Instead Anna turned and staggered to the center of the road, she dropped down on her knees and let out a shrill scream then held her gun aloft and fired the whole clip out into the air. He ran out and seized her in a bear hug, she spun and he was hurled back. He tore the Walther PPK out of her hand but she could still kill him, that's what she was good at. He watched her carefully, just in case.

"Come with me...we gotta go. _Now!_ "

He moved forward and touched her. Slowly, ever so slowly he put his arms out and hugged her. She was shaking. Not fear; fury. She burned, her face was hot. Tanaka glanced back at the body and the pool of blood. He pulled her back to the sidewalk, mopped her, and wiped her face. He'd never touched her before. Tall as he was, but fine boned.

He mopped her hair. Wiped her, she flopped over a little still in shock but she could walk now. He pulled her gently, moved behind and kept going. Into the next street, now and Tanaka led the way, she was still in shock. An empty taxi moved by a few yards away, it beeped and stopped. Tanaka opened the door and shoved her in the back, jumped in beside. By now she could speak but the cabbie asked her to repeat, she said something and the car moved away. By the time they made it to the intersection they could see cops racing back toward Chinatown.

Rest in bits and pieces, Chen Hsieh-Tsu. Killed by somebody else's booby-trap, a gadget he would've been proud of at heart.

# Chapter Twenty-three

He stretched out over the balcony. A long way up, he never did like heights. She had a nice place all right, wasn't short of a dollar. The river stretched far below and the city hummed beneath.

She'd been in the shower a while. When Anna did emerge she wore a silk gown. Gave him a very frosty look. "Your turn." She flung a bundled-up towel at him, he caught it. "Leave your old garments outside the door. I can have brand new ones sent up by the time you're done."

"Never mind," replied Tanaka.

She frowned and looked him up and down. " _Stink!_ Wet. Throw them away."

"What happened back there? Who was that guy?"

She only shook her head and rolled her eyes. "Shower, now. I must report in."

" _Report in_ ...I see... Listen up, what happened there?"

"Go!" she hissed. She started fiddling with the nine-mill pistol, sliding the breech off, running a tea towel through and checking it, scrubbing the evil little weapon like a good maid would polish silverware. It was a new model, a repo. Into a wall safe.

Tanaka hated the things. He didn't even own one and returned his service pistol every day when he clocked-off. A lot of cops disliked them; firearms were a tool for law enforcement and soldiers. Too many call-outs, one crime scene too many...

_Canada had the right idea._ Then again his job was to uphold the law and defend the constitution, not question it.

Tanaka peeked out of the door of the shower, sure enough a pile of _'garments'_ inside the plastic wrappers. He leaned, pulled them in then dressed and emerged but Anna had gone somewhere. He couldn't leave, the elevator opened straight into the room. Walked out on the landing again then inside, opened the icebox. Not much bar plastic bottles of water and green tea with foreign writing. If she ever ate it was from the stalls on the curb. He wondered how long she would be gone; there was no other way out except the landing a hundred feet above the ground. His things were in a neat pile and the clothes fitted well, slightly irritating on his skin, straight out of the packets. She'd probably burnt the old ones.

The place looked like a professional decorator's job, there was almost nothing personal, only a large kick-bag swinging from a chain above the landing. He shoved it. It was heavy. He swung and undercut into the tarnished leather and the thing barely moved. His knuckles stung. Another small room where she slept, with a Japanese style mat on the floor and a PC on a desk, Tanaka peered in but did not enter. A selection of rattan sticks of different lengths in a corner. Some dumbbells on a rack by the wall and a little shrine above the entrance, watching over.

A noise from the elevator disturbed him and the door opened -- Anna and two other men, one in uniform and a huge guy in a safari suit.

She led them into the tiny kitchen space and produced a bottle of whisky, some label Tanaka had never seen before, worth a week's pay...in real money. And an ashtray, the apartment was immaculate; it seemed strange she would allow it.

They stood. The man in uniform was the one from yesterday, same one who arrived with the police general. Nobody moved.

"So we meet again...Special Agent Paulus Kelvin Tanaka of the Financial Crimes Unit, Washington Bureau." said the man. " _That's something..."_

Tanaka winced. His first name given at birth had gotten him into more trouble as a boy than he cared to remember. He watched Anna as she poured two shots of whisky and tapped the ashtray on the counter. She hurried into her sleeping room and closed the door.

"Yep," replied Tanaka. He looked around for Anna and back at the big guy. Tried to read the name badge on the man's uniform, no luck, couldn't read it anyway. Not sure whether to shake hands or what. Neither of them looked too friendly. "You know her, I take it?"

"I am Major-General Soronai Kitti-Khorn of the Royal Thai Armed Forces." He nodded in the direction of Anna's room. "I _own_ her." He tucked a cigarette in his mouth and pointed to the landing. "Spare me moment of your time, please."

The bodyguard in the safari suit was behind Tanaka, he had little choice to step through the sliding door. This general -- _Anna's owner_ \-- next to him and the bodyguard behind him. It did not feel comfortable, not one tiny bit.

"A nice view from here isn't it?" Kitti-Khorn placed his hand lightly on Tanaka's shoulder. He squeezed, gently at first but it got harder. "My river."

Below it snaked through the heart of the city. Boats plied up and down. Tanaka counted three bridges. More cars than he could imagine.

The bodyguard, so close, the size of a wrestler. Made Tanaka think of his days as a city hall cop -- Honolulu -- they'd bring in violent offenders who were big Polynesians. Often took two squad cars and four officers to make the arrest. But they were big cry-babies, many of them. Hawaiian giants, an auntie or mother would come in and slap them round like a naughty child after posting bond.

The bodyguard, pressing behind. This one was no cry-baby. No expression at all. Kept fiddling with a two-way. Tanaka saw the street beneath him. Butterflies in his stomach and a pressing feeling -- seven whole floors worth of butterflies.

"You have something, I am led to believe. It belongs to us and my government would like it back," said Kitti-Khorn. He stood back and on cue his bodyguard stepped inside the apartment. He lit his smoke and sucked deeply. "But firstly a note of thanks is in order."

Tanaka felt relief; he thought he was going over the handrail with that safari-suited-sumo wrestler breathing down his back. "How so?" he asked. He was puzzled.

Kitti-Khorn turned, and then removed his Ray Bans. His face was hard, expressionless and cruel. "If you hadn't bothered to come here and put your nose where it does _not_ belong, my personal assistant..." he nodded toward the sliding door, "...would have been killed." He pointed to the north. The river, scores of little boats, it meandered through the city. "See that?"

Tanaka nodded.

"I would like to take a short journey with me, before you depart for your home. Follow the river. I would like to know you better."

Tanaka was uneasy. ' _Short journey'_. Could mean anything, he thought about Hatfield laid up in intensive care. "Look, I really should check on my friend-"

"All taken care of," said Kitti-Khorn. "Miss Anna shall tidy up all fees and other matters with the medical facility tomorrow morning." He nodded behind him; she'd come out of her room now and was talking with the general's bodyguard who was intermittently conversing on the two-way.

Tanaka, Kitti-Khorn and the adjutant stepped into the elevator, she stayed behind. On the ground level they moved quickly to the street where a heavy limousine waited, military green with two small flags fluttering; the bodyguard opened the rear door and as they sat in the vehicle two large capacity motorcycles appeared and slammed to a halt. Their escort, mounted by soldiers. Large bikes in contrast to the swarms of scooters that plagued the city streets.

Tanaka tapped the window with his knuckle -- armored glass, thick and dark.

"I've had a couple of attempts," remarked Kitti-Khorn as he lit another smoke. "Occupational hazard..."

Tanaka only coughed. _The smoke_. It stung his eyes.

The journey was quick, no more than forty minutes helped by the escort ahead. They had entered another town to the north, to the outskirts and come upon a place with row upon row of stucco walls, statues and spires, old structures everywhere and fields of brilliant green lawns. Not a blade of grass out of place.

Ancient Ayutthaya, the holiest of cities.

The motorcycle escorts dismounted. Tanaka aand Kitti-Khorn stepped out into the afternoon heat and walked through the complex of ancient ruins, the bodyguard a few paces behind. Groups of schoolchildren in Sailor-Moon outfits followed their teachers and other visitors snapped pictures. They passed a group of soldiers, barely out of their teens, who were standing about. On seeing the general they snapped quickly to attention and saluted. Kitti-Khorn returned the courtesy.

Tanaka stopped. "Why are we here, sir?" he asked.

Kitti-Khorn drew another smoke and lit it; he inhaled deeply, despite all the signs warning visitors not to do so. "As I said before, you have something of ours."

"Go on," said Tanaka.

"You see this place?" said Kitti-Khorn. "My ancestors came from here, centuries ago." He held up his arm. "This was once our ancient capital, Special Agent."

"It's ancient, all right."

"This was the finest city in the east. We lived here before Christopher Columbus was even born. Traders, scholars and artisans, they all came. A civilization of culture and learning, you know. About the same time you fought your war of independence, this fabulous city was invaded from the Burmese side, and it was burnt and looted-"

"Get to the point, General." Tanaka felt impatient; the guy talked in riddles.

"You have the black boxes. _I know this_." Kitti-Khorn squinted. "Tell you what, Special Agent: you give me what I want and I'll give you what you want."

Tanaka thought a moment. "Can I quote you?"

"I don't even exist, my friend. _You're the detective_. You write the reports. I only tell you where to find the answers."

"What happened yesterday?" asked Tanaka.

"Somebody in Bangkok was killed by a bomb. Happens all the time. Ever read the Bangkok Post?"

"William Robert Hatfield, US citizen, murdered in Manila last year. Who killed him?"

"Hatfield was killed by members of an arms trafficking group..."

Tanaka kept mental notes as the general spoke, every detail. How long it had been going on; what they were doing, their political affiliations...everything. Plenty for a detailed report, he could fix it when he got back. _Extradition proceedings -- not likely_. He thought about the things in the strong room Washington. Chain of evidence. Some things made it to trial. Other items could be returned to the next of kin and contraband destroyed post-trial and appeals. He had absolute power over the stuff.

"What's so special about the _black boxes_ as you so call them?" demanded PK Tanaka.

"We need to get our hands upon them first," said Kitti-Khorn. "But we need this for our own security. Has Miss Anna told you anything?"

"Nope," Tanaka lied. Didn't want her in trouble, still not sure what she was capable of. Stuffed his book in his pocket. The general pretty much confirmed what she'd said though. He couldn't work it out.

"Why didn't you shut the arms dealers down ages ago?"

"Cannot," replied Kitti-Khorn. "They're protected...politicians...government, you know."

" _C'mon_ , General, the army still runs the place. How can a politician control you?"

Kitti-Khorn sighed. "These criminals have our elected leaders in their pockets. We can't just march in and stage a _coup d'état_. Many of them are good friends of mine, albeit misguided friends."

The afternoon sun had lowered now where it was still and the high clouds had turned a shade of crimson. They walked. Tanaka, the general and the wrestler in the safari suit behind them, forever cradling his two-way.

"Where did you get her from? _Anna_ ...what's her story?"

The general stopped and smiled broadly. "My pet project, let's just say we crossed paths a few years ago. I trained her; groomed her. Anna got the best and gave her all -- nearly killed her in the process." He chuckled. "She was raised in a European family, you know. Missionaries; they rescued her as a young girl, she had no parents. They educated her, adopted her and made her work and study. But she's one of us."

"How does she fit into all this?"

"Hmmm..." Kitti-Khorn rolled his eyes. "Several years ago, she was a financial auditor. Her own consultancy, you know that? She single-handedly shut down a fraudulent deal between my government and another country. I approached her and made an offer. I trained her and taught her things-"

"General, that's my expertise, too. I rail in corporate crooks all the time. But I don't go round killing people..."

"Who ever said she kills people?"

"General Kitti-Khorn, please listen to me: so far we have William Hatfield, _dead_. A whole lotta guys plastered all over downtown Manila, _dead_. In fact I nearly got my ass shot off too." As he spoke he was counting his fingers. "That guy blown to smithereens in front of me yesterday, _dead_. One of our FBI agents attached to the embassy in Manila, _dead_ -"

"What are you talking about -- _an FBI agent?!"_ Kitti-Khorn demanded.

"That's right, my counterpart in the Philippines. They found him...at least what was left of him...a week ago." Tanaka threw his hands up. "General...what, exactly is going on here?"

"For starters, it was I who put her into the syndicate. I never asked her to kill anybody. They were supplying the rebels in Sri Lanka, and then they moved on to bigger and better things. Anna's job was to persuade them to move somewhere else. Look, I more than anybody am aware my country's reputation suffers when crimes occur here-"

"Tell us about it, pal, you're on practically every watch-list there is...human trafficking, copyright piracy, money laundering, and drugs...booby-trapped cell phones." He paused, thought better of berating the general.

Kitti-Khorn frowned.

"Sir...what is the relationship between Mister William Robert Hatfield and the syndicate and how did Anna fit into it?"

"Simple. She hired him. They worked together."

"Why did they set up in Manila? Surely better to stay here...?"

Kitti-Khorn beamed and clapped. "Bingo! They went there firstly to siphon the syndicate's money out of Thailand and secondly to transit the black boxes to the Middle East."

Tanaka felt his blood pressure rise. " _Money_ ...how much money?"

"Lots of it. _Millions._ "

Tanaka lowered his voice. "Is that why Hatfield was killed?"

Kitti-Khorn shook his head and smiled. "Not at all. Their boss was delighted and seized at the opportunity to get his fortune out. He put the contract out because the Hatfield boy had removed one of the items and reported it...to the FBI man in Manila."

"So where is all that money, now?"

"About two-thirds of it remains in Thailand and we're in the process of freezing it. One third was converted into hard currency deposits and transferred offshore."

"Where offshore, General Kitti-Khorn? _Where_?"

"You'll have to ask Anna. When all this is over I shall send her to your country to collect the black boxes. The _circuits_ , in case you've forgotten; they're ours. Unless you object. Ask her next time you see her." Kitti-Khorn chuckled.

Tanaka said nothing. Border Protection had an all-ports alert on her. Then again Anna could change her name or something. But he had the scans of her; they'd been forwarded to Customs and Immigration. Wasn't worth contradicting him, not right now. He could still 'disappear'. So could JJ Hatfield. He thought, over and over. He peered over the ruins of ancient Ayutthaya. Serene, bathed in the light of dusk, flags fluttering gently. Some monks in a group; saffron robes. He shivered.

"This is our heart and our soul, Special Agent Tanaka." Kitti-Khorn turned and stared at him, hard. "We live in uncertain times. And we will defend ourselves and we will do it, to the death if necessary. We have been here longer than you can ever imagine, we had our civilization when Europeans like you lived in caves. We will stay here. This is ours... _always._ "

Tanaka felt miffed; that really took the cake. First time in his entire life any person had ever called him a ' _European'_. Spent his whole life feeling not quite accepted...now he was getting it in reverse. Maybe the man was a lunatic, certainly an ultranationalist.

Simplistic and dangerous perhaps; they had guys who thought like that on the bureau's 'most wanted' list. But this guy just happened to be a general, and from a country that was one of their most important allies.

Not much was said on the journey back, to the room Tanaka had near Siam Square. This time a guard in plainclothes was outside his door and another downstairs. He couldn't get out, food was brought in and his cell phone had been jammed. He could go down to the lobby and restaurant and they served him albeit with suspicious looks.

He slept uneasily, sometimes waking to flick through the TV stations, there were some cable news channels and the rest of the broadcast was in _their_ language. It seemed their idea of entertainment was teary soap-operas and dramas with a lot of shooting but that was it. The anchorwomen were polished and smooth...attractive and strange...just like Anna. They purred like cats with a mellow voice he could not understand.

Early the next morning a banging on his door. Two soldiers, armed, possibly MPs. _And her_.

" _You! Packing now,"_ one of them said.

"Going somewhere?" Tanaka asked.

"Airport, then home."

Tanaka peered into the hallway. Next to them was Hatfield, he was handcuffed. He looked back at the MP who barked in broken English:

" _Evah-leebody out! You out from Thailand_!"

"With pleasure," replied Tanaka.

They were frog-marched straight past the reception counter, not a second glance from the two staff -- somebody had settled the bill. One of the MPs had their passports and some other papers. A military green van with a blue strobe light on the roof was waiting outside, they were pushed in. Anna squeezed in beside and unlocked JJ Hatfield. He mumbled something, didn't sound too happy he shook his hands like he was flicking mud off. They drove for a while; it was Anna who broke the ice.

" _Valentine's Day_ ," she said. She sat behind the MPs, and they sat up the back. She turned and leaned on the seat, watching JJ Hatfield. He never replied.

"Chocolates?" Tanaka asked. "Admirer somewhere...a card from Jack the Ripper?"

"Not talking to you, Special Agent Tanaka." She kept watching JJ Hatfield. "Your son and I never shared Valentine's, _you know that_?"

They were paying attention now, Anna was after some reaction.

"You might wish to check out the news bulletins on the fourteenth... _oh, I forgot_ ...you're always a day behind us. Each and every time, so far behind."

She turned back. Tanaka and Hatfield looked at each other; they had no idea what she was on about.

On the return journey he kept a close eye on JJ Hatfield. Looked like he'd picked up a cold, he wasn't doing so well now. Tanaka waited till he drifted off then he got his notebook computer and began tapping. Kitti-Khorn had given him some of the vital info and he could hang onto it, if ever needed.

The case was closed, anyhow. As for Anna... if she ever showed her face again on his patch he could nab her.

Nail her on The Patriot Act. Get her in a room a couple of weeks...grill her. She'd roll eventually. Needn't lay a finger on her; just play nonstop hip-hop into a padded cell with her locked up; keep it cranked right up all night long. She'd say something.

# Chapter Twenty-four

Major Lowenstein was edgy and so were the rest of the outfit; it had been a while now and not a peep out 'the Cat'. She'd promised to get hold of him quickly but his sense of timekeeping may have differed from the Thai version. In Kitti-Khorn and Padkee-Chayochaichana's case nothing could be further from the truth, they were the original clock watchers.

The jubilation from Arcana's side at the liquidation of Chen the wizard was now sidelined by a sense of greater urgency. The rest of the syndicate had to be dealt with before they could disperse. One thing, the world felt safer, the supply of guidance boxes cut off at the neck.

Hirsch and the services kept up the mantra: ' _Be patient...be patient'_. But it got on Lowenstein's nerves, got on all their nerves. The land unit had to meet _'the Cat's'_ controllers too. She'd made promises; all kinds. Commitments, backup and hardware on offer. One good deed deserved another.

Where was she?

A _'tap-tap-tap'_ on the metal gate to the front of the bungalow, about nine pm.

The running man jumped up, drew his gun from a baggy pocket and checked the peephole. The door was a good one, metal framed countersunk into the masonry dwelling, solid golden teak with flush bronze hinges and a three-way lock that secured it. It was sweltering inside, Lowenstein had the barred windows open and air-con off so he could listen. Neighborhoods here were always noisy; it was when the noise stopped, it meant trouble...

That door could stop a gang with tomahawks and clubs; they'd forgotten window-screens to keep mosquitoes out, though. Strange, builders here never installed mesh screens.

At the gate was somebody in black clothing and a parked up motorcycle with a crate on the back -- a pizza delivery -- looked exactly the same as a pizza-man anywhere. The running man opened the door slowly and walked to the gate covered by C41 the signaler, holding a self-loading carbine trained on the deliveryman's upper body.

The pizza-man greeted him. Lowenstein replied; his language abilities still shaky after a decade or more. The local insisted in speaking his version of English. Still inside the yard, Lowenstein tucked the auto into his belt behind his back, one hand upon it.

"We haven't ordered this."

"Yes you did _mistah._ _Four hun'red Baht, please_ ," replied the boy.

The running man shook his head. "There must be some mistake. We've eaten. Nobody has sent for pizza." _What kind of idiot would order pizza in Thailand? Four hundred Baht, in the night stalls, all you can eat for a week..._ He scanned the road, nothing out of the ordinary. He was careful to remain behind the gate post and keep the barrier shut. He nodded to his side.

"Maybe the place to the left?"

The delivery boy stepped back and read the indeterminable street numbering on the whitewashed supports before insisting again. "No _mistah_ , this house for sure." This time he held the two boxes out. "Four hun'red Baht please."

_Pay up and get him on his way. Don't create a scene._ He eased his hand off the automatic to his wallet, lower down.

"You order one Mexican Chili and one Vegetarian. You tell shop 'no pork', _okay-mai_? You Islam, _nah_?" Punk-kid had a look of bemusement on his face.

Took a second and the running man froze. Squeezed that Browning Hi-Power in his belt; feather-light, charged and ready. He checked the street and the boy as well as the motorcycle next to him. _Carefully_.

"Four hun'red Baht please."

"Open it," whispered the running man.

The boy muttered something and opened the lids, one then two.

" _On the ground!"_

The boy scowled and squatted down. _Food to be eaten put on the ground -- crazy_.

The running man pulled his wallet and unfolded a mauve five hundred note with his left hand, the right hand still on the auto. Passed the banknote through the gate.

"Keep the change."

The boy broke into a grin. " _Thank you velly big, mistah_." He jumped on his scooter and whizzed away. He could take the night off.

Inside the running man and C41 examined the pizzas and the boxes they came in. _Smelt just great and hadn't exploded yet._ Stuck in there was a little pamphlet, tucked between the flat boxes. It advertised all manner, scripted in Roman and Thai...deals, voucher rewards and special flavors. After a second check the toll-free number on the voucher was different to the one on the flat pizza box.

"Get on the net and check the company," said Lowenstein.

The number on the box was the correct one. He seized the iPhone and dialed the other number on the voucher and it rang with a monotonous beep before a voice answered. A Thai man speaking English: _"Bangkok City, Lumphini Park, tomorrow oh-nine-thirty at the lake; come alone,"_ before hanging up. The running man redialed and it went straight to a whirring tone, like a fax machine. Put the cell on the table and lifted the lid...the pizzas with no pork.

"Mister Gold, sir...may I have a piece?" mumbled C41.

Major-General Soronai Kitti-Khorn dumped the cell on the table and smiled at Pakdee. Spread out all over the floor of her place on the seventh floor was an array of maps, flow-charts, lists and diagrams.

"Shook him up, somewhat," he remarked.

Pakdee giggled. "He'll sleep well tonight... _not!_ Probably has a rent-boy with him. Maybe we interrupted something-"

Kitti tapped her. "Their defense force couldn't care less. I was over there once on official business and saw pretty young things straight off a magazine cover; they were decked out in full combat gear." He admonished her. "Don't ridicule the guy. He's been in all the big ones. One of the best there ever was -- that's why they got him back."

Kitti-Khorn fondled a map, a map of a river and a raised bridge; a multi-lane highway. "I'm sure I know the voice." He nodded his head, in thought. "I'll remember when I see him face to face."

"Tomorrow," said Pakdee.

Kitti dumped the map down and turned to her, he stared into her eyes. "Miss Anna, you're completely sure you really have to return to Pakchong?"

"What needs to be done, so it shall be done _My General_ ," she replied. "I do not fear."

Pakdee lifted a page up and pointed. On it were names and descriptions of the syndicate members: the head of the organization was 'The Tamil', a Canadian. The other principals were also foreigners, one Nigerian and a UK national. And all the backups, the Gurkhas. They stayed by the Ulsterman's side -- _Walker_ \-- the one she was after, more than anything.

"I want them. They're mine..."

"Leave that to _Arcana_ ," replied Kitti. "They'll do the dirty work."

"I'll set the trap," said Pakdee. " _Greed_ \-- it always works. I've done it once and I can do it again."

"What's special about the fourteenth?" asked Kitti.

She only looked blank. "Sunday," replied Pakdee. "Less traffic on the bridge."

The lake was empty, all the little pleasure boats moored in a line. The city park was an oasis; a set of lungs, a filter for the capital of ten million-plus.

The running man had come unarmed, a calculated choice but he dared not risk arrest. He checked the park and its surrounds, then his watch, nine-fifteen. He waited nervously. At nine-twenty-nine precisely he saw them approach, _'the Cat'_ and a Thai man. They halted -- she looked furious.

"Enjoy the cyanide we sprinkled in the pizzas?" she snapped. "You love it, _you know that?_ " Pakdee was ready to rip Lowenstein's throat out.

Kitti held up one finger at her. "Get in the boat and take the oars Miss Anna," he said in English. They climbed and she seized the oars. They hopped in facing her and she rowed the tiny boat across the brown lake.

" _I would protest at that remark!_ We do _not_ find that amusing," snarled the running man, his voice rising and gesturing angrily. His voice echoed around the tranquil lake.

_Rattled your cage._ Pakdee smiled sweetly at his reaction _._

"I apologize for that," said Kitti-Khorn. He frowned at her. "But you nearly blew my associate's head off."

"Don't pretend you don't know anything." She let fly: "The charge almost got me too, not to mention other innocent people...I had to throw away my lovely outfit and my hairdo messed up! Blood! _Pieces of a man's skull_ _!_ I still have ringing in my right ear-"

For the second time Kitti raised his finger, warning her in Thai. Then English: "Could we please take a moment and start again please?"

The running man stared back at Pakdee who was glaring at him, like a Mexican standoff, all that was missing was the saloon, the horse-trough and the six-shooters. Then again she may have been armed. He turned away and searched around the shore of the lake. A minder in a dark safari suit was milling around the lake's edge, clutching a Motorola two-way. He was big, brown and bullnecked, watching them.

"My guys," said Kitti. He lit a smoke then offered one to the running man.

"Thank you."

"Major-General Soronai Kitti-Khorn; pleased to finally meet."

Kitti extended his hand, but the running man returned the _wai_ ...the prayer greeting of the Buddhists.

Fair enough. Kitti did the same.

"I carry the name ' _Gold'_ but as were clearly in a business negotiation, let's just say I represent the organization _Arcana_."

Kitti leaned closer to the running man. "The name you carry, my friend, according to passenger records is Brian Patrick Flannery, born in County Cork, Ireland. Nice try _,_ Major Ariel Ezra Lowenstein." He leaned back, satisfied. "Your reputation precedes you but do not be alarmed. I thank you for your service to the Kingdom, now and in previous decades."

Lowenstein frowned, yet again somebody who knew too much. It was irritating. Pakdee coughed at the smoke, tilting her head. At the center of the pond she ceased moving the oars abruptly and glared at him. Behind her on the stern was a small chain used to secure the boat from thieves at night. She turned and took it in her hand, playing with it; she kept looking at the running man as he and the general were talking.

She smiled. _Boot's on the other foot..._ then she stopped, had the guy sweating now. They had to discuss the takedown.

Lowenstein squinted, something on his mind. "Have we met before?"

"You tell me, have we?" replied Kitti.

Pakdee dropped the chain in the bow-space behind her, he flinched. She looked cold, expressionless. The running man's heartbeat rose slightly. Had he and this general ever crossed paths? _Maybe..._ he was in civvies so he couldn't verify the rank; it was possible for ambitious types to rise through the ranks and a lot of water had gone under the bridge since the nineties. _A whole ocean or a swamp._

Kitti-Khorn adored the lake and his thoughts always turned to when he was young. He would come with his parents and watch the little model yachts sail up and down. Nowadays the hobbyists raced noisy RC power boats across the lake but that was on weekends; today it was peaceful.

"One thing, if I may return to what was raised before," said Kitti. You cannot go freelance here. "We can; _you cannot_."

"You've lost me."

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. Does the incident in _Chinatown-Yaowarat_ mean anything?"

_No point trying to deny any longer._ "Look me in the eyes and tell me the world is _not_ a better place," said Lowenstein.

"If you had bothered to let us know we could have captured him."

The running man shook his head. "We do not confirm or deny any responsibility for this."

"So you know, right?"

"I think the whole world knows by now, my friend," replied the running man. "Chen Hsieh-Tsu made the news bulletins around the world. One report even had a repertoire of his criminal dealings and who may have wanted him dead. They even mentioned our country's security service..."

"We could have taken him in." Kitti lit another cigarette. "Chen was ours; you just got to him first."

"He was pissing on our patch and _he paid the price_ ," growled the running man. "What did you have in mind? A consultancy to your armed forces? You know how it is; money buys you anything in this place."

"Do _not_ play moral high ground with me," said Kitti. "So-called developed countries are exactly the same! You give countries like mine kickbacks dressed up as foreign aid packages, your governments and multinationals accept _much_ larger bribes and the only difference is you issue a receipt and a tax deduction for them-"

Pakdee interrupted. "I think perhaps a good idea to discuss our plans." She started rowing across the lake, this time in the direction of Kitti's minder. She stared at the running man as she rowed. "You work with us now, not against us. _You know that?"_

Kitti dropped a large document folder between them. "Everything in there has been prepared. I need your assurance it will be shredded and burnt when you're done."

The running man nodded. "Agreed."

A lot of work had gone into the proposal. Kitti produced a pocket book and a gold pen. "I'll run you through what's inside. It's just a summary of what you have there."

They discussed it in detail for the next hour and a half at one stage returning to the minder on the shore and sending for water. They had some details to iron out but generally in agreement with most stages of the takedown. It was close to lunch by the time they wound up.

Kitti faced the running man. "The one thing I cannot stress enough -- not one bystander or any innocent civilian is to be harmed."

"Not a single one," added Pakdee. "I'll be on the ground and I can hook up after the vehicles are neutralized. I'll be with the criminals from Pakchong and I shall lead them to their deaths."

The running man shook his head. _She was completely mad,_ he figured _. Unbalanced._ "Why have we not looked at getting them at their hideout? You've set this all out...you could be shot."

"I do not fear," replied Pakdee. "Are you afraid?"

"It has to be on the bridge," said Kitti. "They have bailout plans, congressmen in their pockets. Local police would arrive and a battle would erupt. There is an armed forces base nearby Pakchong. Your people could be trapped. This way is better."

The running man turned away and looked around the huge open area. Others were arriving and others were paddling the boats around the lake. Finally he answered. "Okay, okay. Give me twenty four hours and I'll confirm it with you."

"Confirm it with her." The general shifted his head to Pakdee who was still rowing; now back to the tiny jetty. "Today has been your first and last point of contact from where I'm concerned."

"Fine, I just need to report to my superiors, you know how it is."

"That's all been taken care of," said Kitti.

"Excuse me?"

They climbed out of the boat and walked up to the shaded area. It was an immaculate garden, not a blade of grass out of place. Huge monitor lizards stared at them, like plastic toy dinosaurs. The general reached for his cigarette packet before screwing it up in his hand. _Empty_. He and Pakdee walked over to the minder, still waiting. A few yards away he stopped and turned.

"I was going to catch up with Abe Hirsch at year's end year for a round of golf. You know there's the issue of our small arms."

"Go on..."

"Decisions; decisions...so many choices," mused Kitti.

"You've lost me, General Kitti-Khorn," said the running man.

"Really it comes down to the issue of equipment for our regular troops. Think about it, my friend...which are the two best NATO caliber rifles around today? The _Colt M4_ and the _Galil_ of course," said Kitti. "Our troops in the deep south need new arms. That's the choice and it's a tough one. So help us make up our minds and choose wisely. Good for your cash-strapped economy; good for our homeland security."

The penny dropped. _A huge deal...assault rifles_. They had been played, him and the entire unit. He knew better than to chase after them or start badgering.

"Oh, by the way," said Kitti. "Thanks so much for digging my associate out a rather deep hole in Manila. Keep your cell switched on; we'll be in touch soon."

Kitti leaned and tapped Pakdee on her shoulder; she tossed her head back as they headed to the gate of Lumphini Park leaving the running man there alone to stare at his feet a while and just take it all in. A stout gray lizard the size of a small gator blocked his path back to the gate. Felt like lashing out with a swift kick at the reptile but decided against it.

"Why was I not told?" Lowenstein shouted at the screen, C41 pretending not to listen as he adjusted reception on the scrambled signals. Then the signaler moved to the other room to fine tune the direction of the little mesh disk, or at least try to. Unseasonal thunder was causing problems with the connections. The running man and the brass kept on yelling at each other. The video link was intermittent that evening, only aggravating things.

" _We're doing their job for them!"_

" _No, Ari,_ this is not the case... It has been made clear; they want the syndicate closed down as much as we do. Their armed forces cannot just go in and finish it, to do so would be catastrophic and would trigger a political crisis due to the influence the players have there."

The running man paced around in circles in the room. "Okay then so why didn't we know from the start? We could have by-passed the Philippines altogether. All we did was a search and rescue for them...to locate her."

"I didn't know at that stage, in any case you're being paid... _so what?_ The job was exactly as intended. None of us knew. She was bait-"

"And we got hooked," Lowenstein blurted out. "So when _did_ you know if you don't mind me asking?"

Hirsch looked away as if checking on something. "It was after you had extracted the woman _Jaisuwan_ , or whatever her name is. She had disappeared completely, possibly to guarantee her own safety. Then your people picked her up and she managed to get in contact with the general. That's when he contacted our people. The spooks contacted me and filled me in on the whole thing."

The running man did another circuit of the room. "They were pissed about the tag on the Chinese target, you know that."

Hirsch chuckled. "He had to go. _The prick_."

"So true."

"I just needed to show them who is in charge," replied Hirsch.

The running man paced around, his hand under his chin. "It gave her a good rattle. She had a big cry about this, nearly got her too. And that stubborn cop from Washington. I only just found out myself."

"That reminded me, one last thing."

"What's that?"

"Kitti-Khorn and his lackeys have made one offer. If the takedown fails or if any of you are detained he has promised to intervene. He has a group of extremely powerful backers. Military brass; the cops are afraid of them."

"How decent of him. I'll ensure that won't happen."

"I count on you then. Good luck."

"Sir, one other thing, have you ever met this Major-General Kitti-Khorn fellow? He seems to know you. I'm sure I've dealt with him in the old days, but not on official business."

Hirsch looked away momentarily. "I do know him, but only as a contact with the Royal Thai Army."

"What was your relationship with him if I may be so bold to ask?"

"He's some kind of expert in the field of acquisitions. He advises his people on foreign purchase orders. He's on some panel or board and answers to his chiefs-of-staff."

" _Specifically?"_

"Classified Ari, I cannot enter into that. Kitti-Khorn knows his stuff though, anything from ordinance through to infantry."

The running man said nothing further, waiting a few moments before snapping a halfhearted salute at his boss. Knew better than to pry, there was a fine line between giving 'em a piece of his mind and downright insubordination. He'd seen it his whole life, this was just another one. _Just business as usual; you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours._

# Chapter Twenty-five

Bruce Lee the hero, the little guy pitted against gangsters. He came to the Kingdom and was up this way just before she was born. _'The Big Boss'_ was one of her favorites as a child, Pakdee remembered how the travelling cinema-man would arrive in an old pickup, he'd erect a screen and play movies in her village. Outdoors in the dry season. A penny to sit in the dust and watch Kung Fu movies all night long...a stationary engine that smoked the villagers out. No TV or electricity in those days. Nobody needed it.

She still loved Bruce Lee, she'd study the moves sometimes...try her best to copy them...but nobody could be that good, not even Pakdee.

Pakchong in the hills _..._ Lee was long gone but the real-life gangsters never really left. Traffickers, forestry poachers, the politicians with money and connections; they all had weekend villas up here; they came and went.

She knew they would search her so she emptied out things like her cell phone and ditched them in the trunk. The last thing to come off was her trusty Walther she had near her ankle. At all times, she had something from Kitti -- she carried it on 'planes, near schools, even courthouses.

She parked behind the police station and caught a motorcycle taxi, heading out of town toward an area on the edge of the mountain range. At a junction the sealed road ended reverting to a dusty track and they halted. When she jumped off the cyclist berated her, the area was deserted and some of the villas belonged to entities known euphemistically as the _'unusually rich and influential'_. Considerate of him, he offered to wait and watch but she refused, handing extra to cover the return to town. She didn't want him anywhere nearby; the syndicate would kill the little guy and burn his Yamaha. Took him a while to unfold change but she shook her head and turned on her heel.

She stood alone in the deserted place before walking further on; the hot days were returning and dry winds from the northern plains blew dust into the air, all under the shadow of the foothills to the south. She arrived at a gate with a guard house but it was empty like the dirt track; she was well aware of what the gang had been doing there. Alone but she was being watched from two sides.

" _Who-zat! Atta-boy; atta-girl – get 'em!_ _Ooo-zat..._ _"_ The Belfast man growled and on command the guard dogs bounded toward the figure outside the distant gate. The male and female _Argento_ mastiffs -- both pure white -- had been taken from the same litter as pups. Over one hundred and twenty pounds each and trained to take down mountain lions, they charged toward the access road, snarling and galloping like thoroughbreds.

She could see the mansion in the distance, run down and overgrown. The mastiffs roamed free and would attack and kill any intruder who strayed on the grounds, no maintenance staff entered and the place looked like a refuse tip. Straight away she recognized the Ulsterman, the one who bragged of being in the elite Special Air Service but in reality had served as a British marine; three tours. He recognized her and broke into a sprint toward the gate.

Pakdee crouched and squatted, bowing her head and breathing calmly as the trained dogs drew level with her -- each animal equal to her own body weight -- the canines grew quiet and poked their noses at her legs and licked at her hands. The first one rubbed against her and she cautiously began to tickle the beast under the jaw; she remembered the male loved that but the cautious female was more vigilant, making some grunts and snorting as she eased the gate open.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," she said as the Ulsterman strode up to her.

Walker yelled at the dogs but they only wriggled playfully on the ground. He whipped out a heavy revolver, aimed at her head and cocked the hammer. He was shaking his head in disbelief. _"How the hell-"_

"Maybe you should talk to your sugar daddy first."

He curled his lips, shaking his head, his arm quivering, the Belfast loyalist brogue turning more sinister: "You're _fecking_ dead meat, _sweetheart_ ," he snarled, raising the black Python once more, aiming a kick at the dog nearest him. It yelped and darted away.

Hugging the rifle into his cheek, the land unit's sharpshooter had one particular specialty above all others. He could drop a direct hit on a golf ball at four hundred yards, given the right tools and conditions. Next to him was his assistant who was trained on the scene before him. The sniper raised his eye from a Schmidt and Bender scope mounted upon the rifle, a TRG, designed to split an engine block from half a mile. That's how far the gate to the estate was from where they lay prone, maybe more.

Boredom...the lot of a specialist rifleman. Sit in a place twenty hours not flinching, the targets show for three seconds, two rounds and two hits with an inner. Just to earn a place on the course...

He eased off his forefinger. He was dying to try the thing out; he'd used them before but not in his own country. This rifle had been stolen from a private hunter's chalet in Europe, serial numbers drilled out and then it found its way onto the black market before entering Thailand inside a diplomatic pouch. In a country flooded with concealable firearms of every description, a tactical rifle like the _Sako TRG_ was difficult to obtain. They were decreed _'weapons of war'_. He had some trepidation, it hadn't been tested but the assurance it had been 'bedded' helped. They had clear orders: in the event _'the Cat'_ was in mortal danger they would fire, she would run and they would flee to the south and await pickup on a trail inside the national park. The danger lay in the first few minutes after she had arrived at the villa.

The sniper chuckled. "You know the chief wanted to send _blue-eyes_ up here instead but decided against it."

"Come again?"asked his spotter.

" _I meant Agent Blue!_ Talk is the _Saffer_ chick wants to tap _'the Cat'_ herself..."

The range finder eased away from his telescope. "Serious?"

The sniper smiled. "That ' _baby-sit'_ down there knocked Ms. Blue's lights out back in Manila."

" _Shittin_ ' _me_ ; I wouldn't mind knocking _her_ lights out." He took a long look in the riflescope. The crosshairs were on the one with the revolver; Pakdee to the side.

"She's an oddball I'll say that...wouldn't kick her out of the bathtub in a hurry."

"Sick...maybe kick your ass, _Fabio_. There's talk she's in the _industry_ herself."

Something made the spotter check the eyepiece of his equipment once more. A third figure was walking into the frame, had a swagger like he owned the place. Rangefinder clenched his fist. "Looks like the big boss," he whispered.

Pakdee stiffened and stared at the Tamil, not sure whether she'd be shot or welcomed in. He spoke first, pretending to make light and act surprised.

" _Anna!_ Long time no see. I trust all is well, isn't it?" he continued. He still spoke in the accent of his birthplace mixed with a hint of North American added: "I was hoping we could catch up, isn't it? We need to talk-"

" _Talk,_ " she snapped. "Who had the bright idea of trying to kill me then?" She continued the verbal onslaught on the Tamil; he was spineless when confronted.

"No, you must understand, please," attempting to placate her. "We must talk."

The Ulsterman interrupted: "I can deal with this problem, right here; right now."

The Tamil raised his hand. "Leave it, we need her."

He started to speak but Pakdee broke in first: "Maybe you should tell him," jerking her thumb at the marine who was fingering his revolver. "Money problems?" she snapped. "Missing something?"

Walker stepped forward and pushed her violently with both hands opened; she stumbled back and regained her composure. "Hands up _sweetheart_." As he was patting her down as she gritted her teeth; when satisfied he rested the muzzle against her womb. "You'll keep..."

It was a good view. They were on a ridge with primary forest further up the saddle that opened out to monsoon scrub where they were, slightly off the razorback with a sharp drop to the side. _Perfect_. Nobody could trace the shot and even if anybody did they could skirt the drop-off and get away fast, into the rainforest behind. The sniper pushed his cheek into the composite stock of the tactical and moved the crosshairs over the tallest one and gently exhaled, resting the lines just under Walker's ear. His hand tightened and the dual stage trigger, it shifted a fraction under his forefinger.

"Stand down," whispered the rangefinder next to him, raising a clenched fist.

He relaxed. The two villains had turned and were walking behind her toward the building. The sniper eased his finger from the guard and carefully lifted the breech-bolt before facing his buddy. _"Nearly,"_ he said. "Could've dropped both of 'em."

"Yep," replied the range finder, opening a satellite phone. "I'll check in." He spoke for a moment and sat up, flexing his fingers and shoulders. Rangefinder spoke to base then shut the Iridium.

"Looks like we're here for the duration," mumbled the sniper. Almost subconsciously he stroked the butt of the weapon. It was green; it matched the jungle and the hills that lay behind.

Now _'the Cat'_ was inside they would be in for a long and dull afternoon. Their instructions were to watch and wait until the targets had departed, they would go in, and liquidate any remaining personnel with silenced weapons before removing hard-drives and documents. Then blow the place using a remote timer once they had made rendezvous in the national park that stretched beyond into the ranges behind. That could be tonight, tomorrow, next weekend.

Inside the villa appeared rundown and shabby, nothing like the lifestyles of the rich and famous. The syndicate had its fortune well stashed, then she got to it; not a penny spent here. Pakdee had only dealt with the Tamil in Bangkok -- she was the first female to visit the syndicate's lair in ages if ever. This place was musty and only served as a bunker.

In another room she listened as a fierce argument ensued between the Tamil and Walker. Seated on a grubby sofa in the room with her was one of the Gurkhas, unarmed. The stocky Nepali did not even look at her; he sat expressionless. Pakdee touched her hair and crossed her leg but he did not budge. His build and facial features were similar to those of a Laotian tribesman and her eyes fixed upon a talisman he was wearing, similar to her own -- the man also worshipped the Lord Buddha as she did. Very discretely she scratched herself below the neck revealing her own sacred image and this was the only time his eyes moved. Other Nepalese henchmen guarded the perimeter of the compound. Unlike other sentries who lounged in a fixed point these guards alternated between a rapid jog and a march; they seldom stopped and the two white canines would follow. There was a further pool of the Gurkhas down in Bangkok that could be rustled up if needed. They spent their days hawking suits to western tourists, they looked like local Thais but their English was polished after service in Her Majesty's Armed Forces.

The guards were Hindu; some were Buddhist and a few Islam. The term _'Gurkha'_ was generic. They were all elite. Mental and physical toughness others only aspired to. The guard stood and moved to the entrance as the Tamil entered the room with an idiotic look on his face, followed by Walker.

"Okay sweetheart, cast your mind back a few weeks...let's run through what happened in Manila," demanded the Ulsterman, Walker.

"I was hoping you might tell me," she replied. "I go with Hatfield to collect some paperwork, next thing he's kidnapped."

"Anna," the Tamil spoke with a comforting tone. "Where did you go after that?"

"Away," she answered. The two men exchanged looks. "Wouldn't you?" Walker began to speak but she cut him off: "You might want to let me know if you had a _closing down_ sale on the Manila franchise..."

" _Shaddap,_ lady!" roared Walker turning to his boss. "Two of me fellas; blokes I served with -- two of the best operators I know -- go in there to pick her up, _she_ walks out and they get scraped off the street." He shook his head.

" _You went in there to kill me_!" Pakdee shouted. " _Think_ , would you," she said. "The American was killed first." She paused. "If you bother to listen to me I'll tell you who really did kill your guys."

The Tamil was thinking of his money: "Our accounts," he pleaded. "Just return the funds and you can go." He produced an envelope with a stamp with handwriting on the cover.

Pakdee took the envelope and removed the note inside. It was a printout identifying the Caribbean accounts, the final of three and the largest. This one was in her name and the other two in William Robert Hatfield's name, sent by post before that. She turned her to the wall, hoping not to reveal her inner anger; she was seething. _They'd gotten their hands on the last one, somehow. Took it off Will. After they murdered him..._

"Come on Raj, the dough's gone. We've been gypped," snapped the Ulsterman. "We got this off your boyfriend in RP before he managed to post it..."

"There's only six million here," she said, turning and jabbing the printout. She moved closer to the Tamil. Maybe you should tell _your boyfriend_ about the other two accounts..." She waved her thumb at Walker. The Tamil reached and tried to snatch the letter but she held onto it.

" _You-_ "

"Don't know do you?' she said to the Ulsterman. Pakdee sneered then laughed, catching her breath. The Tamil was on the defensive. "Why don't you tell him?" She waved the printed sheet at Walker. "The other accounts..."

" _What_ other accounts?" he bellowed.

The Tamil was flustered now and his partner was turning against him; this was exactly as she loved it -- _her way_. Their days were numbered.

"Maybe you might just consider this: your two guys in Manila...who got them?" She faced Walker. "Maybe you should ask your boss exactly who he's been doing business with..." She kept on and the Tamil kept trying to hush her.

"He was shipping the Chinaman's handiworks out to the Middle East! _Egypt!_ I can get an airway bill and show you..." She caught her breath. "Your boss was selling the electronics to militants who used it to shoot down two Apache helicopters over Gaza City!"

She shook her head and stole a look at the guard; the hired muscle had understood alright, his eyes had widened. It was the first time he had changed expression. Walker cursed; he seized the Tamil by the shirt, forcing him against the wall.

"Raj, _you maniac_ ...what have you done? This was not the deal!"

" _Listen to me_!" she cried out. "These guys will hunt you down; they will come after me and they will wipe everybody out, just as they did in Manila," indicating the guard standing there. "The only chance is to stick with me, I'll transfer the accounts, we split and we may just have a chance."

Pakdee slowly moved between the armed Ulsterman and the Tamil who was pinned, the black muzzle of the Python under his chin. "I can take you there. We must take great care but we go to neutral territory."

They looked at her and Walker lowered the gun.

"Rayong," she said. "My moneymen are there." She moved slightly. "I can start the process, takes two hours and usage of a fixed-line 'phone as well as a secure server. I have to Skype my broker in Panama City, so he knows it's me for sure. Otherwise I'd do it right now..."

As she turned it was the guard who blocked her way, not like she could run anywhere. They stared. The man blinked. Only her mouth moved. The Gurkha looked away. Something he didn't like -- he also was a Buddhist, he also came from Asia and he believed in the supernatural. She had something like some old people did back in the Himalayas. But he was meant to serve the foul-mouthed Walker -- his boss -- to the bitter end.

"You ain't goin' nowhere," the Belfast accent growled.

"Up to you," said Pakdee. "You want your money back that's how things get done. You will collect me in exactly three days' time opposite the bus terminal. We head to Rayong."

"And the funds?" The Tamil spoke.

"Returned in full. I can arrange safe passage from here into Cambodia by taxi; if you disagree I can order transport in a covered lorry to Sadao on the southern border and a boat from there to Penang."

"Raj, we let her out of our sight and we'll be stuck high and dry," pleaded Walker.

"Sunday the fourteenth at the terminal," said Pakdee.

"Anna," said the Tamil. _"Why first thing Sunday?"_

"Simple," she said. "The merchant banks in Panama do business late on Saturdays and we're about fourteen hours ahead of their time zone. They'll still be trading."

Pakdee held out the envelope to the Tamil but it was Walker who snatched it and stuffed it in his pocket. "Don't forget to bring it with you and I'll have the other two papers with me," she said.

The Tamil, Walker and the guards stared at her as she moved slowly to the timber door and stood on the deck before walking to the unsealed road. Anytime she was expecting a bullet in the back but it never came. Nearly dark, she needed to get out. The whole time the _Arcana_ shooters in the jungle were covering her every move. The tactical rifle had a box-clip full of AP rounds. The ammo could penetrate the stucco walls killing anyone inside the dwelling, even if the bad guys took cover.

She turned and called out: _"Three days' time, seven a.m. outside the eastern bus station!"_ Pakdee wondered where the Nigerian had gotten to; he wasn't there and she wasn't game to ask. She felt like she'd taken something from a department store without paying, she waited a minute to see if they'd chase after her.

The first time she met the syndicate, nearly two years ago. She'd been put in there to keep an eye on them. The Tamil was attending some kind of fundraising high-society gala event in the city and Kitti had dragged her down there. The army elite were becoming concerned at the syndicate's involvement in local politics and wanted them shut down. If anything the general and his associates were too late. The syndicate had become influential, buying political favors and greasing more palms than a breadline after an earthquake.

The syndicate had been supplying the Tamil Liberation Tigers, and they'd been doing so for years. As the war raged on in Sri Lanka the syndicate grew; it started with the Tamil and his Nigerian partner who went by the title, _the_ _Very Reverend Samuel Ojukowne._

_The Tamil_ , otherwise known as Raj or 'Reggie' had little in common with his birthplace Sri Lanka apart from childhood memories. His family arrived with the wave of immigrants who'd poured into British Columbia and settled in Vancouver...other provinces of Canada disparagingly referred to BC as _'Van-Kong'_. The sole child of academic parents he'd attended the army officer training school in Ontario with average grades until arrested by the Mounties in connection with the theft of three Minimi light machine guns that had found their way into the storage shed of a Quebec-based outlaw club. After serving a prison sentence of six years he was handed a down-payment on his inheritance and from that point disowned. Setting up shop in Thailand was easy with his connections once he'd left North America; he certainly wasn't the biggest crook in Asia but he had his ambitions.

The Tamil had a ready supply of war-toys that could be sourced in Cambodia and moved to eager customers. The weapons were declared as motorcycle parts, exorbitant duties paid and the contraband shipped in twenty-foot sea containers via Bangkok Port. At worst the authorities in Madras, India would snip the bolt-seals on the containers where they would be greeted by a pile of dismantled and greasy motorcycle wrecks...not the kind of cargo any customs official would wish to ruin their smart uniforms by attempting to search through. Especially considering all duties and other payoffs went through on time, every time -- why interrupt the free flow of trade? A Kalashnikov rifle purchased in Sihounoukville for fifty dollars would fetch many times that amount if successfully delivered to a trawler crew in the south of India. Like most international traders the Tamil never went near his produce; it was the farmers who did all the work and the middlemen who kept all the profit...

Reverend Ojukowne had served as a minister, preaching to a Christian minority in the northern city of Kano, Nigeria. He found himself on a blacklist after multiple rape offenses; he'd fled, stealing all the church assets which were enough to pay for a bad new start in the Orient. Not only the local authorities had him in their crosshairs; so did local Islamic militants. Running streetwalkers in Bangkok and even squeaky-clean Singapore, he rose to the upper echelons of the so-called African Mafia. He could get anything, anywhere -- the exception being guns. _That was the Tamil's forte._ Anything else such as documents, money transfers and fake passports, he pulled them out of thin air.

The last and worst of the trio was _Mister Walker_ , a legacy of the Afghan war. A castoff who joined thousands of others like him, he milled around places like Phuket and Phnom Penh, hoping he'd snag one of the lucrative 'contractors' jobs in Baghdad but they were all long gone. He did get lucky when groups of criminals from the UK started using his talents for terrorizing fellow Europeans; one especially bad tantrum he threw resulted in the hospitalization of three foreigners -- two Irishman and one Belgian who later succumbed to injuries. The _'Irish Pub'_ or what was left of it was subsequently closed by the authorities. This was noticed by a very appreciative rival bar owner and that's where his career began. He started bringing in his other pals from Afghanistan...the Gurkhas to bolster his gang.

Before long the Tamil picked up on the Ulsterman's talents. The syndicate needed military skills. Gone were the days of petty bullying; he was in the big league once the Tamil and the de-frocked Nigerian took him on board. The syndicate was a genuinely cross-cultural gang of undesirables...they represented the very best, or very worst of internationalism. Being a low-life need not be restricted to any one group or culture. They sought each other out and stuck together -- like plastic explosives.

Nearly two years gone. So it was, at a lavish function by the river in the first City of Angels. High society rubbed shoulders and Pakdee of Phayao embarked on her career with the syndicate. She sipped a non-alcoholic drink and charmed her way into the gang with her credentials and an introduction from the general. That same evening a thousand miles to the west, the Sri Lankan Army was surrounding the Jaffna Peninsula; the government was wheeling in Swedish-made howitzers and burying the last pockets of resistance. The civil war there was drawing to a bloody end and as that conflict was in its final throes, her own private war was just beginning.

If you fight, sometimes you lose. When you don't fight, you always lose.

# Chapter Twenty-six

"We've _finally_ gotten the green light," announced Lowenstein, in English. An idyllic afternoon, on this day the running man was playing tour guide. The English was to divert any unwanted attention...any suspicions. European types with accents were nothing out of the ordinary. Not to matter, the only other visitors were local Buddhist worshippers and busloads of Chinese. The rest of them nodded, nobody said too much. More of a pep-talk, in each and every one of the land unit members was a psychiatrist just bursting to get out. Their defense force thrived on that -- appraisal and critiques, peer development and group sessions.

Go hard; work smart. We can never afford to lose a single conflict.

They'd assembled on a hill overlooking a bay that headed north. Above the lookout where they stood was a temple and on the other side was a naval signalers station and a memorial to a distinguished admiral who'd steered the Kingdom's navy through the choppy oceans of the early twentieth century. Colonial invaders teetered on every border, eagerly awaiting the first crack to appear in the resolve of the Siamese. Half a millennium the colonials waited in vain, the Thai race stood firm; they never flinched. It was modern-day incursion that posed a much greater threat, the _'Global Village'_ , some called it, now it was invading everybody's lounge room like a giant centipede tainting everything.

_Arcana_ ...part of the great foreign creature. At least they'd be heading home once the job was done. The syndicate would be headed down: _Deep down the crooks were all regular guys...six foot deep down._

"In a few hours' time we set forth," said Lowenstein. "This morning I had a teleconference with my controllers and the service..."

The running man lifted his right arm and pointed north. In the distance were the port facilities and further on was Bangkok City. Skeletal cargo cranes reached to the heavens like giant stick insects. Ocean-going car carriers queued in the gulf. One of the busiest ports in the region. The land unit members were all present. They looked like any tour group. Not quite fitness fanatics, not quite movie extras.

"We go in hard and we go in fast," he said. "To the north, just out of view is the bridge where this will unfold and all of you have been briefed on your roles." Lowenstein paused and breathed in. "I wish you all the best and a safe passage. We get in, we get it done and we get out. Straight to the airport once it's over..."

They moved to the railing and leaned over it. Below on the bay speedboats darted around; some towing parachutes, lines of umbrellas on the beach and buildings everywhere. Beneath the party was starting as dusk fell but they were turning in early. A perfect sunset and hopefully the gulf would remain free of cloud cover.

Make it look like the Russians had done it, they had plenty of motives but couldn't organize a fire at a gas-pump. Send the syndicate to hell with a bang. Not long now.

Dawn. Major-General Soronai Kitti-Khorn drove to the eastern outskirts of the city. He was at the wheel of his favorite personal car, an original 1959 MGA Twin-Cam that coughed and lurched through the crowded streets whenever he exercised it. Pakdee sat next to him. She never said out loud but she always questioned Kitti's sanity even keeping the thing.

_Boraan!_ (Ancient), she thought. _Didn't even have an automatic!_

For Pakdee, a suitable auto had to be German, black and traded up every eighteen months for a new model. Just about two tons, fifteen feet long and thirsty and a minimum of eight cylinders naturally, with gold plate trimmings on the hood and wheels. And a roof to keep the Bangkok rain off. Bulletproof windows and tires that never went flat...

She knew better...the old sports car once belonged to his late father who'd imported it new, driven it for many years then had it restored. The jalopy had been presented to a young Lt. Kitti-Khorn following his commission and graduation from _St-Cyr,_ in France. A proud day for father and son; Kitti Senior was a military man who'd resisted the Japanese occupation. The MGA was worth a lot more as a collectable. It had _provenance_ ...

Nothing much was said on the way. They looked innocent that morning -- the general a rich benefactor and Anna the spoilt mistress, out for a picnic. Without warning she tugged the general's sleeve.

"Let me out," she said. "I'll take the Skytrain."

Kitti pulled into a lane. "I can take you the whole-"

"Never mind, My General," she interrupted. "Best we are not seen together. As I hope you excuse me, but I wish to be alone a few moments, _you know that?_ "

Pakdee stepped out and bowed slightly at her controller before turning and gliding up an endless staircase. He watched her as she gracefully zipped up the stairs, two at a time.

_Backbone_ , he thought. _Today would be no picnic, not at all. Not for her._

The Mitsubishi six-wheeler plied the streets as the city was awakening. It had been stolen three days before by local figures before undergoing a complete makeover, right down to new ignition with keys and plates. The driver had been briefed in the art of basic sign language as used by deaf-mute people and he carried all necessary paperwork in case the vehicle was stopped by local gendarmes. Inside his pockets were licenses stuffed with tea-money.

Early, and eighty-five degrees. In the covered tray waited the rider and a third specialist with the motorcycles; both were sweating profusely under a layer of Kevlar. They were checking their signaling gear as the van cruised through the morning traffic jams. The specialist in the rear covered tray was fidgety considering he carried the weighty explosive device concealed in a traditional Siamese hat woven from palm fiber, two pounds of the stuff. The same compound that had been used on Chen Hsieh-Tsu overlaid on a sheet of leaded-vinyl. Designed to tumble and land dome-up with a hollow charge inside to maximize blast toward the sky without too much damage to the bridge or sideways burst for that matter. It could shred the truck if prematurely detonated.

"Relax," said the rider. "It's a normally closed trigger," indicating the device attached to the palm of her right hand. "The pin stays in 'till we drop the charge, okay."

" _What?!"_ snorted the operative. "Just hot in here, that's all."

The rider raised her hand; the first signal was broadcast over the communications. She adjusted her earpiece: "All good?"

The specialist nodded his head and looked directly at her. "I'm fine, Ma'am; I was more thinking of you. We do this kind of thing all the time-"

" _Shhh!"_ She interrupted. They were packing locally sourced nine-mills and three back-up clips each, compact enough to fit under a jacket but a hindrance. The six-wheeler halted and was idling. The time had come -- a final alert followed by radio silence until the interception on the bridge. The rider turned and tapped on the bulkhead between the cover and the driver's cab and the one up front clambered through a hatch. He pulled a full face crash helmet over his head and carefully mounted the motorcycle next to hers. The charged-laden hat was heavy, the pillion clutched it tightly. The helmets were heavy; they too were full of Kevlar with neck-flaps attached.

The rider glanced at the specialists and nodded. As the two motorcycles kicked into life she produced a disposable lighter and lit a pile of rags soaked with kerosene bundled together on the floor of the space they were in. Dropped the lighter into the rising flames, gunned the engine, and launched the machine into the drop door on the back of the tray, with the two men on their machine following suit.

A municipal worker with a broom and tin pan was sweeping the sidewalk, as he had done most mornings for the past decade. Paused from his task and became alarmed at the smoke billowing from the covered tray and the noise from within. He got the fright of his life as the rear of the truck crashed onto the tarmac and two huge motor cycles burst forth and disappeared down the alley way. A moment later the burning fuel engulfed the vehicle and black smoke filled the air. Distillate fires always burn slower and hotter than gas; there would be nothing left but a charred mess.

"Back to the real world," chirped the running man as he entered the room clapping his hands. C41 started upright in his chair and spun around toward the monitor, leaving his gaming unfinished. Lowenstein shook his head; amazed. He could see the cars moving on the screen, via satellite. _How could C41 immerse himself in these inane computer games when the real thing was unfolding?_

A large monitor before them projected a real-time image of the area surrounding the Bang Pakong crossing and the imagery was good for this time of year. Periodic glitches from satellite positioning were the only technical issues. As C41 adjusted and zoomed on the bridge the image was astounding.

"Amazing," remarked the running man. The weather held as predicted but clouds were moving through. On the screen the pickup vehicle and the smoke emissions could be seen as well as the five operatives huddled along the central barrier.

C41 zoomed out on the vista, punched the keyboard rapidly and markers appeared on the screen. He turned to the running man. "Sir, I've marked our guys and the target, see? North, south and western land unit."

"And the air unit?"

"Off the screen; ETA in five."

The Jet Ranger cruised over the eastern seaboard at an altitude of two thousand feet. The powerful machine glinted in the light of dawn and the pilot, a New Zealander who turned to his passenger with a friendly grin.

"Choice day for it, _hey Bro!_ "

The charter pilot's accent sounded like he had the flu. He was nursing a hangover as well. He'd flown everywhere from the icy and treacherous peaks of his birthplace to ferrying trekking parties in the Himalayas. They were the best civilian pilots in the world. The passenger grunted in reply, flashed a scowl and pointed toward the metropolis of Bangkok before returning to the map nestled in his lap.

_Strange,_ the pilot thought, _rude prick_.

The customer had come into the office two days earlier with cards, a pile of cash and a passport from some Latin American banana republic requesting a morning sightseeing tour apparently searching for scuba diving locations. Unusual -- the area was muddy and polluted. No decent diving to be found.

_Not to worry_ , the charter pilot thought. It had been a big session the evening before as he and a group of buddies gathered at a bar to watch the _All Blacks Sevens_ thrash their rivals via satellite dish. The Kiwi pilot was looking forward to the finals tonight; some beers, some pals, maybe a Valentine lovely from the bar after the match. His jovial mood evaporated like rubbing lotion the next time he turned to the passenger who lifted the map from his knees. Underneath, there it was...a firearm, just resting there.

The pilot heaved a sigh of disgust. _That's what you get for lax security._

"1484424 -- 715949 if you please," commanded the passenger, his English suddenly much improved. "Land the aircraft, _now_ ," he said. "If you do not comply I shall throw you out the door and fly it myself. Do it!"

"You're joking, _hey Bro_. We can't land there."

"I need to borrow your aircraft for a few hours. Land on the track by the fishponds, next to the white car. You won't be harmed. _Do it!"_

The specialist only glared at the charter pilot whilst pointing the pistol forward; there was no yelling or anything...in full control. _Message loud and clear._ The pilot dipped the Bell Jet Ranger and descended as instructed. The chopper sat with the rotors 'feathering' and out of the vehicle jumped another of the land unit's crew. He dashed over and dragged the pilot out, over to the trunk of the car. He bound the hostage with ties and bundled him in. The big ex-footballer barely crammed in the space as the lid was pressed on top, he was terrified. As the trunk clicked shut the captive could only listen as his chopper roared off.

"Don't try to kick your way out," yelled the voice from outside. Make any noise I'll pop a cap through." The other specialist yelled at the now closed trunk lid and thumped it with his hand. "In a couple of hours we'll free you. Be nice and we'll return your chopper with a full tank."

The pilot heard the voice over the noise of his precious helicopter receding into the distance. In the darkness, he could see holes beneath him and light, he could get air. His back and shoulders were touching against something cold...freezing cold. They'd placed a bag of ice there, covered by a layered towel, it was melting but at least he wouldn't die of heat stress. The towel was soaked; the Kiwi could suck at the moisture if he felt parched.

They'd thought of everything. He'd survive. Rain-check on the rugby, though...

The two-row-passenger truck had been belching smoke for a mile or so to the south of the raised bridge. When it finally did grind to a standstill right in the middle section the impatient traffic honked and swerved around the ancient pickup with the benches in the rear. Two men were in the front and several seated in the back as the vehicle hugged the middle concrete barrier. All of them attired in the rags of the modern-day 'coolie', face coverings, long greasy trousers and long sleeves with gloves...ninjas in need of a shower. They capitalized on the habit of laborers to rug up fully and avoid the sun.

As the stationary pickup was in the fast lane there was a very real danger of collision but the outfit had that contingency covered -- two men leapt out and quickly positioned fluorescent cones well back from the seemingly crippled vehicle. The smoke pouring out from the underside was in fact soaked hessian rags treated with brake fluid and wrapped around the extractors to create a pall of filthy smoke but not start a fire. Hopefully the plume of smoke was visible enough to give a warning to any other traffic approaching the bridge which perched nearly a hundred feet above the river as the last thing anybody wished for was a multiple pile-up before the action started. The targets could get away if that occurred.

Under the feet of the operatives was a cache of weapons...a Barrett M82, some M4A1 carbines, smoke flares and demolition charges to tie up loose ends. Uranium slugs for the Barrett couldn't be had for love or money; the rifle itself had been sourced on the black market courtesy of some traders. Tensile steel pills jacketed by bronze with a tracer plug were possibly equal to the task; the ammo 'miscalculated' by clerical errors from the armory but the casings would need to be returned or dumped upstream.

In the drivers cab a ring tone and the leading hand behind the wheel lifted the cell to his ear, remaining silent. He hung up and rapped on the side of the door, calling out: _"ETA one minute!"_

Three men jumped from the rear and upon the command whipped a tarpaulin from the weapons, distributing them as the smoke trail from under the vehicle got thicker. Passing commuters were now braking and swerving, honking their horns and creating a log jam as they passed the pickup. The last item manhandled from the tray was the Barrett which they primed and propped on the concrete barrier then fanned the business-end toward the southbound traffic flow. The _Anti-Materiel_ rifle would have two operators; the leading hand being the spotter and the second operative being the shooter. A message through to headsets alerted the team of five and the leading hand leaned over the concrete barrier. This time the southbound traffic was starting to slow down and in the distance he could see the two motorcycles approaching. As they drew closer he could also see the two black vehicles.

"Approaching target!" yelled the leading hand. The specialists fanned out along the concrete barrier and cocked their M4s. A pause: _'...three...two...one...'_

The leading hand squeezed the earpieces tightly; he would need as much protection from the muzzle-brake as possible when the Barrett did open up. A simple leather bag was taped over the ejection port to catch the shells as they were spat out. They dropped down slightly, moving closer to the handler as the rider flashed by. The second with the specialist, his pillion and the explosive straw hat; it was following behind.

Two blacked out vehicles raced down the Sukhumvit Highway; the second backup vehicle was a few yards behind the first. The leading vehicle was armored to withstand small arms and even machine gun fire and in it the five passengers had been squeezed in since the last stop opposite the eastern Bus Terminal where their passenger had been collected. Anna showed up on time.

She was crammed in the rear between the Tamil and the Ulsterman on the left. In the front were the driver and another bodyguard, the one in the passenger's seat had been checking the vanity mirror in the left hand sunshade every few seconds.

Walker turned to her: "Hey sweetheart, what you up to this evening? Fancy some wine 'n' dine after we get the boss's readies back? I've got a box of chocolates especially for you and a little red rose...maybe you have one to show me." He snorted at his own joke. The only plans he had in mind for Anna would be a bit of lead-poisoning.

" _I-hiia!"_ She hissed. (Nameless reptile). A dreadful insult! That was one word the Ulsterman knew well; they used it round the bars quite often...

Pakdee wrinkled her nose; she was unsure which was worse -- Walker's aftershave or the Tamil's body odor. Both vehicles had been on the raised section since collecting her and the highway had begun to curve right and toward the south...up onto the bridge now, high above the river. She flicked her eyes at Walker. "Not tonight. Maybe soon I can have you for breakfast, _you know that?_ " Her voice was icy.

Walker didn't have time to reply; he caught sight of the smoke ahead on the bridge. He tapped the driver in front on the shoulder and pointed. "Easy mate; looks like a crash up there." Other vehicles in front had been braking and the traffic slowed and bunched up. The chase car carrying the two bodyguards moved up behind barely touching their rear before it braked. The guard in front checked the vanity mirror and the Tamil looked up from his notebook and replaced his cell phone.

A motorcycle passed by on the right hand of their vehicle just avoiding the front fender before it rolled ahead and it was followed by a late model Toyota SUV with a local mother and a young child, unrestrained and jumping on the rear seat like a trampoline.

Walker scowled: " _Sheesh!_ In any normal country she'd get locked up for that-"

He was interrupted as the driver twitched the brakes; a second motorcycle carrying two persons had cut in front of them, causing the driver to flinch, the limo jerked slightly. Something had dislodged from their grasp and fallen on the road. The motorcycle dropped two gears and punched the gas causing the front wheel to lift slightly and the armored Mercedes drove straight over the top of whatever had fallen off. Some rice farmers riding pillion had lost their hat. Pakdee flattened herself against the seat and raised her arms in front of her face; she knew very well what was coming and braced just as the charge kicked.

# Chapter Twenty-seven

" _Contact!"_

Confirmation from the bombardiers behind the rider's position; just down the back...they floored their mount.

The rider took her right hand off the handlebar throttle and the switch snapped open. Down the highway the mine kicked, a hundred feet behind her. She and the trailing crew watched in the mirrors, a flash, a cloud and the syndicate were airborne a split-second. Inside the armored Mercedes the occupants got a shockwave, the limo lifted then a grinding sensation as the front touched down like an airplane minus its undercarriage wheels. It scraped and the chase car behind slammed into the back of the limo spinning it a full one-eighty around.

One of the wheels -- torn clean off the steering hub -- jettisoned away, striking the Toyota SUV with the mom and unrestrained child, that vehicle veered and struck the center barrier before coming to a halt sideways. Now other vehicles behind the scene were hitting their brakes in the southbound overpass, it looked like a parking-lot.

She squeezed down in the back seat and covered her face, and then it came...two shots from the Barrett, straight through the front side-window. The thick green material disintegrated, gave about the same protection as an umbrella. It killed the guard in front but the driver survived. He got out and slithered away. The custom vehicle from Europe had shielded them from the brunt of the explosion but the fifty-calibers came through and out the other side. Pakdee wrenched off the restraining belt, and flung herself across the Tamil's lap and kicked Walker's head, propelling herself out the door.

From the center barrier the land unit crew sent a wall of fire from their M4s into the chase vehicle that had not been fitted with armor. The chase driver was killed instantly and the guard next to him tumbled out the door facing away from the attack and crawled behind another car that had screeched to a halt. He had a weapon out; ready to return fire...he leaned back on a wheel hub and waited.

Ahead the two motorcycles u-turned, three of them laid the machines on the road and sprinted back, the rider leading and the others behind. The Barrett operators drilled the chase vehicle with three more shots. Fuel started dribbling out. The land unit spread along the center barrier, then vaulted the structure and fanned out through the banking traffic to the north, the entire lane at a standstill. The city-bound side was still moving to the west at a crawl.

In the chaos the Tamil had crawled around the side of the wreck, reaching the rear fender he scuttled into the pileup behind. Two guards were killed at the scene, leaving two henchmen alive; one of those was injured by small arms fire.

Pakdee paused and flicked her head. Her hair had traces of glass and ears were ringing from the blast and the BMG rounds, then she became aware of a shriek: not tinnitus, nor was it anything mechanical. Leaning on the western barrier above the river was the Ulsterman clutching a child in a bear hug, crushing her and yelling with the revolver in his other hand. He'd whipped the youngster up and held her as a human shield. The hysterical girl was the source of the din and the mother pleading with him to release her child. She was clutching a wound on her right arm from the collision.

Pakdee approached Walker from the left side and van de Meuwe to the right. They closed in.

"Drop her!" yelled the rider, frozen; to fire with the sidearm was risky. The girl squirmed, to no avail -- nowhere to go and the Ulsterman's grip tightened.

Pakdee inched forward as Walker shifted his revolver in her direction. She motioned to the rider to get out, keep going, and find the Tamil.

"Mister Walker," she whispered. "Put her down; she is a child. Let her go."

The girl's mother stood behind clutching the cut on her right arm, babbling frantically in Thai and the hostage wriggled again. The Ulsterman shifted the Colt back to the screaming girl and cocked the revolver before waving it at the rider who had her gun trained on him. Pakdee moved forward and stared, holding her breath this time; she was barely two yards away.

"I'll kill her; get back. I'll do it!" Walker yelled. The rider stayed put but dared not attempt the shot. "Get back, sweetheart. I'll kill the kid."

"Kill me then," whispered Pakdee. Her lips barely moved. She moved closer. She was nearly upon the Ulsterman making him focus upon her. She stared, her black eyes piercing his, hypnotizing him; distracting. Mister Walker's arm loosened slightly and the girl slumped forward; he raised the Colt, slowly; deliberately. He cursed. She inched sideways and glimpsed the muzzle brake of the anti-materiel rifle.

"Checkmate," she whispered. _"Shut up and die like a man."_

Then a tiny flash like a bulb to the side, it came out the side of the brake screwed on the end of the M82. A six hundred grain BMG slug moving half a mile per second struck Walker. Just above the screaming girl's head and square below his neckline. Slammed into the barrier behind blowing a hole in it, showering concrete powder and other fragments all over the road surface. A ringing sound reverberated; metal upon metal when it blew the rebar out. The child wrenched free and fled to its frantic mother and Pakdee turned to the crew, nodding. Walker's gun, next to the lower half of him... _he wouldn't need it anymore_. Only his lower torso, below the waist -- she flipped what was left of him and tore at a back pocket. The letter... _the account!_ She seized the revolver, yelling at the child's mother to stay put and she followed the rider who was headed to an exchange of fire further back.

There was a jumble of banked up cars now. Crowd of commuters were fleeing. They went after the Tamil, Pakdee a short distance behind the rider who was taller and faster. As they crossed to the median of the bridge they were nearly caught in crossfire between the one of the guards and the specialists near the concrete divider.

" _Duck!_ "

Pakdee screamed and the rider bobbed and thrust her gun upward catching the blade. The injured guard was swinging with a heavy dog-leg shaped machete, it crashed into the weapon with a flurry of sparks; cleaving in the breech and knocking it out of her hand but missed. The rider yelled out, the guard overbalanced and swung back, this time the rider ducked. Pakdee aimed the magnum and fired once at the Gurkha who spun. She fired more shots into the guard before he teetered and slumped to the ground, the huge knife clattering on the surface. She turned to the rider who had a cut on her shoulder. Crouching, shaken and pressed against the side of a car, the occupants still cowering inside. The rider rolled her eyes, her face ash-white, she looked down at the dead guard then back at Pakdee, nodding but saying nothing, her chest heaving.

Toward the northern end of the gantry was an exchange of fire where the others had the last of the henchman pinned down in a fight to the end. She searched for the last; surely the Tamil had not made it out. Pakdee wheeled around -- behind the rider was clutching the wound, pressing her hand on the cut. The hijacked chopper could be seen as it approached from the north east hugging the river. It flew under the bridge, out the other side and then it ascended sharply before putting down near the two wrecked vehicles. The specialist at the helm of the Jet Ranger tossed two flares out on the road; they belched thick smoke that flowed around with the updraft.

"The police are here _already_!" The rider pointed to the south and Pakdee vaulted the front of a sedan \-- sure enough, a mile off they could see emergency vehicles on their side of the road. _Headed their way._ They had counted on the police being ineffective and secondly on the pile-up providing a barrier but nothing was further from the truth. Big mistake.

The response was fast. Emergency vehicles were now roaring up the empty left hand side from the tollgates, along the wrong side of the road but it had emptied out all the way south of the ambush.

"Get your crew out!" Pakdee yelled at the rider who was shouting into her intercom to the other specialists, trying to fix a location on the main one, the Tamil.

The specialists were closing in on the last henchman. Outnumbered, he kept fighting to the bitter end until caught by fire on either side. Then they spotted something, not a local running, it was the Tamil zigzagging between vehicles, he was still on the bridge. Pakdee and the rider gave chase and cornered him quickly, he was no athlete.

He backed up on the barrier. Way below was the river, it was flowing gently. Pakdee faced the Tamil, the rider behind and one of the specialists attempted to cover them, too many stopped vehicles. She was less than ten feet away and had the revolver trained on the Tamil, he was now pressed hard up on the railing. He had a weapon, maybe a Mac-10 or Mini-Uzi, couldn't tell, it was pointed at her.

She thought of Hatfield. She bent her knees slightly, aimed at his chest and pulled the trigger.

' _Click'_. The hammer struck a spent cartridge. She had fired everything into the guard; may have saved the rider but cost her the main prize. Van de Meuwe was unarmed now after the encounter with the machete, instead she lunged at the Tamil.

The Tamil clutched his weapon close and looked to his left -- the others were closing in. Lifted his leg onto the fender of a vehicle and hoisted his frame onto the barrier; he took one last look before tumbling backward. He was over the side by the time Pakdee tried to snatch his foot, too late. He fell as they watched and about halfway down the Tamil managed to fire his weapon. Emptied the magazine out but not at them; instead into the water beneath just as he struck with a huge splash. The specialist hopped on the same vehicle, leaned over the barrier and emptied his clip into the water where a patch of white remained below in the river's surface.

Three of them peered over the edge, amazed. The rider and specialist turned to Pakdee.

"No way, anyone could survive that," said the specialist.

They hightailed toward the borrowed Jet Ranger; it had put down at the scene of the ambush and the smoke flares now pouring clouds of gray, tossed about by the spinning rotors. Pakdee leaned out over the rail searching the river where the Tamil had hit -- nothing except some bubbles rising to the surface. She ran to the chopper where the land unit had crammed themselves in the cabin. The vehicles were fitted with a fixed charge set to blow once the chopper had cleared the bridge; the last man grabbed the sliding door then the rider beside him.

"Next to me," she yelled at Pakdee. "I can hold you."

Pakdee stopped. Her hair was flailing in the blast from the chopper's rotors. She screamed above the din and fumes. She turned to the clouds from the smoke flares where the Thai police were assembling, more vehicles, more officers...more guns.

"No!" she had to shout at the rider. "You go. Get your people out of here."

The rider jumped from the chopper and seized her arm. "You'll be cut to pieces if you stay."

" _You go!_ I can buy some time." She wrenched free from the rider's grip and looked back; behind her was the lady from the SUV crouched down hugging her daughter. The mother had been injured slightly and the child sobbing, she was bleeding from a glass cut and terrified after the ordeal. "I have to take them too." She backed up and caught the pilot's eye. Pakdee pointed to a high rise to the east. "Fly toward the apartment tower at two o'clock! Turn at the last minute. They won't fire. _Go!_ "

Pakdee turned to the mother and child, she stooped and helped them to their feet and slowly they hobbled toward the wall of smoke from the flares. The crammed chopper cleared the barrier. Van de Meuwe leaned up and over, taking in the view...the total chaos. And _Suzy Wong the home wrecker_ , limping straight into a phalanx of Thai police; the mother and child in tow.

In the bungalow at Bang Saen Lowenstein stood up from the monitors, beaming. Checked his Breitling, the deed was done in twelve minutes and twenty seconds. Walked around behind C41 and whacked him on the back. The land unit had done it, out of there on a stolen chopper, home free.

"Switch off and pack up. We're out of here."

"Buying us all a drink tonight, Mister Gold?"

The running man stopped by the window and pulled the curtain back...a beautiful day out there.

"It's got the best nightlife in the world, this place but sadly, no." He turned back to C41. "How's two days in the Greek Isles sound? We'll be demobilizing there in a lovely little hotel on the cliff."

The running man disappeared to wash and change. The last thing on the signaler shut down was his online game.

Thirty Thai cops, armed for battle, halted at the southern approach to the bridge. An arsenal trained on the figures limping in the distance, laser scopes fidgeting and bouncing around. The flare smoke billowed when the chopper gunned its turbine, and it cleared the barrier then dropped below to sea level before making a beeline for the riverside towers, swerving and disappearing out of view.

" _Stop right where you are!"_ A loudspeaker on a maroon and white pickup emblazoned with the shield and sword insignia of the local gendarmes.

"Walk forward slowly. They will not fire upon a mother and child," she whispered to the woman. Drew the empty Python and stood still, her hands high in the air. "Move away from me!" she hissed.

The mother crept ever so slowly toward the police, trembling, terrified, and clutching her daughter. About halfway across no-man's-land two uniformed officers sprinted out and one on either side hustled the civilians away to safety as Pakdee remained perfectly still.

" _Drop the gun and kick it away! Hands high above your head!"_

The revolver hit the concrete and she kicked it.

" _Walk ten paces then on your knees!"_

As she was halfway across she stopped and lowered herself to her knees. Then she was being crushed and searched by several officers as others covered her with rifles. She was cuffed and dragged away into a waiting pickup. The magnetic charges, three in total, fired simultaneously. Lucky the cops hadn't gone in, they hit the deck, Pakdee and the two officers flinched. The two black cars they'd come in that morning and the truck on the other side of the barrier...all evidence incinerated in a second.

In the foothills overlooking the Pakchong hinterland the two specialists -- the sniper and his spotter -- watched as a muscular stocky man jogged to the gate. Nearly lunch and the first activity since the two cars had left before sunrise. The white mastiffs trotted like horses as the guard turned onto the unsealed track and headed west, his frame in the crosshairs of the rifle scope as he ran and continued over a rise a few hundred yards away. The spotter jotted down some notes and a time in his field pocketbook.

The sniper-crew could not believe their eyes. The Gurkha paused on the crest and held his arms out. As if taunting the specialists; as if waiting for a bullet to come spinning out of the hills and drop him. Stayed there a few seconds like a scarecrow. He turned and commenced jogging, with the guard dogs in tow.

"See how long he's gone for," the spotter whispered to his colleague with the TRG. Soon the call would come through and they would enter the grounds, liquidate anybody remaining and demolish the estate with the charges stashed in the backpack.

But the guard with the _Dogo Argentos_ would not return that day, nor would he ever. He could finish the twenty mile run without so much as raising a sweat. He continued to the outskirts of Pakchong where he stopped and banged on the gates of the first large house, then a second one and finally a third. A few words, he handed the leash to the householder and the two dogs now had a new and very delighted owner and a loving home. Bred to takedown the wild boar and the puma, it was rumored they were fine with children...

He turned back for one last look then he ran into the township where he entered a bank and changed some money before catching the air con coach to Bangkok where he could pick up an airline ticket; anywhere, just away.

He was fortunate; he had some medals, a UK passport and citizenship after a long career that had stretched from the Falklands in the 1980s to the present. His homeland in Nepal had changed so much there was nothing there for him anymore. He had always done everything he could to serve his bosses without hesitation.

The bravest of the brave, he was also human; fed up with people everywhere fearing him, avoiding him and children crossing the street to get away from him as he stood guard outside this bank or that building. Drunks picking fights with him and his buddies every single time they entered a bar for a quiet drink. Killing enemies, not to mention the innocents. Now his only friends lay dead on the overpass. The syndicate was no more and his days in the region were finished.

A few hours later he sat alone in the departures area and watched the broadcasts showing the destruction on the bridge that day. It made headline news. Sources said a terror attack; others believed a new mafia war was erupting on the seaboard. He knew the real story, though. Soon his flight would be boarding. He watched with no emotion. Looking like a guest-worker in unfashionable trousers and a cheap linen jacket with a flag of some description on the sleeve.

She stood up and thanked the others in the cell for their hospitality: four girls arrested for prostitution the previous evening, two others caught gambling in a card-school and a middle-aged housewife who'd shot her husband. The cell was not crowded that afternoon but later on it would overflow.

A police officer, the station chief and General Kitti-Khorn stood outside the cage as the policeman struggled with the keys. The general was in full regalia, behind the ever present bodyguard. _Scared the daylights out of the precinct cops._ He spoke briefly with the precinct commander, nobody on their side hurt and other drivers on the bridge had escaped. Several bodies including half of what may have once may have been a Caucasian had been taken away. Tow-trucks were having a busy afternoon removing the auto wrecks. One bombed truck, two bombed vehicles and a dozen or more fender-benders leading back to the city-side.

"Do the police know anything, any ideas?" asked the general once they were alone.

"Just the official line," replied Pakdee. "National security. I thought they would hit me."

" _Plods!_ It'd cost 'em..." Kitti grinned. "Looks like you could do with a makeover. You're a mess, Miss Anna."

"I think I deserve to be punished...the Tamil...he got away."

"No chance," snapped Kitti dismissively. "All eyewitnesses as well as Arcana's version of events suggests he's gone. He fell from the bridge and would have been killed. We got them."

" _Not so_ ," she insisted. "The Tamil emptied a clip into the water as he fell. How he missed the lower deck is beyond me, but he did. Accident or purpose, no idea but I saw. The shots broke the river's surface before he hit."

Kitti paused; he was in the process of opening the rear door of his car.

"Impossible. You've wound up their finances, haven't you?"

" _My General_ , please listen to me. The Tamil is headed to the States. He is going after his money."

"I don't understand."

"This isn't over, by any means. When I was in the Philippines I convinced the gang to send their liquidated profits offshore. I set up accounts, three of them in a merchant bank headquartered in Panama. We printed the account ledgers out and mailed two of them to an address somewhere in America...our only records and I have the third one. Then we shredded the hard-drives." Pakdee was emotional. " _Oh My General_ , they got wind of this after they murdered the American boy in Manila. They killed him because he'd smelt a rat and gone to the embassy."

The very thought of Hatfield made her want to collapse, to pound the car and yell like a child. She couldn't. She kept her composure. "We had set up the last account and were attacked as we went to post it. The last one and the largest. The Tamil knows about the documents and he's going to get the others."

"How much?"

"Fifteen million, total."

"That's all? For a group like that?"

" _Dollars_ sir, not our currency...I was planning on returning some to treasury and retaining the rest. We can make immediate arrangements to freeze the syndicate's domestic float, now they're gone. That can be turned over to our government or whomever you nominate."

He thought for a moment. "We must get to this address you speak of. We must get to the FBI man, Tanaka-"

"I think he has alerted everybody about me; the borders I mean."

Kitti-Khorn removed his Ray Bans and squinted. "Leave that with me. We'll get you in there. Give me a week."

On the other side of the globe, the north awaited more snow. A clear afternoon meant a very cold night. It was very late, the old guy still hadn't eaten supper, just didn't feel up to it these days. He'd been trying to get his old rig going. He heard a noise at the front; he turned and walked a few paces out into the dark.

"Sez... _hey_ , Mister Hatfield."

JJ Hatfield limped to the gate. Ice on the ground made a crunching noise under his sturdy Caterpillar boots. It was the neighbor, the MacDonald widow, outside his front fence.

"Why howdy, Missus. Burning the midnight oil. Been cold lately." He turned to his old truck, hood up, the shack lit up by his trusty lamp. "Battery's all washed up, worse luck," he said. "Must've been the weather 'n' all...sittin' there so long."

"Mister Hatfield...you wuz abroad last week, that's the one?"

"Yeah, Missuz...went lookin' for something in Bangkok. Can't say I found much."

"Thought I'd check you're okay 'n' all. Praise the Lord you got back in one piece. Looks like you got out in the nick of time."

Hatfield thought this was odd. " _Howzat?_ " he asked.

"We'z just watchin' a news-flash. That's why I came over...mighty big terror attack there, right about now. Whole buncha people were blown up and killed in the middle of a bridge there...dreadful; burning vehicles everywhere, dead folks all over the road, police 'n' soldiers..."

Hatfield opened the gate. Something jolted his memory. He straightened up. "Missus MacDonald, its Saturday ain't it?"

"That's right, Mister Hatfield. _Saturday the thirteenth_. Tomorrow's Valentine's Day." She was reminiscing. "Always think about ol' Everett 'bout now..."

She dabbed at her eye. JJ Hatfield patted her. Turned and walked back inside his yard and the widow went on down to her shack. Would've liked to know more about it but the TV set was broke. Thought about what was said when they were driving to the airport. It'd happened. It was Sunday already over there...

Hatfield shivered. He slammed down the hood; the dead battery would still be there to bug him in the morning. He made a mental note to get a newspaper. Find out what happened. Anna mentioned it the car the day they were being deported from Thailand, not a threat, more like a prophecy. Stood on the porch and gazed out over the valley -- _his valley_ \-- before going inside and locking the door behind him. Usually never bothered with locks, nobody here did and old fleabag watched out over the place but something didn't feel right.

# Chapter Twenty-eight

Nightfall. The figure hauled his wrecked form out of the tidal mud. Gun long gone at the bottom of the river -- no matter, save dumping it -- still had his wallet, cards and cash. Eardrums burst, dizzy, and stinging all over his skin like sunburn. Water forced under one eye socket, bruised ribs maybe broken. Gagging...coughing the tidal filth out of his lungs; worse than industrial tar. Shirt ripped away and shoes torn off. A bloody nose, like he'd copped one.

The Tamil clawed through the hyacinth, then scrambled up the riverbank and staggered down the road like a drunk. Found a shack with a local family making rice to go with their meal of chicken-claw soup, he knocked gently. He held out the last of his cash, telling them some tale of how he'd been assaulted by teenagers. They didn't want his money, so he washed in cold water and borrowed some old clothes and changed. They offered him food but he declined, he thanked the local family who were shrimp farmers by trade. He accepted their offer to stay the night, and then he'd keep moving. He had a deposit box in the city, had everything in there he needed for a time like this.

He couldn't sleep, the fall had knocked his lights out and even the swarms of mosquitoes did not upset the Tamil as he lay there wondering if he'd make it through the night.

_Typical_ , he thought. _If you've got something they'll take it without asking. If you've got nothing they'll help you. Even the shirt off their backs._

Vancouver International, Canada. The officer in arrivals sighed, utterly hated tour groups. _At least it wasn't more Koreans..._

"Morning. Passports and ticketing, please ma'am?"

Probably didn't understand a thing; hardly any of them did.

The passenger smiled dumbly and answered with a single noise looking blank. Sounded like a cough. They did that sometimes.

"Anything to declare?" grumbled the officer. _Damn, they got weird-ass names_.

"The passenger pulled out a can of Chinese Tea and thrust it at the officer, speaking in jumbled Pidgin English: "Please, I have some. You must try. I give you this one; very healthy; can keep-"

The officer ducked and shook her head, irritated, checking the return ticket, the visa, the week-long booking at Lake Louise and tossed her head. "Exit that way, ma'am; your guide's waiting. Have a nice day _."_

_They always try to hand you stuff..._ "Next, _please_!" The 'please' was an effort.

On this day Pakdee was armed with a passport in the name of _Miss Tukkata'Julie' Nonglaitanitr_ \-- age forty-one, occupation school headmistress and single. She whipped her wheeled bag off the belt, then to the red lane holding her can of tealeaves up. The passport, manufactured at short notice on Kitti's orders had been backdated one year and decorated with stamps abroad for good measure. Precautionary measure, just in case...somebody ushered her to the exit where she walked out to the landing and jumped into a nondescript vehicle sitting in the five-minute zone. A fidgety elderly man was in the driver's seat, expecting this arrival but not pleased to see her.

An hour later Pakdee was seated in the _Mut-Mee Thai_ , a Restaurant in Vancouver's Chinatown with three other compatriots -- the proprietor, his wife and their daughter, a woman who was the same height and age as she was. The people at her table were naturalized Canadians who had lived there for years. They were nervous, very nervous ever since a few days prior a gentleman in a three piece suit had knocked at their door. A gracious and polite fellow who let himself into the eatery; he spoke to them for an hour and then left after giving them an ultimatum they were in no position to ignore. Now this from the old country sat at the same seat. She had the same presence; she spoke in the same tone of voice.

The restaurateurs were frightened... _why was the old country still clawing at them and who had sent this stranger?_

"It's like this, _My Elder_ ," said Pakdee. She addressed the owner with respect. "You only wait three days, and _then_ you contact the authorities."

The restaurant owner shook his head and his wife protested. "This bothers me, we are good people. None of us have had any trouble here. We like it here! This is our home-"

"I think you will do exactly as we say." She'd done her homework, aided by the general's helpers who had done the dirty business. "You agree to this and your nephew will be released...the serious charges dropped."

Across the sea a there was a male relative who had brought shame upon them. Great shame; _tut-tut_ ...a black sheep of the family back in the old country had been arrested several days ago in possession of a firearm, five thousand stimulant tablets along with illicit cash and since then remanded in maximum security. A catastrophe for an otherwise respectable family, and maybe a capital charge for the youth.

"And where are we if we do this and you don't keep your side of the-"

" _Listen to me_ ," interrupted Pakdee. "My offer is on the table and it is real." She drummed the surface of the bar to make her point. Several customers were enjoying their meals, oblivious to the discussion. The owner picked up his shot glass and gulped it down.

"Maybe a better way of telling you is what will happen if you refuse to cooperate. The boy may just have an accident in there...you know he's in a room with forty other prisoners...rapists, killers and lunatics." She drummed her fingers. "The attorney will request the red pills be resubmitted for testing and forensics only find caffeine and chalk....once that happens his money gets returned and after there's the gun. Not exactly a hanging offence in Thailand. He pays a fine and he walks. _Think_ about it."

They thought about it alright, their relative in the worst jail outside of North Korea. Not to mention a journey to the _'Place of Redemption',_ their euphemism for execution. Something that could happen weeks, months and even years after a lengthy trial. No prior notice, no last meal, nothing...hauled out of an overcrowded cell...one telephone call, an audience with a Buddhist monk then the injection.

The daughter frowned before passing her things across the table: purse, driver's license and keys to her vehicle.

"It's an old one. I'll need your Canadian passport too and all the passwords for your cards."

The daughter heaved a sigh and pouted, like a grumpy teen. "Not here, at my apartment."

"I can wait."

She could wait but only briefly. She knew JJ Hatfield was in danger of the worst kind. Pakdee held the driver's license between her thumb and forefinger. The daughter looked almost exactly the same only she had been born two years after. The resemblance was striking. She would need to tone her appearance down somewhat for the crossing.

A great deal of time and effort, _'...they wouldn't be looking for a Canuck...'_ that's what Kitti assured her.

"Purpose of your visit to the United States?" The CBP officers were armed, unlike the ones in Vancouver. They were energetic and animated unlike the Canadian authorities. They were in ominous black uniforms unlike the starched lily-white shirts in the airport a few days earlier. Pakdee took a deep breath.

"Purchasing some plates and items for my restaurant," she replied. She passed over a business card belonging to somebody with a Vietnamese name in Sacramento. "Please officer, call them. They are expecting me."

"Ma'am, please look directly at the camera. Don't smile; just normal." He shot a second look and was taken aback by her dental work glinting in the light.

"An accident three years ago; ice hockey with my kids and my son got me with the stick...all my jaw wired up; hospital one week... _oooie!_ " She covered her mouth, feigning self-consciousness. She loved his reaction -- they all had the same second look when they saw -- followed by the level of guilt, like staring at the disabled...

Soccer mom; hockey mom...my ass!

In training a while, Kitti fast-tracked her through the course then handed her over to the 'Rangers'. It'd been a jump, the pinnacle of her life. Exhilarating...she'd done some ten-thousand footers, vainly trying to keep up with the other recruits and this one was a male-only bastion. Pakdee fulfilled an ambition to jump and she got to do it for nothing.

Free-falling was a better feeling than...

She'd badgered the general and he agreed, just to shut her up but it was expensive and dangerous. A _HALO_ jump out of a C137, six miles high above the coast, minus-thirty chill-factor. Everything went fine; the climb, decompression then that leap...solo. All went to plan till the 'chute opened, it billowed full of air at two thousand and she floated down. Missed the beach and sailed straight into a grove of mango trees. Took out most of her lower jaw and knocked her out, then two weeks in the naval hospital. The reconstruction wasn't so good so she went back and did one better. The best maxilla-facial surgeon in the world removed the bone and replaced everything in platinum. Cost her the earth. Her skull was worth more than a new car. No more MRI-scans for Pakdee.

The officer had another look at the mug shot, then her. Not quite right, but having her dental work smashed in would perhaps explain it. The passport had only a year left and the license more recent. He ran a search engine as he was chatting, the dinnerware supplier checked out but too late to call.

"That's the only luggage, ma'am?"

"I'm travelling light. I need all the space I can for these boxes of plates in the back." Pakdee flicked her head toward the rear and reclined seats.

The second officer was satisfied. A check with the mirror showed nothing and the black Labrador seemed disinterested after sniffing over the diesel Golf, it wanted a tug-of-war with its handler.

"On the reader, please ma'am." As she rested on the plate the officer called to the dog handler. "Bob! Do me a favor, give our guy in the Mounties a call and run the plates then I'll cut her loose." He turned to her. "Thanks for your patience. Your passport is nearly out. Think about getting an EDL when you renew. _Be a lot quicker_ next time. Be seated in your vehicle and I'll come out and lift the boom."

Pakdee awaited the scan; she was confident they didn't have her prints. She returned to the Golf, knowing the real owner of the compact was at that moment sweating and waiting for another forty eight hours before she could report the burglary; hoping she didn't one day have to cross the same border in person.

The first officer took one last look at her and opened the passport, reading the front page for a moment, looking at her and back at the mug shot: "What's your star sign...I'm a Capricorn; what are you?"

"I was born in the _Year of the Tiger_!" blurted Pakdee.

The officer closed the passport and scowled at her. "Anybody ever told you you're a little _strange_ , lady?" He shook his head, and passed the documents through the open window.

Everybody thought she was strange.

The _MV Chinsurah Bulker_ , a Bangladeshi owned and Liberian registered grain carrier towered above the Mississippi as she rounded the reach and prepared to dock at the terminal. The waterline was fifteen feet above the water but after a few days she would be filled with 30,000 tons of wheat, destined for ports in the Indian Ocean. The crew scurried around preparing for docking and the master gunned the massive diesel, fighting the swift current while the tugs struggled alongside, pulling her upstream.

As evening descended and giant conveyors poured export grain in the hold, twelve crewmembers descended the gangplank. They were dressed in tasteless clothes, guaranteed to make them look out of place in the French Quarter where the minibus would be headed. The rest of the seamen were taking shore leave the next evening. They were recruited from a number of locations and one of them; a newcomer sent from India, appeared out of place the whole voyage. The ship's master had made a note of the man's ineptitude ever since he joined the vessel and would be certain to complain to the labor hire company back in Chittagong -- little did the captain know he would be in for a much bigger problem. The whole ship would be in for it, once it all went down.

As the ship's crew presented their passports and international seafarer's cards, the Tamil smiled, anything could be had for a meager sum in India. After the attack on the bridge he fled over the border and picked up a new identity from the underworld in Kuala Lumpur then straight to Madras where there was a network of Ex-Liberation-Tigers. Old customers and contacts, they were eager to assist. Only other thing the Tamil needed was a boat; airports everywhere would be alerted to his face and there was no time for plastic surgery.

That's how he made it. In the Crescent City there was a place the Tamil knew of and he would soon meet with a dear and trusted old friend: the Nigerian, Samuel Ojukowne. Like Frankenstein's monster, the Nigerian was the last real big gun at the Tamil's disposal. The syndicate had always sold guns, now they'd need one of their own.

Demobilization for the land unit. Santorini was perfect that time of year. The bar was doing good business that evening -- a large group had descended on the place at once and they were drinking beer and celebrating loudly. At one table the Lowenstein, van de Meuwe and the team leader were seated and the rest of the land unit took up the bar; they were drinking beer and munching on Greek snacks. Some were nursing minor injuries, cuts, bruises and sprains. One of the specialists had a broken rib where a round got his vest. Tomorrow a little naval vessel would dock and collect the land unit and whisk them home; all except Lowenstein. He was flying out late tonight on a commercial leg.

Van de Meuwe would be getting a call soon...that knock on the door; a tap on the shoulder, summoned to the commander's office. The headhunters from the service were coming to get her... _the spooks_. They'd been watching her every move for a couple of years now, with the same level of interest as an enemy target. Very soon, now she'd be working with them. The rider always had her ambitions, wanted to go places and see the world. She'd need to hang on tight...the ride of a lifetime with a lot of boredom in between. She'd need to spruce up and keep a handle on that temper of hers.

The running man rose and gave an impromptu speech and left it at that, some banter and congratulations before departing. Then the land unit stood as if on cue and raised their beers and cocktails...tonight they could let their hair down.

" _Operation Arcana!"_ cried one of them.

They cheered and downed their drinks. Mission accomplished. _Maybe..._

Hatfield waited in the medical center in Beckley. He hated the place. The appointments were aggravating but at least his meds were supplied, the basics anyhow. All he had to do was make the drive up the road if the old pickup would start.

On this day JJ Hatfield was unsettled, the waiting time was longer than usual. When he was called in the doctor was some locum he'd never met before. He'd only come that day to discuss test results and prognosis, everything else was the same.

"Where the hell's my regular medic gone?" he grumbled. She had been the one treating him and her absence was irritating. He was very fond of her; she had a personal manner lacking in other physicians.

"Ah, Sergeant Hatfield, she is on leave. She is visiting her parents over in Teheran for a few weeks. But do not be alarmed, she went to great efforts to fill me in on your history." Many of the staff there still addressed him by rank.

The Doc...an Iranian?! Never would've picked it, knew she was ethnic. What's become of the world? Yet she was the best quack in the place...knew her stuff, too.

The locum shuffled some test results. "Look, I can run you through these if you like. The cirrhosis we're talking about here has progressed fairly aggressively over the past six months despite the treatment we're pumping in." The medic turned the file around, picking several readings he thought were likely to impress. "With the levels in this column it suggests from what histopathology has come back with we have quite an issue with the rate of degeneration as shown by the ultrasounds that compare with past images. Over the course of time we have had a significant elevation in _AST_ and _ALT_ -"

"Doc, cut the crap will you. What are you trying to say in plain English?"

The medic popped the clipboard file on the gurney and paused a moment. "Sergeant, it's really not good news I'm afraid."

"Plain 'not good' or plain old totally bad?"

"There is an option," replied the medic. "I can place you on a priority waiting list for some surgery but it would be my obligation to say the risks are significant...about fifty-fifty."

"What...of fixing it?"

"There is a fifty percent _survival rate_ , sir. The surgeons would be cutting about a third to one half of the organ out, where there has been damage present."

"Suppose a full transplant is outta the question?"

"You know how it is, Sergeant Hatfield. Veterans' services only cover so much, I'm sorry to say. Anything further you'd have to check with your provider." The medic looked wistfully at him. He knew full well many vets had no provider. Some of the old soldiers didn't even have a proper roof over their heads. Yet they defended their flag, fought for freedom and none of them knew why at the time.

"I suppose, I really shouldn't be saying this sir, but...it is possible to have a full transplant done by world-class surgeons in some places. The cost is still quite high and there are ethical issues with this kind of thing."

After a long pause, Hatfield had another read of the results. _Gibberish, all of it._

"Give it some thought," said the medic. "Sergeant I can get the counter to run you through it. I suggest you sign up. It won't happen next week, that's all I can say. I can't force your hand but if you don't the prognosis is not so reassuring..."

" _Meaning?"_

The doctor was uneasy. "What this means is total organ failure in nine months to a year, save some kind of a miracle."

The health-worker's sing-song voice babbled away and JJ Hatfield just tuned right out. _'Miracle'...huh!!_ His thoughts drifted to his late wife. _Breast cancer got her just after he returned from Desert Storm, it had been mercifully rapid._ They met after Indochina and she'd brought him back to the real world. Right now the real world was disappearing beneath his feet, real quick.

JJ Hatfield pushed open the doors and walked a while, slowly as his feet hurt. At least he had feet. There was some young guy in a wheelchair who always staked out a spot, a young marine the same age as Billy-Bob who'd lost both legs in Baghdad. They'd gone to school together. Spent his days selling stuff like little hand-carved curios, flags, badges and other souvenirs...the stuff the disabled guy sold lined the sidewalk and the colostomy-bag hung to the back of the wheelchair under a blanket.

"Sez...hey, Gunny," he called out as Hatfield went by. "Buy a flag?"

"Got one already at the front of my shack," mumbled Hatfield. He stopped and cast his eyes at the crippled kid's wares. Stooped down and picked up a hickory carving the guy had done, bit bigger than his hand. A figurine standing to attention, done up in a USMC uniform but it had the head of a bulldog under a combat helmet on top with fangs poking out, looked like a comic-book thing. He went to replace it.

"Fifty bucks," said the kid in the wheelchair. "Whittled it myself by hand; only one in existence, Gunny. _Give yer good luck when yer's least expectin' it._ Would I lie?"

Hatfield changed his mind; he reached in and checked his pouch -- two twenties. "Give yer forty," he mumbled. Handed it over and took the carving. Got back to his truck, got it started and waved to the wheelchair man as he drove past. He often agonized about the vet but the guy seemed cheerful enough...not bad for a soldier cut down like that in the prime of his youth, he admired the fellow. Always there like a lamppost; a bad day if he didn't show.

Hatfield figured the statue would look okay on the dash of his truck. Had some special industrial glue in the basement, toss the carving under the house and fix it on later.

# Chapter Twenty-nine

On the seat was a map of the area with a red arrow pointing to the cluster of roads, where she might find the place. In Pakdee's back pocket was the bank account printout; she'd dug it out of Walker's trousers on the bridge. Lucky it hadn't been in the shirt pocket, the tank rifle didn't leave much of his top half.

Walker, the hard man of Belfast...endured the troubles of Northern Ireland as a child, survived Afghanistan as part of the coalition and buried by Arcana...with her help. A positive outcome, in office-speak. One down, two to go.

She headed south then east, on the far side of the road and the steering wheel on the left hand of the borrowed vehicle with British Columbia plates. But drivers here moved quickly, they obeyed the rules in this land.

The first stop was at a road house in the middle of nowhere and she felt flustered. Pakdee had every skill in the book: college degrees, post-grad, languages; and all manner of training. She could perform specialized tasks -- land, sea and air. She could navigate through jungle wilderness as well as the meanest slums alike and do so with ease. She could sweet-mouth her way into and out of any situation. She could set a charge-demolition on someone's car alright, but she'd never pumped gas in her life! In her homeland an attendant was always there, hoping for a few coins as a tip. Once she figured it out her next challenge was the drive across the flat country, heading east through iced up roads. Don't drive too slow and not too fast. The 'borrowed' cards worked fine. She fetched some boiling water from the gas station and brewed green tea. She leaned on the front fender and sipped from a paper cup. It was below zero. Misty. _Cold_. It cloaked everything.

The first arrival that new day, after a gap in _'Internationals'_ at Tom Bradley, was Flight QF 15. Pushed by strong tailwinds across the Pacific, the jumbo landed into an unseasonably warm Los Angeles morning. First and business-class passengers lined up at the checkpoint. Many were CEOs and government officials who spilled out and obediently queued up, awaiting Washington's bidding -- _the national airline of the fifty-first state_.

The officer at barrier wasn't paying especially close attention...not until he looked up, anyhow. The man on the other side of the screen was a giant, about six-nine; a preacher man. The passenger dropped a passport -- _the Pacific Commonwealth of Papua New Guinea_ \-- on the counter with a bundle of e-ticketing in it.

"Purpose of your visit to the United States, Padre?"

"Atlanta," boomed the deep voice. "Here to meet with suitable home stay families before some students from our mission school come to study."

The CBP officer placed the passport on the machine-reader and had to adjust the camera upwards. Visa 'R1', it checked out. Vaccination card. Full ticketing, return flights -- two weeks only. Biometrics all-clear. The officer marked the card and circled the marking.

"Inspections Bay at the far end after pick-up." He jerked his head to a stainless bench where some colleagues waited near the exit. Spoke into the radio piece.

_Get 'Sierra' team to have a further look at this one,_ he figured _...that's the job._

One hour and twenty minutes later after an intensive check, 'Pastor Silas' strolled up the ramp to domestic terminal. They found nothing...no subversive or suspicious literature...any evidence of a dark past; no food, no live bees nor agricultural items. Lucky for the 'pastor', nobody at the inspections bay questioned him too much about Papua New Guinea. He'd only stayed in that nation a few weeks, to collect the travel document from his source then submit the visa stuff. Like him, the border protection officers knew squat about the place. But the visa was legit as was the fraudulently obtained passport with his mug shot in the front. The real Pastor Matthew Silas, who'd gone missing and never travelled abroad in his life, rested peacefully in the silt on the bottom of the Coral Sea. On the ocean floor, an engine block fastened to his ankle with a sturdy piece of nylon used for tuna fishing.

The giant man of the cloth dialed his cell, walking as he spoke: "Raj...it's me. _Made it through, my man!_ On my way, see you in the Big Easy."

Samuel Ojukowne -- the Nigerian partner -- marched up the ramp; he quickened his pace or he'd miss the connection. They'd had him in arrivals longer than expected.

After sixteen hours straight she skirted the cities on the lakes. They were glassy and impressive structures; almost like Singapore. The heater in the compact worked but she kept the rear window down a crack to stay awake as she drove. The journey was one of breakneck speed through a snow covered landscape with open plains that never ended followed by thick forests, then mountains as she swung onto Interstate 79 into Appalachia.

Sunrise was about thirty minutes away and she marveled at the forest, the endless country and the mind-numbing temperatures. In her home they would raise livestock and grow rice in such a place. The villagers would be very wealthy, yet here the woods stretched out for an eternity.

Closer to a place called Beckley the snowdrifts got thicker, she had to slow down. Off Route 19 and followed the trail till it turned to a poor surface; from there the journey was tedious, the vehicle rattled and the icy surface demanded care. She paused at the side, checked the map and saw the trailers parked at intervals near the junction. Chimney flues billowing coal-smoke and fog covered the sub-zero landscape. Among the colony of trailers were auto wrecks and she found it difficult to believe anybody could be hardy enough to live here. Utopia had poor people too, like every other place she had been. She tried to imagine how they survived in such an unforgiving environment.

Three white crosses stood on a ridge. It was a landmark Will Hatfield had described when he was alive. Crawled further in the vehicle before turning on a trail and heading up, higher...lucky the car was small with front wheel drive. She paused at a broken gate and pulled out the envelope -- she was confident it was the old man's dwelling but nobody was there for the moment so she cut the engine. The blanket of snow was late in the season and she marveled at the pure white landscape. Silence! She had never known such total quiet and it unnerved her. It was morning now and the fog would lift in an hour or two.

Some brute of a thing like a wolf was circling the vehicle, it grunted as she dropped the window. She opened the driver's door slightly, it poked its snout in...she'd heard of wolves but this one looked tame. She took great care as she got out but it didn't attack. Never seen a dog with blue eyes before; it'd probably never seen a human with pure-black eyes either. She leaned back on the fender and stared at the shack. The dog stared at her. It sat.

This was his home, where he lived and grew up. Of humble beginnings and good character, he'd gone out and made his mark. Will, he'd come from this place.

They were the same; she was no different. He'd spoken of this place...promised to bring her here one day. Thought about childhood and her tiny hut way up near the Golden Triangle; so alike, so far apart.

In her purse, a Polaroid photo of the couple at a beach in Palawan. They'd gone down to the sand and some old Filipino strutted up and they'd posed -- couldn't really refuse -- the fisherman had the camera out already. Now it was her only memory. Pakdee held the picture up and though about what may have been. Overcome with the moment then she noticed a lone figure trudging toward her in the snow on the ground. _Armed_. For once Pakdee was not.

"Howdy there," chirped the teenager. "Help you wit' somethin'...lookin for someone?"

Pakdee did a double take when the owner of the squeaky voice got close. It belonged to a girl. Lugging a very serious hunting rifle, one she was familiar with.

"Model 70 Featherweight in _two-seventy_ ," announced Pakdee. "I prefer _seven-six-two_ NATO, myself. More gentle to use but better knockdown and wind resistance."

"Come again, lady?" replied the teenager. "My, oh my...you ain't from 'round these parts-"

"William Robert Hatfield," said Pakdee. "Is this their house?"

The teenager looked at the ground then back at this new arrival. "You'se talkin' bout Billy-Bob? _He's dead_ lady, passed on recently. You'se a friend of his or somethin'?"

"Something like that," replied Pakdee. "I need to see his father."

They looked at each other for a minute or so then the young hunter was satisfied -- this new visitor meant no harm. Shouldered the rifle and turned back where she'd come from, a farmhouse within eyeshot.

" _Miss!"_ Pakdee called out and the teenager stopped. "Stay indoors tonight. Don't wander around after dark. Not safe here."

"Aw, ain't nobody in a right mind gonna do that...never. All manner of critters 'round here at night," replied the girl. She tapped the butt of the Winchester and grinned with a mouthful of crooked adolescent teeth that had never seen a dentist.

_Odd that a stranger would say such a thing,_ she thought.

JJ Hatfield crashed the gears on the old International Harvester, got it into second and slithered up the trail. Made it to the crest and spotted one of the neighbors; she saw him and waved him down. Unusual...looked like she'd been out hunting but she was on her own. He pulled up next to her.

"Sez, hey Sarah. _Wassup?_ "

"Mister Hatfield, _gotchaself_ a visitor on by your place," she chirped. "Looks like some foreigner, she'z askin' 'bout Billy-Bob...sure ain't from round here-"

Hatfield's eyes opened, he coughed, and he lurched back in the bench seat and floored the truck\\. As he got closer he saw the Golf with the visitor next to it. Anna! The very sight of her gave him a sensation of dread.

"Thought this was all over," he muttered when he got out. "Darn, you're lucky ol' fleabag didn't eat you."

"JJ Hatfield," said Pakdee. "You are in grave danger." She pulled out the envelope. "Have you received any mail lately...for Will? Like this?"

"Now you mentioned it, the cops got a coupla letters, never gave 'em back and I never got to see 'em... _wassup?_ " Hatfield took it and opened it, reading. The envelope was wrinkled like it'd been through the wash. He looked up once or twice then pushed it back at Pakdee. "What the-"

"Accounts," replied Pakdee. "This one has my name on it. The other two are in Will's name. They have a lot more than this one. You're his father. You are the sole beneficiary, the only next of kin."

Hatfield shook his head. "Blood money, _dammit_ ," he sniffed. Thrust it back.

"The reason wars are fought is for the money," said Pakdee. _"_ Money and power _, you know that?_ The accounts, you can keep them. Put it to good use for once. How many years were you a soldier, Hatfield? In my country a warrior who returns from battle is truly a hero...they don't live like this...not much to show for it, _you know that_ -"

" _Shaddup!"_ Whether the remark touched a nerve or JJ Hatfield was just out of patience he blew his stack: "Anna, listen up...git yourself into that pipsqueak lil' foreign car, turn around and go back where you came from... _scram!"_ He stomped up on the landing and tore the door open, turning before he yelled out again. "I'll have you arrested. Git outta my valley. _Go!_ "

"I only wish you would call the police, JJ Hatfield. Call your friend from the FBI."

Hatfield slammed the door behind him and did precisely that -- first he called PK Tanaka, still had the agent's card; second called the deputy, Lt. Hernandez. Pakdee jumped in the compact. She wasn't budging.

Tanaka screeched to a halt when he heard the old guy over speakerphone, on his way to locate and interview the perpetrator of a dodgy mortgage-broker. The Manila case was the last thing on his mind.

_How on earth did she get in_ , he thought -- he'd red-flagged her at all international ports and CBP had a direct line in the event she did show, most likely her name didn't come up but he'd gone to the trouble of sending bulletin boards with an identikit to match hers. Suddenly she'd turned up. Anna had gotten in somehow and was picketing Hatfield's ranch.

"JJ, is it possible I can talk with her?"

"I booted her out. I don't want her in here," replied Hatfield.

"May I speak with her, put her on."

"PK I don't want her in here. She ain't goin' nowhere; looks like she's crashed out in the front seat."

"Stay put. I'm in DC; three hours and I'll be right there. Did you reach Roy Hernandez?"

"Got him already," said Hatfield. "He's on his way."

Tanaka slapped the strobe light on the dash of his black cruiser and hit the gas, hard, nearly losing control of the vehicle as he turned. With his emergency lights he could probably make Virginia State Line in three hours. He and the cruiser were in overdrive just like his speed dial. The super wouldn't be happy. They'd need to send someone else for the mortgage case.

She lay back in the driver's seat. No use annoying the old guy, curiosity would get the better of him or impatience. She drifted off...

Riding on the elephant: victory in war and a great windfall to come.

Crushed by a giant serpent: impending doom and certain demise.

Pakdee hadn't slept a wink since Vancouver, twenty-six hours ago. The sun broke through about lunch, a dim and distant orb of washed out yellow but it filled the little car and warmed the cab up and she'd drifted off in the reclined seat. Tapping on the window jolted her awake. _Must've been afternoon by now_ , she dropped the window to be greeted by the stern face of the deputy, Lieutenant Hernandez. Hatfield was next to him, pointing at her like a culprit. Another junior deputy had followed in a second wagon, he watched on.

"Outta the car, please ma'am," barked Hernandez. "License and registration..."

Pakdee handed over the Canadian passport. The sheriff had been briefed by PK Tanaka before he drove up here. _Fraudulent documents. Illegal entry._

"Madam, whoever you are, I have good reason to believe you may be an unlawful alien and I'm detaining you forthwith." Hernandez had no idea which section of whatever immigration laws covered it so he cuffed her, hands-front and _Mirandized_ her, reciting from a card, just in case.

"Hold it," pleaded Pakdee. She stared straight at JJ Hatfield. "Tell them...you must tell them the whole story." She turned to Hernandez and his subordinate. "There is great danger here, I know. At least wait here. They are coming."

"Wish you'd kindly tell me the whole story," replied Hatfield. "The truth..."

"Who's coming exactly...Gunny, what's she talkin' at?"

Something crossed the old guy's mind. "I'll give the agent another call. He oughtta be close by now-"

Hernandez passed his cell over but Hatfield shook his head.

" _Nah_ , no reception most of the time. Try the landline."

He went to call but could have saved himself the time and trouble. The noise of a grinding sound and revving engine from a stuck-fast city cruiser alerted them. Tanaka was here and stranded now, no hope of moving till the ground froze over after dark. They watched as he circled the car then moved up at a fast pace, past the neighbor then to the front of Hatfield's. He was panting and gasping by the time he got there.

_Gotta get into shape,_ Tanaka lamented _._ Made it up to the shack, retrieve the car later.

"Anna," he barked. "Turn around." She was cuffed already. He made to shove her down the road but she dug her feet into the sludge and snow.

"Please wait," Pakdee cried out. "You remember...I told you...Valentine's Day..."

Tanaka and the old guy both stopped in their tracks, it was like some secret had been revealed. Lt. Hernandez and the junior deputy were puzzled. Anna kept on. Curiosity got the better of the county officers.

"Gunny...Special Agent...what in the dickens is she babblin' on about?" asked an exasperated Hernandez. "Who is she, Agent Tanaka? You mentioned illegal entry-"

"We all better go inside," said Tanaka. "Uncuff her, please."

"I have nothing to hide," added Pakdee. "It is dangerous right now, for all of us." She peered nervously up and down the valley, checking the trails. A full moon had come into view, it was orange...gigantic. Not a cloud.

"You must get all the police you can," she repeated. With her hands free, Pakdee removed the envelope and handed it over; Tanaka read the printout. "This one is mine...the other two belong to Mister Hatfield," she said. " _And you have something that belongs to my government!_ "

Hernandez turned to his deputy and threw his hands up in consternation. "Would one of you kindly let me in on what's goin' on, this is sending me giddy, dammit!" His voice echoed around. They all stopped. The old guy nodded to his shack.

"Lot warmer inside, the stove's cookin' a treat," said Hatfield. "I'll do up coffee."

The group retreated inside and huddled in the warm radiance of the upright potbelly. For the next two hours Anna spelt all out, the whole saga with Tanaka and the old guy adding their two-bits-worth, it was a recounting of some kind of holiday from hell. Lt. Hernandez and the junior deputy only listened with disbelief, made them more worried. The one subject nobody raised was the guidance systems. That was off the table...for now.

"How come, Special Agent...why hasn't this been cleared up? How did it get to this?"

"That is what I meant by Valentine's Day," replied Pakdee. "Group _Arcana_ wiped them all out in the ambush, all except two principal players. I have every belief they are close or here already."

"All the federal agencies had alerts on Anna here and she got through," added Tanaka. "We'd been tapping all the intelligence for info on the syndicate but nothing came up. The Canadian guy served time back in the eighties then left for good. Neither he nor any of his lackeys ever came to the Americas again."

The big junior deputy had been standing at the door peering around and admiring the old guy's war decorations; he turned and spoke: "Anybody with the ways and means can get into the United States...lookit all the problems with the wetbacks down Rio Grande way. None of the politicians got any willpower anymore. You know I'z watchin' the news the other night..."

Tanaka frowned at the deputy but Roy Hernandez only nodded. A Texan, he knew all about porous borders. Pakdee had no idea what a ' _wetback'_ was...she was Thai and not the same as others.

"I suggest you three wait out the night here, we'll go stake out the turnoff," said Hernandez. He nodded to his subordinate. "Hey _Jungle_ ...you up for some overtime?"

They only had to make it back to Point Pleasant where they had another vehicle parked. A motor launch pulled into a disused ramp and the Tamil, accompanied by the Nigerian jumped off the bow and secured the vessel, behind an empty coal barge. The Nigerian heaved a plus-size sack with one arm over his shoulder. Inside, the tools...

The launch had long range tanks. Waiting above the bank was a vehicle with two Hispanic males. They packed into the car, a Subaru Forester, all dressed and looking like a hunting party. There was nothing on the Kanawha River and only a single deserted barn on the other side; other than that they were out of view. Kanawha into the Ohio River then Ohio into the Mississippi; they'd followed the waterway up with great care not to attract the authorities.

They spoke for a moment before the Tamil pulled the rear hatch and they spread out the things from the sack. They checked the hardware: Five grenades, two Ruger Mini-14s, a Norinco Model-56-conversion and an Ingram Mac-10 with a suppressor-can. It was all there, more than enough. Spare clips, ammunition, four walkie-talkies, thermal clothing, some vests and a single pair of starlight goggles.

The Tamil produced a brick of cash and handed it to the Nicaraguan in the front seat who counted the bundle out \-- ten thousand -- and nodded to his countryman in satisfaction. "More from where that came from, I can assure you," he said. "Upon completion."

The two young enforcers were gang-bangers up from Florida; they'd driven here. Their tattoo marks suggested Mexican-Mafia links but Nicaraguans were a lot more dangerous.

"We take the old man alive," said the Tamil. "Get my papers back, bring him here and dump the body along with the car in the drink once we're done."

The Tamil and the Nigerian got in the front, the hoods from down south in the back. The weapons were behind them under a blanket. They started up and turned east on the Midland Trail, headed for the high country. Headed for Hatfield's farm, going on a hunting trip. They were close now. No reason to rush and risk getting pulled over.

It was that time of year...plenty of hunters in the Mountain State, even more wide open spaces than anyone could ever want. The last of the syndicate were going hunting, for human prey. Hatfield's father, he had the accounts, they all knew it. _A feeble geriatric with a few months left to live_. Maybe they could speed things up, once they got what they were looking for.

_Cut down the tree and tear out the roots_. It was a saying, the Hispanic gangsters and cartels had: _Wipe out the entire family._

# Chapter Thirty

The two sheriff's vehicles -- big white SUVs \-- stopped near a junction at the bottom of the valley. Made their way down, had a fine old time getting around the Washington guy's cruiser. Made it to the flat; the turnoff. Hernandez hopped out and moved to Kroger's window.

"Jungle, I'll get you to park right here. I'll wait a while then head back up, but slow and steady." He peered up and down the road. It was empty.

"Lieutenant, how serious is all this? Believe a single thing she said before?"

"Thought they'd take her in," replied Hernandez. Seemed strange to him, then again conditions for travelling were awful. "Not leave her overnight, still she can't get far."

"Immigration asylum or a lunatic asylum?" quipped Kroger. "She's _nuts_ , boss. Guess it'll all come out eventually...what about Gunny Hatfield?"

Hernandez spat on the trail. "Damn shame, the old guy should have somebody lookin' after him. Don't believe he'll see next summer; 'bout worse every time I see him." He climbed into his cab and slammed the door. "I'll head up. Radio call on the hour, any case I'll be up and down. Swap over midnight..."

Corporal _'Jungle'_ Kroger was six-one and two-thirty pounds. The deputy kept his head shaved at the ripe old age of twenty-nine; he worked out and fueled himself on a diet of nicotine, strong coffee, fast food and ' _roids_ ; the latter only when off duty. He was an avid follower and past participant of MMA competitions -- helped enormously during difficult arrests -- good for _takedown_ time. Woe betides any violator thought they could outrun or outfight Kroger; they all ended up flat on the ground and locked up in jail.

He waited till the taillights of the boss's Explorer were out of eyeshot and lit up a smoke, leaning on the fender and jiggling about. It was a cold one, only eight o'clock and well below freezing. He popped the flaps of his cap over his frozen ears and thought about the overtime, it'd come in handy for all kinds of things.

Hatfield, Tanaka and Pakdee waited on the landing of the shack. It was perfectly still and the full moon had turned brilliant, it cast shadows over the valley from vast tracts of lifeless skeletal trees.

"JJ, fix us a coffee, please," said Tanaka. When Hatfield was gone he turned and eyeballed her, everywhere she showed up -- trouble. She was staring blankly, pouting.

"You got _Asperger's_ or something?"

"Normal where I'm from not to display emotion or anger," replied Pakdee. " _Why_ , you think I'm strange? Who is Asperger, anyhow? Somebody I should know?"

"You're some piece of work," mumbled Tanaka. "You know at first light I'm gonna take you in. You've got a few things to clear up. Just so you know, I can detain you under the-"

"I'll be out and home before you can blink an eye, _Tanaka-San_ ," she replied with confidence. She remembered how he hated being called that. "As we speak, the very highest echelons of my government are preparing my repatriation, _you know that?_ Tomorrow night I'll be headed home first class...with the things you unlawfully possess." Pakdee sniffed and nodded back to the door. "In truth, I fear for Will's father. You must place him under protective custody... _please._ "

_Scary thing, she's probably right_ , Tanaka thought. _Then again she had no idea where the circuits were...better to hand them over to her, to his bosses, or risk who-knows-what?_

"JJ Hatfield's okay now, there are three police officers and we'll get more up here," said Tanaka. "Maybe you could enlighten me on something, though. Like exactly what happened to Mike Jackson, our legal attaché?" he asked. "Any ideas?"

She entered the shack and returned with an iPhone, one she'd brought with her. She fiddled with it.

"Good luck getting reception-"

"I'm not making a call. Look at these," snapped Pakdee. She thrust it before him and stood back to see his reaction.

Tanaka touched the screen, flicking through the images. It was a whole mix, fascination, horror, disgust... "Where the-"

"Passed on to me," replied Pakdee. "Group _Arcana_ were thinking of recruiting Jackson. They changed their minds about him, though. This filth was to be used to blackmail him but his use-by date was past. He was collecting home-movies of all his conquests using the very latest in the bureau's surveillance equipment. _He posted his own pay-per-view websites and was cleaning up!_ He was responsible for the death of William Robert Hatfield! He tipped off the middlemen who were on the payroll of splinter-groups. Better you hand it to your superiors. This may be evidence."

"Yeah. Guess so." Tanaka switched it off and stuck the iPhone in his jacket and frowned. It'd need to be sent to the investigators; the case was still unsolved and he wouldn't be getting any more help from Anna.

"Don't s'pose you'd have any take on who they were would you...the shopping mall jog your memory?" he asked. His mind rustled up every formidable nation with the most devious kill-squads he could think of...

"Russians, Iranians, Israelis; a Swiss group... _who were they,_ Anna _?_ " asked Tanaka.

" _Arcana_ ," she replied. "It's a word in Latin. Look it up."

"I will," said Tanaka. "So who killed Jackson, then? Was it them? Was it you?"

"I believe you asked why and not who, Special Agent," whispered Pakdee.

JJ Hatfield came out with a mug of steaming coffee in each hand but Anna refused. She only drank green tea. Nobody heard of green tea this side of town and she'd finished her supply. They saw the headlights from far away; Hernandez was making his way back from the valley floor. He had to get around Tanaka's stuck city cruiser; it was plumb in the middle of the trail with a bund on either side. Couldn't quite make it so he left it directly behind. Need to get a tow-truck first thing. Lt. Hernandez slapped the steering wheel with his hand in frustration; he jumped out and started trudging through the snow, up the rest of the hill.

Jungle Kroger strolled around, needed to get off the road and take a leak. It was a junction, traffic was sporadic now, and most travelers would be tucked in at home by a warm fire.. The flask of brewed coffee was going through him like salts. Zipped up his fly and pressed the remote lock and sauntered out past the junction, puddles on the roadside had iced up now, the still air smarted on his cheeks. He turned back to his parked SUV then noticed an approaching vehicle moving in from the western side; it indicated and pulled over with the headlights still on. Kroger approached, just to check...maybe lost, maybe an engine or battery problem.

_Louisiana plates...no law against that but check 'em out_ , he figured.

"License and insurance please," he demanded. Clicked his Maglight on.

As the driver cranked the window down he shone the beam inside quickly and back at the occupants, foreign guy and his passenger who sat mutely, their hands obediently on the dash. Two Hispanic males in the back. The passenger up front was gigantic, heavier than Kroger.

"Turn off your engine please," said Kroger. "Be right back." They cut the engine as ordered and he moved to the rear, noted the plates and sent a radio-check with his two-way. Something didn't seem right. He doubled back to the driver. In hindsight he shouldn't have.

"Sir, what you doin' here this evening? You ain't from round here."

"Officer, I've lost my way." An unusual sing-song accent. The one in the passenger's seat -- some black guy \-- he was so big his head nearly touched the roof of the car. There was a map, laid out across the passenger's lap.

"I'm 'fraid you ain't goin' no further this way. It's a dead end anyhow," said the deputy, cocking his head toward the causeway. "Where's y'all headed?"

"Pittsburgh," one of them answered before reaching slowly and hitting a feeble light under the dash. The deputy pointed his flashlight at the map and the passenger lifted it, one hand no longer visible. Something was underneath and Kroger instinctively lurched back.

" _Get your hands where I can see 'em!!"_ he bellowed at the top of his lungs, reaching for his sidearm.

The Mac 10 discharged several rounds with a rattling noise like an old Olivetti typewriter, straight through the front windshield and missing the deputy's face by inches. Kroger stumbled and tripped, cupping his eye where some glass fragments had gone. When he hit the ground he could see the driver's door open, the passenger was out and the driver was climbing over the driver's seat.

Kroger desperately regained his footing, hopping backward; he could see the end of the gun that had just let loose, the shape of a muffler. The huge passenger -- the black one \-- was now at the rear, clutching something else. Another burst of shots from a different automatic rifle kicked up gravel as the deputy scrambled along the road, he glanced over his shoulder to see the passenger this time, the outline of an assault rifle at his hips. Kroger made the side of the road and leapt headlong into a deep gully, he landed in a pile of trash and that had been offloaded into the stream by litterbugs. The rounds from the assault rifle snapped over his head, tossing things around. He blundered through the garbage and brambles, tearing at his skin and uniform until he reached the stream. It was mostly iced over and running at a trickle. On its side, an ancient Kelvinator, a solid thing that had been there for ages. It was heavy. Buried in the silt. Kroger leapt over and squeezed under it.

The Nigerian emptied another magazine into the culvert before taking two M26 grenades, drawing the pins and letting them tumble over the side where he figured the terrified deputy was hiding.

Kroger heard the noise, a hollow _'ping'_ sound, like many young cops he was ex-ROTC and knew what was coming; knew what he was in for -- _one second, two, three, four --_ he bundled into fetal position and grimaced. A twin burst, soil showering all over his hunched form and a split-second flash...it was the ancient ice box that saved him. More rounds from the huge black guy with the assault rifle thudded into the stream and dead thorns around him.

The four of them had been on the landing and they were headed in when they heard the noise from way down below \-- the gunfire and the blast. It carried through the still night from way down blow on the valley floor.

"I'd know that sound anywhere -- damn Kalashnikov," snarled Hatfield.

Facial expressions last a split-second, they tell a lot...

JJ Hatfield, anger and outrage, violated. He'd always been the expeditionary, always gone out on a mission, seek and destroy. His valley, his sanctuary was at stake. At risk of losing everything, now they were under attack. PK Tanaka tensed up straight. Pulled out his Glock and held it close like a child with a teddy-bear. Lt. Hernandez did the same with his _nine_. Step by step they moved back with the old guy and Anna into the shack.

Pakdee did nothing at all, she had no expression, if there was any inkling it was one of relief..."I have not been telling lies, _you know that_?" she said. "We don't do things like that."

"Sammy-boy, you ready?" The Tamil accelerated up the ridge. The Forester was perfect for this, compact and maneuverable. The Latino hoods in the back snapped on their belts and hung on.

"Shit, _amigo_ ...everybody'll be looking for us!" yelled one of the men in the back.

The Nigerian turned around and glared at them. "Not if we're quick. We get in and grab him. Back to the river. That's what the boats for. We tie a rope to this very car, drag it in and it goes straight to the bottom of the river. The old man's body inside... _no trace!_ "

The Tamil dropped down a gear in the manual shifter and the little SUV came careening over a rise then slammed to a dead halt...two vehicles blocking the way. The larger one was a sheriff's car.

With a shotgun in his left hand and his wife behind him holding a rolling pin the farmer peered out the window. Sounded like a drunkard's footsteps. They'd been interrupted from late night supper by the noise. Out here it was unusual to hear that many shots so late at night and the other ' _bangs'_ were much louder, not like cherry-bombs used to vandalize post boxes.

Under the light on the porch the sight that greeted the couple left them stunned. A cop, looking like he'd been through a cement mixer...one filled with mud and nails.

Kroger barged into the room once the occupants had realized he was in what was left of a sheriff's uniform and they finally unlatched the oak door. He was covered in mud and scratches, soaking wet and dripping blood from a nasty gash on his forearm but lucky, considering. After a twenty foot plunge through brambles into an icy stream Kroger had landed next to a discarded ice box and it had saved him; both grenades had dropped to the other side of it, sparing his life -- plopped into the stream instead of bouncing. The deputy's lucky day. He bolted downstream before sighting a homestead nearby a parked up trailer several hundred yards away.

He tore at the land line, he fell on the floor and blubbered into the hand set of the wall phone as the farmer's wife surrounded him with blankets and towels.

" _Officer down, shots fired!!"_ he bawled. _"Send everything you got...unknown suspects; hot-damn they threw a bomb at me! They got machine guns, they got firepower, and they got AK47s...arghhh!!"_ Kroger continued to rave and ramble into the phone and as he did the farmer turned off all lights and nervously paced around with his trusty long-barreled pump and the lady of the house tried to calm him down. Hopefully backup was on its way. Up at the junction Kroger's vehicle burned like a Roman candle, throwing out sparks and belching flames.

Deputy Sheriff, Corporal Cornell _'Jungle-Jim'_ Kroger...one time MMA fighter, a top-gun cop who always regarded himself as a hard case...now he was doubled over, he was shaking and frozen. Traumatized and looking like he'd been run over by a freight train, but he'd live, he'd survive. He'd always been the kind of guy to brag about his legendary exploits and great bravado. Once this terrible night was over he'd have a real war-story for his buddies at the gym and the newspapers, the pretty TV interviewer and anybody else who'd listen. The guy who faced off with foreign terrorists. Maybe he'd get that long awaited promotion to sergeant and a medal, too. As it turned out Kroger would never speak of this night again once the enquiries were done. Shook him up too much, near-death experiences tend to do that.

"This baby's older 'n' yours truly," said Hatfield. He lifted down from a wall rack an M1A1 Garand, opened the slider, and then unlocked a trunk. Clawed at bundles of rounds clipped into black eight-shot holders. He stared straight into PK Tanaka's eyes, nodding with satisfaction. "Saw service on Guadalcanal, got the papers when I bought her. Finest damn field rifle ever saw the light of day; drop a rhinoceros with one of these." He held up a spring clip, eight huge, brightly polished _'thirty-odd-six'_ rounds gleamed. He fumbled through the trunk and pulled out a Colt ACP and on cue Pakdee thrust her hand out. Hatfield held it back but the cops nodded.

"Okay," said Tanaka. "Got any others? Firearms, I mean?"

"Nah," Hatfield growled. "Two of 'em; that's more 'n' enough for me _._ " The old guy passed over the auto and a couple of spare magazines to her, she stuffed the ACP in behind her waist and he shook his head grimly at the cops. "You'll have to make do with your peashooters. Follow me." He snatched the Coleman lamp and they followed him down under the shack to a cellar, with the Timber wolf close behind, it knew something was up...seriously wrong.

The snuck up the side and couched down and could see now, there was a third vehicle stopped behind the cops' cars. They could see the figures get out, two headed into the forest on top of the cutaway and the other two moved swiftly towards the shack. They stood out in the moonlight. JJ Hatfield raised his rifle but just as quickly the first two figures and disappeared, probably on the low side of the trail.

Pakdee nudged Hatfield. "Oh my Lord, the African is here." She knew this from the Nigerian's sheer size.

Hatfield made some gestures with his hand. "I'll get down the side and head 'em off," he whispered. "You lot go down the side of the garage, you'll see the woodpile. Cover the shack from there. Behind's a sharp drop -- careful, it's slippery." He moved closer. "Another fifty feet down there's and old access shaft...you'll see the trolley tracks. Do not; repeat, _do not_ be tempted to hide yer asses inside the mine. Just keep goin' downwards. Stick to the stream cutting."

Hatfield made to move forward but couldn't; Anna had grabbed his coat and wasn't letting go. _"Crazy woman...go, dammit!"_ he snarled under his breath. She shook her head emphatically.

"I shall protect you," she said. "I failed once and for every hour of every day since then I have suffered." Pakdee pointed to where the borrowed Volkswagen was parked. "We go for the car in succession then I'll cover you into the brush on the other side." She turned to Tanaka and Hernandez. "Do as he says and head down the gully. It is us the syndicate is seeking, not you. Time is running out."

They kept going to the landing, one last check they could see the two cops heading down the back of the place. They stopped and took a deep breath. Pakdee counted to three on her hand and they bolted, she out front with one arm behind leading JJ Hatfield. They made it to the car and stopped. Hatfield dropped down, ready for the next run, to the woods twenty feet away. Pakdee seized his collar.

"Ready?" she asked. He nodded. "I head back across. You go fast...run like the wind."

She pulled out the forty-five ACP and the second magazine. Then the firing started from near the three stranded cars. _Rapid-fire_ , from one of the Mini-14s, then the second one opened up. Rounds started hitting the Golf. Hatfield took one last look at her, she nodded back at him, and she turned and sprung -- just like a scalded cat.

He watched a second or two she was bounding across the open space and vaulted clear over the gate, then she dropped and let loose, the entire seven rounds from the trusty automatic. Hatfield clenched his teeth and bolted to the other side and landed in the thickets. He collapsed sideways behind a tree, ducked and kept moving like a snake. He could see now, there were two shooters firing blind in the direction of his farmhouse. Anna was gone now, disappeared. The firing was down from where he was positioned -- two automatic rifles, repeated volleys of deafening high-pitched rounds.

JJ Hatfield kept moving forward. He got close enough now; he could see the outline of the two shooters with the flashes from their own rifles. Gone was the anger, it was something else he felt...he raised the Garand to his shoulder, his cheek in hard to the stock. The bad guys, bunched together, firing wildly at his place, towards the others. They had no idea he was casing them, he'd circled in like a solitary reef shark. He slid his index finger in the guard, he exhaled and squeezed.

# Chapter Thirty-one

The cops were back-tracking, they moved beyond the shack to the side of the garage where the old guy's Inter was sitting. A wall of rounds was raining down on them from the woods to the other side. Whoever it was firing, they were a long way off. To the near side another barrage of shots came from a much deeper-sounding weapon, now they were being flanked; the guys in the woods were a diversion.

Then they heard it, an even louder pair of shots, then two more...a much more powerful noise than anything else. The echo travelled a long way like thunder.

"That's Gunny Hatfield's rifle," whispered Roy Hernandez. "Pity any sucker who's on the pointy end of that."

The rapid firing from the woods ceased as quickly as it started. Then a flurry of loud taps and clanging on a sheet metal surface somewhere. Just like a whole tribe of delinquents armed with catapults. Tanaka grabbed Hernandez and forced him down.

"Keep still. They've got a machine-pistol."

Tanaka dropped lower, tried to see from a different angle. He was looking for her, no idea where she'd gone. He was concerned...could use her skills right now. He still couldn't see Anna but he did see two shadows approaching from the lower side of the trail -- he peeked up with the vain idea of firing and was met by half a mag from an assault rifle fired by some giant, bigger than a wrestler or a circus freak. Rounds spun off the I-beams holding the garage up. Whoever it was, they hobbled with a lame leg, and maybe they'd been hit.

Still no sign of Anna...

"We gotta move," muttered Hernandez. "Remember -- downhill; we head past the old mine."

Any thought about the old guy or her was snuffed out by rounds from the Ingram pistol stitching the side of the shed. The rounds went high. Hernandez and Tanaka retreated behind the structure and crawled down the hill, just like the old guy said.

In thickets not too far from the trail lay two _Nuestra Sociedad_ guys, each killed instantly with a double shot from Hatfield's Garand. Gone to the hills -- the Mountain State -- with the crooks, lured by the cash for a few days' work, they'd been told they were heading up there to _'...rough up a sick old hillbilly...'_ and instead they walked straight into the sights of a marine sniper, an old man who'd fought wars and still hunted his own food. They'd never seen snow before; they had alighted from the Forester and floundered through the woods in an attempt to meet up at the ranch, flanking anybody who had ideas of escaping. Hatfield had rushed to a fallen sycamore and killed the first one instantly. The second scumbag hit the deck and fired wildly at the trees as the old guy circled him, closing in on the muzzle flash.

Hatfield doubled back and entered the shack; the damage from the firing had left the place looking like a sieve. The room damaged and the last nostalgic memories all over the floor, glass everywhere. _The wedding picture..._

Thankfully no fires blazing; only glass and shattered timber throughout. Glass from the windows all over the floor -- they'd put a hundred rounds or more, raked the place up and down. The stove was okay, the ammo had ricocheted off the cast iron. Wrecked the place...but it had cost them dearly. He tipped the coffee pot in to snuff the coals and ventured outside. Then he saw her.

" _Oh shoot,"_ he whispered out loud. _"They've killed her..."_

Face down, sprawled out and still, a big dark stain in the snow. Looked more like an ink-stain but it was blood alright, Hatfield darted out and cased the area with the muzzle then got down next to her. He dropped the rifle down softly into the snow a second and carefully turned her over, she was soaked in blood, and he clawed back the warm clothes to see if she had a pulse. Wasn't the first time in his life he'd done this. The Colt forty-five was gone, she'd dumped it or someone else had it. Then he heard more shooting -- a lot of shooting this time -- there was an exchange of fire coming from down the back. Small-arms fire and the unmistakable thud of the Kalashnikov rifle. Then two explosions followed.

Grenades!

No time to scratch, Hatfield gently laid Anna back on the snow, picked up the Garand and headed down. The gunfire, it was coming from the gully, they must've been near the mine.

Muddy water extended as far as the eye could see. She could hear the other dead children singing; it was the nursery rhyme praising the elephant, its trunk, its eyes and long tail. All youngsters knew the song from pre-school. But she couldn't see them, only the singing, it was coming from somewhere. She didn't know where, everything was gone now. Far away there were waterspouts -- seven of them -- lined up on the horizon. Only the peaks of tin roofed huts poked above the water and she struggled to move and kept slipping and falling. As she found higher ground she could see nothing but brown water and something kept prodding her left shoulder.

The tamarind tree, that tree, that day she was cursed. The tamarind tree; it was sinking too. The village, where she was born it was going under, the flood kept rising and she staggered and slipped, she was stuck and couldn't move. Still the singing, still she couldn't see anyone. Something grabbed her from behind and she whirled around. Defeat. There was nothing she could do. The light was dimming. The waterspouts, they were coming closer. She felt the wind, it picked up. Once more something yanked at her from behind, she tried to turn...tried to scream. Nothing came out, only air. She couldn't hear the children singing anymore, everything had gone under. She was sinking too. Then something hit her left shoulder blade one last time, and the water covered her head.

Pakdee sat up. Soaked in blood. It was starting to freeze as well -- her blood, type-red -- all over her and the ground around. Panting and nibbling at her was the mysterious blue-eyed dog of Hatfield's. It poked her heard with its snout. _That's what the tugging and pulling must have been._ Then the wolf stared licking at the blood soaked snow. She shivered. Those dreams, they gave her the chills. _His dog...it was licking up her blood!_

She ran her hand through her hair and felt it, a neat groove along the top of her scalp. She'd been hit and knocked out, the wound still oozed. She saw all the footprints and some more blood, little droplets leading in a trail. Somebody else was hurt. She remembered the gun, Hatfield's pistol, it was gone.

She could see the wood pile and jammed into a section of hardwood was a woodsman's axe. Way too large. Pakdee was a swordsman, not a Viking; she scrambled around searching for the forty-five which had vanished. All around were tracks in the snow and the farmhouse empty. Cautiously she stood; she leaned and held the wolf's collar, and led it toward the exit under the dwelling.

The door was ajar and there was no light except the moon and as she backtracked she could barely make the room out. No power or lighting and she stumbled into the cellar, it was tidy but dark. She reached and felt along the racks -- she would need to hurry -- some boxes, crates; something cylindrical. An old stainless flashlight with ribbing on the side and it worked.

_Think!_ So many stores but only essentials; no weapons -- this was survival gear for preservation of life, not the taking of it. She tore at some boxes and found what she needed: a box of detergent, waterproof matches and on the floor a red pail full of sand which she upended. A jerry can with gasoline was on the ground under a shelf; she filled the pail to the brim and broke open the detergent box and tipped a fistfuls of the powder in; mixing it with her hand, sloshing some over herself and the floor. It'd stick; the mix would burn hot, bright and slow. On the shelf, her hand swept a little timber statue of a figure made of hardwood; it fell and bounced on the mortar surface of the cellar. About eight inches long and just under two inches thick, the thing was heavy and solid. She grabbed it and slipped it into the pocket of her jacket. Gripped hard in a closed fist, it'd make a knockout punch.

" _Stay,"_ she hissed at the dog. She eased the exit shut after carefully. The pail was a solid old thing of galvanized metal and it held over two gallons; at least it had a cover but it was heavy and she staggered out and retraced the prints in the snow down to the wood pile and below the sandstone ledges. It was a struggle but she had to stay upright.

The Nigerian watched on mutely as the Tamil kicked Tanaka, he doubled up in pain. Both he and the sheriff were restrained with their own cuffs, their arms out front but both locked together by the chain-links. They'd surrendered after a short firefight, outgunned. Either that or be shot.

"Where is the old man...where is he?!" The Tamil drooled now, he was crazed and desperate. Another kick and Tanaka doubled over, toppling Hernandez as well. They were confined in an area no larger than a small room and the mine continued beyond. Ten feet further in the old trolley tracks disappeared into the dark, into the mountainside. The moon had gone directly above; it flooded the entrance with white light.

The Tamil clicked the selector on the Ingram and brought it level to Lt. Hernandez' right kneecap, firing once. The sheriff bellowed in agony as the round struck and passed through the back, blood started filling his thermal boot. He thrashed around and retracted his good leg, hurling Tanaka against an ancient timber, dislocating his wrist as well as pieces of gravel from above that began to spatter like rain.

The villains focused on Tanaka now. " _The father_ ... _where is he?"_ demanded the Tamil. "He has some items I need."

If one or both of them wandered out in search of Hatfield the ex-sniper would cut them down. Or he could stall them; perhaps a better idea as it was the old guy who steered them toward the mine. Tanaka tried to raise his head up and look out but a swift kick sent him flat. It came from the huge black guy who was clutching an injury on his lower left side -- he'd been hit too.

"Hatfield's son and that whore..." he snarled in a long and low voice, menacing, evil. "They have my money. They embezzled me. I was ripped off!" He prodded Tanaka and voice rose. "Now tell me, where is the old man!"

Tanaka gulped and the sheriff moaned; he was losing blood. Between the Tamil's ranting there was only dripping sounds, echoes and surely in the distance help would be there. The Nigerian covered the entrance. The old guy...where was he; where was Anna?

He looked up at the Tamil, only shaking his head, and then he lowered his gaze once more.

"I'll tell you what," said the Tamil, conciliatory as if to negotiate a business deal. He leaned over and whispered to the cops: "I will make you an offer: a quick humane death," nodding at the assault rifle. "Or pain like you cannot imagine..."

"Kill a federal agent in this country, _dickhead_ , and it's the needle -- death row! No exceptions." Tanaka was only angered by now. The man's breath was foul, everybody was tired of this game and surely this would end. Without thinking he stared up defiantly:

"Hey pal, you really oughta brush your teeth after going to the toilet." _Get it over with. How dare you come in here and do this to us..._.

PK Tanaka's forehead gently touched against the floor of the tunnel and he could feel rumbling. He felt something else; he was wet, it burnt his eyes and an overpowering stench... _gasoline_ , lots of it and it was everywhere. The Tamil was shouting hysterically and waving his machine pistol, the Nigerian giant was whirling around, struggling with something or somebody at the entrance. The Tamil didn't dare fire. One single shot and the muzzle flash would incinerate them all.

JJ Hatfield had followed the ruckus down; first thing he saw was the black marks and the snow thrown out by the M26. That distinctive smell of _Compound-B_ fumes, it was still. Everything under a silvery moon, the tracks leading in to the mine and sure enough they were in there, stuffed into the entrance. The sheriff, the Washington guy and whoever it was who had them hostage.

" _Damn fools,"_ he muttered aloud.

The mine, it was a hand-dug work of art put in by pioneers -- maybe child-labor -- over a hundred and twenty years ago but it was ready to cave in. Trolley tracks entered the cutaway and on the outside was an old gutter-chute that led straight down the bluff to a waterway below. The chute had become a stream now. The mine itself had struts of rotted timber, and any supports had long decayed through. Hewn through soft shale and sandstone to harvest a four-foot-thick coal seam, the shaft itself was an historic but useless and treacherous monument.

Hatfield kneeled down and rested the Garand on a piece of rock jutting from a washout, it gave him cover. He needed a clean shot and he knew full well he could do a lot of things wrong.

Think damnit!! Made enough screw-ups for one lifetime...wait till they come out, try 'n' pick the bad guys off. Or charge 'em...it's now or never.

The adrenaline was fading away, he was in pain, and it racked his body, his lungs heaving. If he charged and made enough noise he might just draw them out. Four shots left. He gritted his teeth and took a deep breath, maybe his last and stood up.

Then he saw her. Couldn't believe his eyes, she didn't see him though, and she wasn't waiting around. Hatfield watched as Anna moved to the ledge above the entrance and jumped.

She made it to an overhang and teetered on the edge, below she saw the huge bulk of the Nigerian with an assault rifle, one type she was well familiar with. Flicked off the lid to the pail, filled with backyard napalm and lifted it up to her chest, clenching her hands in front with the matches, a whole bundle of them. Fifteen feet down they were there. A long way down but she could do it, she'd done jumps before and this would be a long one.

Something made the Nigerian look up, he saw her and drew the assault rifle up and she launched herself...straight at him.

Sammy-Boy didn't have time to fire; a drum filled with liquid with her behind it collided knocking both he and the Tamil down. Gasoline -- now the Nigerian and everything else in the cavern -- they were soaked in it. They crashed back hard into the mine like a tumble of bodies in a pile-up. The assault rifle clattered to the side; away from them...it was useless anyhow with all the fuel around.

Pakdee righted herself and stood up, moving back to the entrance where the moonlight illuminated her form. The Nigerian heaved himself upright and staggered. Pints of blood all over his jacket. Maybe she got lucky before up at the road, whatever it was it slowed him down. She dropped back and launched a very low leaping kick – aimed for his crotch and got his thigh but she only bounced off. Fell on her back and tried to push with her legs; get out of the cave but the Nigerian grabbed her and with a single hand picked her up and bodily threw her against the wall of the mine where she landed on a metal rail...it connected with her hip and she squealed. Now stones and debris were clattering from the mine's roof. Next thing she felt two giant hands, first on the side of her neck then they closed around her throat. Ojukowne was choking her, as his paws crushed around her windpipe she was being lifted into the air.

Flexed her neck and jaw muscles hard, but the Nigerian only clamped down harder. She couldn't get any kicks through; she was in mid-air with nothing to launch from...no power. Couldn't get any air, she was losing consciousness. She let go of his wrists and dropped her arms by her sides a second then brought both her hands up in front of her face, between the two gigantic forearms that were holding her. Pushed both her arms to the right and with her last ounce of strength forced the Nigerian's choke-hold downwards, raising his right hand upward a fraction. She flicked her head left and bit down as hard as she could. Now his thumb was between her teeth -- the platinum teeth worth more than the car she drove -- and she clamped her jaws shut with the last of her strength. Like an uncooked chicken drumstick, she felt the bone crack, the blood filling her mouth and the huge hands release their grip...minus one thumb. The Nigerian bellowed in pain and fury.

Pakdee dropped to the ground and took a huge gasp of air. She clawed at her clothes and took the timber statue she'd picked up earlier, clenched it tight and let go one last punch...straight at his throat. He lurched back, grabbing at anything and latched on to an old upright beam as he overbalanced. It came loose, and Ojukowne fell flat on his back. As he hit the floor of the tunnel a two-ton slab of sandstone the size of a dinner table dropped out of the low ceiling and landed...square on him...with a loud dull thud. He never even had time to make a noise, didn't see it coming. Like a jelly-roll under a fireman's boot.

She crawled back toward the mine's entrance, just in time to see the Tamil hovering over the two cops. And the old guy, he'd come rushing to the mine, lifted the heavy Garand back and slammed the butt stock into the Tamil's chest, sending him flying. She and Hatfield stooped down on either side of the two cops, still locked with the cuffs, they grabbed one side each and hauled toward the outside as fast as they could move. Lt. Hernandez howling in pain as they dragged him with his bullet wound and Tanaka locked on; they dragged both them out into the open.

The moonlight was gone now, superimposed by a powerful spotlight on a chopper. They could hear sirens, lots of them in the distance and up near the shack flashlights. The cavalry had arrived; cops, dozens of them moving in on foot. The chopper hovered lower, maybe only a few hundred feet above, the aerial searchlight lit the place up like a stadium.

Hatfield and Pakdee dropped the cops and turned back at the old mine and they saw the figure at the entrance \-- clear as daylight -- the Tamil. Clutching at something, he stood up and teetered then he brought his hand back behind. _The last remaining grenade_ _._ Pakdee pushed Hatfield flat and tore at the Garand; she leapt forward and coiled the strap through her arm. Butt into her cheek...she aimed, she fired. Straight into the Tamil's chest, he fell back into the entrance and the M26 detonated after tumbling inside. Then the fuel exploded. Then the entire hillside came down. A thousand cubic yards. The edge of the landslide caught her and knocked her back, stones, rocks and black sooty dust billowed everywhere.

The gully had collapsed. The mine was no longer. The syndicate was no longer...

Gone. Buried just like the coal that lay under these hills.

She was winded and brought her knees up to her chest, slowly exhaling, then a shallow lungful, followed by another. She relaxed and took a second look at where they had been seconds before, now buried under a small mountain of fresh sandy rock and debris, vegetation and other material.

Hatfield took his rifle back and was hugging Anna now; she was disheveled and covered in dust, soil and congealing blood everywhere, all through her hair and down her front and on the snow and scattered rubble where they lay.

"Thought I told you, _darlin'_ that mine ain't safe," moaned Hatfield. "Never listen to a damn word I say, no one ever listens."

Exhausted, he rolled over and lay next to her and they both stared at the police helicopter as it banked away to escape the rising black cloud. As it did so the searchlight was obscured. Officers were picking their way down to where the four of them were, the beams from their Maglights darting about. There was shouting, yelling but none of the four had the energy to answer.

As he lay there, Hatfield truly felt his time was up. He turned back to Anna and sniffled. "Pardon the French, but I'm over this shit," he groaned. He looked at her, to check her reaction.

"JJ Hatfield, from this day now only good luck for you and your life, _you know that?_ Trust me, I kept my promise to you," she said.

"Glad somebody thinks so," he whispered.

_Believe that when I see it,_ he thought. _One helluva night; one hellava year...could use a little good fortune for once..._

# Chapter Thirty-two

A full two weeks rolled by and even under guard at the medical center Anna had opinions divided throughout. The FBI regarded her as something that would soon go away; until then she was considered a danger to society. The county figured different. The sheriff's office was pushing to get her a citation: _'...courageous conduct under circumstances of extreme peril...'_

Lieutenant Roy Hernandez was just down the corridor; he'd need a lot more treatment and rehab. He had a steady stream of visitors and well-wishers, all of whom wanted to meet her. Others baked up and brought in a constant supply of things like pumpkin pies, roast turkey. The hospital had to put a halt to that -- nowhere to keep it. She got a taste for the local turkey.

Then there was JJ Hatfield. He was lauded by all and sundry and against all his wishes was getting instant, albeit fleeting fame. News crews and journalists kept rolling up to his place uninvited, he was grilled by investigators. There were cops all over the valley for a whole week.

But he was a sick man. The illness he suffered was getting worse; he was going downhill, even faster thanks to all he'd been through. The day came when she was to be sent back. He made it, only just but he'd wanted to see her off at the airport. It was against regulations but the managers didn't have the heart to refuse. They didn't have the stomach for another visit from that senator either; he'd been taking an all too close interest in things recently. Especially since the story broke.

She was visibly shocked when she saw the old guy. He looked awful. Tanaka and Hatfield turned up and collected her after dismissing the officer who was outside her room. She stopped by and said goodbye to Roy Hernandez before leaving the medical center.

As Tanaka opened the door to the car she nudged him.

"Bring the letters?"

Tanaka nodded and handed her two envelopes. Now she had them...two for him; one that belonged to her. He pushed Anna into the back seat. Destination: JFK International. But they had a short detour.

The snow had all gone now and tiny shoots were sprouting on the trees as the sun rose to a crystal clear day. She kneeled before the simple gravestone and prayed as they watched on behind. Closure...now Pakdee was ready to return, armed with a travel document that would allow free passage through to her home. Officially she was being deported. In the government sedan waited Tanaka and second car leased by Immigration was parked up behind. She rose to her feet and walked to Hatfield, pausing. She turned and took one last look at the grave in a place she could never return to.

"Thanks," she whispered as she brushed by Hatfield. "One last goodbye, I won't be back, you know that?"

" _Jaisuwan,"_ mumbled Hatfield, out of the blue. "No idea what it means. Did I say it right? It's a pretty name...has a nice ring to it."

They were a few feet from the car. She stopped and turned, puzzled by this. Pakdee, ever in control, who never overlooked a single thing stopped and gazed up at the vapor trails from scores of high flying airliners then at the old guy. She'd never told him her real name; surely... _he'd even said it right!_

"It means ' _my heart in heaven'_ ; you know that, Mister Hatfield? As you should know, that part of me will remain with your son." She gave him a quick and simple hug.

He didn't know what to feel. Maybe she and Billy-Bob had eloped; maybe they had something going. She'd arrived at the other of the earth to finish off what had been started, as promised she had come; she saved Hatfield and rescued the cops. As promised, she'd hunted down and destroyed the syndicate. She'd got justice, her way. He couldn't say anything right now. They had a few hours' drive ahead.

Her hair and her back to him, reminded him...a flashback: _'Nam! They couldn't be beaten. This one was no different at all. She was indomitable. Nobody ever colonized Anna's place. Nobody could, no foreign colonial power...not one though they all wanted to. The jewel nobody got to have or hold. History was on their side._

Tanaka cuffed Pakdee and she flicked around poker-faced. _I could break these quicker 'n' you'd crack a can of beer, my friend._

She was put in the rear of the vehicle and Tanaka closed the door. Hatfield remained there facing the direction of his son's newly placed grave marker. He jumped in the front next to Tanaka. She'd locked the rear doors by punching the button with her elbow; she wanted to ride in the back alone.

They sat in a coffee shop on the upper level; Tanaka un-cuffed her at least when she got out of the car. The immigration officer agreed to wait outside the terminal, so it was just the three of them. Her flight was several hours away and it was Tanaka who suggested they pass the time in the observation area. It was a chaotic airport at the best of times but this was rush hour although they all felt drained. Nobody said much in the car but now they were exchanging stories. The officer from immigration had signed some things, given the slips to Tanaka then left, leaving just the three of them. Reminiscing about the good old days.

"Our city has changed, JJ Hatfield," said Pakdee. "One day please do come back. I can show you around. You would never recognize it now."

" _Go on 'n' tell us about it_ ," said Hatfield. "Damn place used to the Wild West when I was there...curfews, military coups, tanks everywhere. Scarier than Saigon! They had an opium den behind our hotel. Cashier kept an old Thompson gun in his office. Girls kept bottles of phosphoric acid and straight razors in their purses-"

"Those days of old are gone now," she said. "We have worked hard to modernize our country. Nowadays you would think you're in Japan; maybe _better_ ..."

She was serious and stared at Tanaka for a moment, who avoided her gaze. She produced her purse which she snapped open and took something out a photograph mounted on a hard backing, she turned it over and scrawled something on the other side before tapping it with the pen and turning it upright and sliding it across the glass top.

"I want you to have this..."

Hatfield held the portrait and choked, he shook his head.

"We were on a beach in Palawan last year. I think it was a Saturday evening. We spent the day catching fish. We had this portrait taken..."

He shook his head. It was a picture of his son with her and the palm trees behind them. Tanned like an actor, the way Hatfield remembered, they were cuddled up together, Billy-Bob looked his best and Anna like a teenager making some sign with her fingers.

Hatfield dropped the Polaroid back on the coffee table and choked. It was difficult to get the words out: "I can't," he said.

Pakdee slowly moved her hand across and turned the photo over. "Oh, I think you can," her finger on a line of numbers and letters she'd written in pen on the back. She leaned and whispered into his ear. She handed him two envelopes. Same ones she had mailed, same ones PK Tanaka had seized and given back. _Billy Bob's accounts_. They were worth a fortune. More than anybody would even think about.

"You have two statements here and we get to keep the last which belongs to my people." She leaned back and smiled at him, this time spoke aloud. "I hope that's okay by you. Get with the clever policeman here and figure it out." She tossed her head at Tanaka. "If you can there are some funds and this is the password..."

It was the understatement of the year; the accounts held more numbers with zeros after them than Hatfield could even count. He only read in total disbelief. The FBI man was feigning ignorance, he read them again. Held the Polaroid, now he felt like he'd earned it.

"Take this and go get yourself treated. You can afford the very best in the world, now. Promise me you'll come back and visit someday, when you're fully recovered," said Pakdee. She turned to the flight schedule. "I must go now," she added with a touch of sadness.

They stood. Pakdee nodded one last time at Hatfield as they passed through the sliding doors. She and Tanaka proceeded through security, along a passage to the boarding lounge. It had glass screens the size of a barn and a great view to the aircraft lumbering in and out and parked up at the aerobridges.

They made it through to the waiting area. In there were two Thai men in identical blue suits. They used that strange prayer-greeting; Tanaka watched with curiosity. He was getting used to it now. They spoke then sat at the other end of the hall.

"My escorts," she said. "My general sent them to make sure I arrive safely."

"And you'll get a big welcome when you return?" Tanaka smirked, like he knew. Pakdee said nothing. Tanaka was going through his attaché case, pulled out a clear plastic bag. Took it out and held it up. "Just a little token of thanks...for pulling me and the sheriff outta the cave the other night," he said.

Her expression was priceless. "Are you sure...are they the ones?"

Reminded him of Christmas morning under the tree. Three boxes inside the bag, the black boxes. Same ones; the very same ones that started the whole thing off.

"They're the very ones all right, got 'em off a friend of mine. Guess you could call him one of the good guys, all things considered." When she reached out to take them and Tanaka lowered his hand. "One condition....you show me how this thing works. Deal?"

"Why not," she said.

In her carry-on was a laptop given to her by the general, a shockproof model in a dull green drop-case. They were on a mezzanine floor with huge float-glass panels the height of a building and outside was a view of the airport and in the distance the lights. Pakdee took the boxes from the bag and opened the first. In it was a digital camera, the cell phone and coil of plastic wires which she connected. Last a disc that came with the camera that when inserted in the laptop whirred and clunked before a list of files appeared on the screen. She began to click on files and they appeared, all in Chinese language.

"This one gives all the specifications," she said, pointing to an array of graphs and charts. "Ranges, propellants and materials; even wind and weather." She clicked further down and a page of company logos with websites appeared. "This file gives all the suppliers." She gasped and touched the screen. "Companies from all over...aerospace suppliers from the EU, chemicals from India and Ukraine." She pointed again. "There are electrical suppliers from China and Taiwan. Shipping companies and airlines to choose from, freight forwarders who play the game and don't ask too many questions. Airports where the officials have their price to look the other way..."

Tanaka whistled. _"We need a copy of this-"_

"Relax," she replied. "I can arrange for any of these files to be sent, but through the right channels; from our agencies to yours. You have enough explaining to do."

"So where's this magical system?"

"I'm getting to that," she replied. She clicked on the final file, the largest one and her laptop resumed the whirring and grinding. The screen went black a moment then an image appeared with some diagrams and blueprints, again in Chinese script that she read intently. More characters appeared on the screen. Pakdee translated out loud, holding up the plastic camera.

"It says the front lens in the toy camera is made of high-impact sapphire crystal," she continued. She placed the camera on a hand rail facing toward the runway outside the window and squatted down, the laptop upon her knees. She then looked out and indicated in the distance an airliner approaching from the north with its landing lights on. Dusk by now but still a good view as far as the eye could see.

"You're sure we can do this here?"

Tanaka nodded: "Okay."

"Then watch this..."

She hit 'enter' on the keyboard and the camera sprang to life, the lens emerged from the body and moved as if it had a life of its own. The cell phone lit up and buzzed intermittently. The screen produced a detailed night-vision image in a gray-green monochrome. She scrolled in, magnifying the outline of the airplane as it turned and lumbered in through the late afternoon, maybe two miles out. A bright green rectangle appeared superimposed over the image of the aircraft and when she hit 'enter' once more the camera again buzzed and clicked. Pakdee placed the laptop on the ground and stood back; they watched, glued to the image as the pulsing green cursor stayed on the approaching aircraft until it disappeared out of view and off the screen.

She glanced upward to the security cameras. "Some people can take this, fix it inside a two-dollar missile and shoot that 'plane down," she whispered. "This very computer in the mobile phone combines a movement seeking program and automatic guidance with line-of-sight technology, _we think_. It has been used to target _Hind-D_ helicopters in Chechnya as well as that incident last year near the Gaza Strip. But you must understand, this technology can also be used for good. I am told my government can copy and use this. We can protect ourselves; we are a righteous family in a tough neighborhood..."

PK Tanaka remembered that day at Ayutthaya, walking around the monuments. The history lecture the general had given him, he had a point. So did she, truth be told...

"All of this was designed from video-gaming software," said Pakdee. "It connects to compressed air servos -- exactly the same as used in expensive model aircraft." She clutched Tanaka's arm. "You remember that day in Bangkok? That man who got killed by the explosive device?"

"How could I forget?"

"He invented these things." She repacked the goods in the boxes and snapped the laptop shut. It looked exactly like cheap electronics from the tax free, just like he said. "But he's gone now. We're still standing."

"Bon Voyage Anna," Tanaka said, extending his hand. But she didn't shake on it...she bowed this time and made the prayer sign to him. He felt so awkward. Then she said something to him, just a whisper, but in her language.

"Excuse me-"

"I say you are honorable. Humble and good beginnings. And you have this."

_Nice to know, lady,_ he thought. "Maybe sometime in future; you never know."

Her face brightened. "I know," she said. "I see you again, maybe soon; for sure!"

Tanaka shuddered in horror. He had no intentions of seeing Anna again. Seemed almost like she was casting some old Chinese curse upon him: _'...interesting times...'_ or the like.

"I thank you... _we thank you_. We owe you. And we will not forget." She nodded at him. "I said to you once that I have an army behind me, people you wouldn't wish to meet. But you came to my country and you found me and my general came to you... _he never does that_. You have helped us."

"I'll keep it in mind." Tanaka motioned to the ramp. Right now he could never know the future. "On your way then."

With that she walked to the door of the airliner flanked by the two minders and was gone. Tanaka was supposed to stay and watch it take off but he didn't bother, Anna had a home to go to, so did he; so did the old guy.

Tanaka made his way back to the public area and found JJ Hatfield. "Let's get outta here," he said.

"Get her flight?"

"Too right, she did. Gave her the stuff she was after in the end."

"What stuff?" asked Hatfield.

"Something used inside missiles...warheads; guidance systems...the things your son took to the attaché in Manila." Tanaka shrugged. "He did the right thing, you know. He was a brave young man. Anna was put in there to shut them down. She only found out what they were meant for after Billy-Bob was taken and killed."

"So why'd you give it to her?"

Tanaka scratched his head. "Right thing to do...her country is under threat now from all sides. Anna saved our asses, agreed? One good turn deserves another." He tapped Hatfield on the shoulder. "What's on the back of the picture she gave you, anyway -- her cell number?"

They walked, out the doors to Tanaka's vehicle. Hatfield raised his eyebrows and waited a long time before answering. "Tell you what, PK. You drive me back to my place right away and we'll _both_ find out. There's a load of numbers in those pages and I don't think the dead terrorists have much use for it anymore. You help me figure it out we'll go halves."

"Get off the grass, you goat -- I'm a cop," shaking his head. "So then...what was in the letters?" he asked. Tanaka knew though, he'd agonized over what to do with the accounts.

"You'll see," said JJ Hatfield. He was thinking about all the other things his service pension didn't or wouldn't cover. He thought about whom his real friends were when the chips were down, when it had all turned bad. All the things he'd ever dreamed about. _Blood money._ All in Billy-Bob's name and the syndicate's money had been washed whiter than white; she'd made sure of that. Even after taxes got their cut he was worth millions now, any way he looked at it. He was alone in the world. But now the world was his.

_Money may not buy you happiness_ , thought Hatfield. _But at least you can choose your own form of misery..._

" _Hate_ the city," he grumbled as the agent drove.

"Sometimes," said Tanaka, lowering the window of the cruiser as they headed south. He caught sight of the twinkling light passing over, watched it till it went into the cloud.

"Maybe you'll have a laugh at this but I've been thinkin' a bit lately," said Hatfield. Maybe I should get to church more often. Went every single Sunday when my late wife was around-"

"Nobody's laughing at you."

"You ever go to church, PK?"

" _Nope."_

The _Trents_ on either side roared like a buzz saw then throttled back after takeoff. A big 777; first stop Paris then arrival in the first City of Angels. Pakdee had a window seat on the flight and she stared out over the lights, then the 'plane went inland a few minutes before they banked and curved around toward the Atlantic. She watched the city lights below until it all disappeared behind cloud and she thought about their world below the wings. Somewhere down there, she hoped, the ghosts and flashbacks that had haunted her for so many years now lay entombed somewhere in the endless woods. The nightmares laid buried with the evil ones; the last of the syndicate. Under thousands of tons of shale, right beneath the shack where the Hatfield clan lived...it was justice.

_Anna the rock star, on her way home, they'd be all over her._ She thought about the first time -- _the Pacak Affair_ \-- that was little league compared to this. Tonight she'd finally pulled the jackpot lever. In the overhead locker above her, those things everyone wanted; it was all wrapped up in a plastic bag. She'd won. But she still wanted to ask the general -- ask him to his face -- why did they want these things so much; so urgently. What had happened to make the army so jumpy? She hoped he would tell her after all this.

If you fight, sometimes you lose. When you don't fight, you always lose.

# Epilogue

The hottest time of the year, and the rain was building on the horizon. Flags snapped back and forwards in the afternoon breeze, the sun was falling in the late afternoon light and the temples of gold and white shimmered in the heat. Everyone at the parade ground was sweating. Not Pakdee, she never sweated, she only perspired.

She stood to attention and saluted the dignitaries seated before her; she stepped forward and received her officer's epaulettes on a velvet cushion, no less. It was official now. She wore a uniform, but not of a soldier, the others in the _'class'_ wouldn't hear of it so they'd arranged a commission in the police. She would head up a new strike force somewhere in the city.

It was when she stood back and saluted once more it hit her. The applause and then they all cheered, they knew what she'd done. Afterward the top ranks stood around, they all wanted to meet her and be seen with her. They were all there, the commander, General Kitti-Khorn and his circle and some dignitaries. When the ceremony concluded and the brass left it was only the general and some others -- senior officers -- they milled around.

"Give you a lift back, Police-Major?" said Kitti-Khorn. He smiled. "Congratulations are in order."

She didn't answer immediately. They all thought she was a celebrity but the police commission was a consolation prize, in her opinion. Still, it could have been much worse.

"I need to get out of this thing." Pakdee tugged at the brown skirt that stretched past her knees. " _My General,_ one thing I insist upon -- its' plainclothes or I quit."

"Agreed," said Kitti. "You will have the best of both worlds, Major." He beckoned to his classic English sports car parked to the front of the barracks. "Come. My driver's off."

They drove for a while. The old convertible was a wonderful way to experience the city -- _her city_ \-- and the charms it had. Early evening, the streets gridlocked.

"If you bear with me I would like to detour...my office. I have something to show you."

"Yes sir," she replied. The general was deep in thought, for once no cigarette fumes.

"After all this I often ask myself-"

"I'll show you exactly why," replied the general, like he'd read her mind.

The car turned and entered the ministry compound, where Kitti worked. Pakdee had never been there at night. She followed the general through to an office; he entered leaving the door ajar. He unlocked a cabinet and took a folder.

"Just in case you were wondering what all the fuss has been about," said the general, "...have a good look at these." Kitti placed a series of land sat images on his desk and spread them out. She leafed through them.

"Construction of a dam?" Pakdee was puzzled; her knowledge did not extend to earthmoving and civil works.

"It's like this, if you would cast your mind back to your first dealings with the syndicate."

"Sir, I am aware."

"And you are aware the syndicate turned its attention to other things after Sri Lanka. They joined up with other elements and started developing sophisticated things, avionics and the likes of these items." Kitti touched the precious box of circuits on the desk.

"Something you said we needed, sir. I know."

"What you don't know is this: A while ago we received a rude awakening. At that time I came into possession of these, taken by military satellites during a break in cloud cover." The general tapped the still shots. "These are bunkers, being built by the North Koreans, located directly across the border from Mae Hong Son. Have you ever heard of the _Taepodong_ ICBM? The Silkworm Missile, perhaps?"

"Where is this place?" Pakdee's heartbeat rose.

"About five hundred clicks from where we're standing," said Kitti. "Pointed at us right here. Forty minute's flight by 'plane, a missile could make the distance in ten..."

She tensed up, rigid. _Warheads!!_

"Maybe this technology can stop such a threat." Kitti tapped the documents. "With our own, we can design the finest defense shield there is."

She leafed through the plates: clear images detailing blocks of sea containers, digging equipment, prime movers; hundreds of technicians and even more indentured laborers. Tentacles of first class paved roads snaked away from the diggings in the hills, in a country that could barely afford dirt tracks nor feed its people. In a country that had been at their throats for a thousand years.

_North Korea, Iran and now our next-door neighbors..._ Something obscene, she pushed the prints away in disgust then composed herself. "Do you think the circuits may be the answer, _My General_?"

He smiled. "Not now, it is only the beginning." He checked the time. "Tomorrow I have called a meeting with the brass and I shall demonstrate this equipment. I need you to be there to run the application -- agreed?" He patted his back pocket. "I am going to request a budgetary injection. I am hoping to set up a new R & D section."

Pakdee nodded. "Always my privilege sir, you know that?"

"I shall pick you up at oh-seven-hundred, downstairs at your place...as head of purchasing and acquisitions I have to keep myself busy, you know." He smiled. "I don't just spend my whole life playing golf."

"General Kitti-Khorn!" She blurted. "I was hoping to ask you something...my future...where does that leave you and me, _My General_?"

"Only a 'phone call away. Believe me, Anna, I'll still be in touch...don't you worry. I need you, as much as you need me. Now you're official. You exist now; if you choose to accept that is."

"Of course, My General... _you know that_."

"Oh, I nearly forgot. One other thing, I would like to present you with a small token of our gratitude..."

Kitti unlocked a strong-cabinet and handed out a metal case, anodized. She accepted and opened it, gasping out loud when she saw what was inside. There was a foam liner and she recognized the chunky object immediately, a _genuine_ Beretta 93R, never fired, a perfect match to that lovely outfit, squeezing barely under her silk jacket. Nobody else had one.

She'd played a deadly game in her own backyard and finished her own private war in the frozen woods on the other side of the world. Born in the rice fields and once an orphan tonight she possessed power beyond her wildest dreams. But what a year it had been.

They were probably the two men of her life; everybody like her had two of them. General Kitti-Khorn, the one that others feared, it had been patriots like Kitti who made the land what it was today. And Hatfield junior, 'Billy Bob' to his old man. A young guy cut down way too young. She had avenged him. She had done her duty. A vicious killing and the perpetrators paid for it.

Nowhere to run. _Anywhere. Anytime. Anyone._ _Didn't matter who..._

The general served out a pair of Prague-crystal decanters with Cognac and handed it to her. "Best of luck, _Officer_ ," he said.

As they toasted he was struggling not to laugh _, the rogue_. She was wincing in discomfort and doing her best to disguise it. The aroma scorched her nostrils and she gagged as she raised the crystal to her lips. Pakdee of Phayao _never_ took alcohol; she only consumed green tea. But on this day she would surely make an exception.

The mood was sullen in the entire floor of the building; everybody knew what was going on: PK Tanaka was in deep shit. _Yet again._ The bosses had him in there; he was in it up to his neck. Tanaka just had his hands behind his back. The super standing and leaning over her desk and the deputy facing him from the other side. No point in arguing. At least they weren't going to fire him, after all everything had turned out for the best...sort of.

A knock on the office door and one of the special agents poked his head in. "Afternoon, Deputy Director. Ma'am..." The agent looked nervously at Tanaka. "Sorry to interrupt but there's somebody to see you-"

"Tell 'em come back later or make an appointment... _we're busy damn it_ ," snapped the supervisor." The deputy director nodded.

"I don't think that's such a good idea, ma'am," replied the agent. "It's that _senator_ , from the estimates committee who's been snooping around." The agent swung the door open. Behind stood the senator himself, a distinguished six-foot-plus politician in an Italian suit with a visitor's tag pinned to his tie. He had a walking cane and tiny enameled flag on his lapel.

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything, Deputy Director," said the senator in a jovial voice, not like he cared. He entered the office. Everybody straightened up. Outside all the agents were standing, staring over the partitions. Not every day they got a visitor like this.

"Special Agent Tanaka, you're dismissed for today," grumbled the super. "We'll continue this discussion at a later date-"

" _Whoa, wait up!"_ boomed the senator. "So _you're_ PK Tanaka. Privilege to finally meet, son." He thrust his hand at Tanaka. "Wanted to thank you in person."

Tanaka cringed. Nobody called him _'son'_ since he could remember. "Privilege all mine, Senator," he replied.

Senator Henry pulled an envelope that he handed to the deputy director. "Just a little letter of commendation from my office on the way you handled this thing. Who would've known this ended where it did...but I can tell you: anyone thinking of stripping assets from _any_ part of the bureau whatsoever, it'll be over my dead body."

The deputy director opened and read it, an official accolades to the entire section. He passed it over to the supervisor who had been standing mutely.

"Why thank you, Senator. That's a wonderful honor, from all of us here," she said, self-consciously with a trace of guilt.

Senator Nathaniel Henry III smiled broadly. "It's I who should be thankful today." He turned to Tanaka. "And especially you, Special Agent. Tell you what...if it's okay I'd like to take you to lunch, and sometime soon."

"I'm free right now, Senator," said Tanaka. "My superiors..." He cleared his throat. "The _boss_ has just been discussing my future-"

The deputy director cut in: "We've just been giving Agent Tanaka the good news...that promotion. After all there's that unfilled supervisory position in the Human Trafficking task force. We were just in the process of congratulating him."

Tanaka looked back at the deputy and then the station super, she was shocked.

"Well I'd better clear my desk when I get back after lunch. Take it that's all confirmed then?"

"Most certainly is, Tanaka," replied the deputy. "I'll have the letter of appointment by fifteen hundred today." He forced a smile. He shook. "Congratulations."

"Thank you Deputy Director," said Tanaka. He shot a nod at the super. "And thanking you likewise... _Jennifer_." He grinned. "A memorable experience working together."

Tanaka and the senator closed the door of the office behind them; they were walking toward the exit. Senator Henry had his hand on Tanaka's shoulder like some old friend he'd known for years.

The supervisor finally regained her voice and her circulation; she'd turned a shade of crimson. _"Did you hear what he just called me?!"_ she pleaded.

After a moment the deputy director mumbled something, before replying. "PK's the same rank as you now, Jen. Sure hope he gives us a good rap over lunch. Be sure and get that letter of appointment organized, won't you now."

The deputy director left the office, shutting the door behind him, leaving the station super standing and staring into space. She'd have to find somebody else she didn't like from now on.

When Tanaka and Senator Henry made it outside the senator stopped and leaned close. "You know, Special Agent, old Gunny called up a day ago, passed on his thanks. We still stay in touch. You know what he told me?"

"You're talking about JJ Hatfield, Senator? How's he doing?"

"He's fine. Transplant's settling in...anyhow...know what he told me?"

"What'd he say?"

The senator chuckled. "He said you're the most persistent character he's ever encountered and he says got a lot of balls, son."

"Glad somebody thinks so, Senator."

Tanaka brushed the remark off. A promotion to _'Supervisory'_ would double his workload but not his paycheck. He was starving and dreaming of a porterhouse steak at the senator's favorite bistro and today the senator would be picking up the tab.

Out of the clinic about five weeks now. Started the procedure once the bank accounts were cleared and the legal stuff finished, it had been the greatest fear of his life going into hospital for as long as he had. Still had to take it easy though.

From the ridges it looked perfect, hot and still. Hatfield dropped back a gear in his old jalopy -- _resisted the urge to get a Range Rover_ \-- and pulled up at the neighbor's place, behind a sedan that had been parked there. The MacDonald widow; her old shack...her late husband had been Hatfield's best friend. Wondered how the driver managed to get it through the mud. _Hot tonight_. But the place was alive, like a jungle. Crickets buzzed and critters everywhere. Made him a bit jumpy, reminded him a little too much of _'Nam_ , but not to worry, September would come and go, Halloween, Thanksgiving and then the first snow. He reached over and took the wild trout from the ice box, two of them. Big ones. Nowadays he did a lot more fishing; lately he was tired of hunting. Still kept that historic Garand locked on his wall, though...the authorities finally gave it back to him after the investigation concluded.

' _Justified self-defense'_ , they said.

He swung the gate just as the guy from town approached; he held it open and as their eyes met a simple nod of courtesy. He knew the suit and the man sure knew him but they only nodded. That was the deal. Just thought he'd mosey on by. _Never let on_.

"Why howdy, Missus." Hatfield tipped his cap then took it off as he mounted the landing and greeted the owner. "Brought a couple've these, sure can't eat 'em all myself." He held up the trout but the widow didn't say anything. "Everythin' okay?"

Took her a moment and the woman coughed it out: "You wouldn't believe this..."

Hatfield turned his eyes back at the sedan; it was reversing out, headed to town. "Problems with the bankers again, Missus?" He pretended to be concerned.

She shook her head. " _No siree_. That's an attorney who was just here," she whispered. "Called me up this morning, he got wind of Everett's accident..." She was trembling, nearly in tears, she could barely speak. "He's taking the case. _After all this time!"_

Hatfield didn't answer right away, he knew all right. She started babbling away and he held up his hand. "You know Missus, I'll go wash up, I'll be straight back and you can tell us all about it."

"Looks like somebody up there's smilin' down on us at long last, Mister Hatfield," she called out after him from the landing.

"Back real quick." He jumped in the truck and cruised on up to his place, just up the trail. He chuckled as he drove. She had no idea at all.

All those millions don't really go that far, you know.

The preacher and his wife lived a simple life but they sure knew how to handle money. Got together with him and invested the lion's share of it after Hatfield totally rebuilt the church, ground up. The operation knocked it out of him but now the new liver was taking, he swallowed pills constantly but he felt like he was young again. Doctors in the clinic would've had kittens if they knew he was running round the countryside so soon.

Busy nowadays. He and the padre and a bunch of volunteers set up a soup kitchen, a mobile one that sent around hot coffee and assistance to all the homeless veterans and other disadvantaged in the state. And a scholarship scheme for gifted kids from poor homes in his area. The neighbors no longer had to hunt and trap meals; they were headed off to college.

The greatest act of philanthropy was to hire that rich lawyer, he'd found the best in the land, some hotshot attorney with a franchise downtown. Put the guy on a monthly retainer and a fifty-fifty winner or out of court settlement, whichever looked better. It'd take years but those assholes would pay for Everett MacDonald's death, every last cent. And if that big foreign-owned corporation had any ideas about bringing shovels up this neck of the woods and cutting the tops off his hills they'd better think twice...he'd jam 'em in the courts by day and shoot their tires out by night.

It was still eighty and humid by the time he arrived back at the widow's place, a real Indian summer. The moon was high and the valley lit up, just like that awful night back in March. The aroma from the shack wafted out the door and made him hungry.

Hatfield opened the door of his truck, the dash-light came on and he touched the picture of his son on that beach in paradise with Anna; wondered what she was up to these days. Nearly a year ago to the day, kept it taped to the glove compartment. Need to get the photograph laminated or something; had the precious passwords all over the back and soon it would start to fade. _Couldn't let that happen._

###

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Email: mailto:p.gaseaux@gmail.com or mailto:p.gaseaux@hotmail.co.uk

Next time: The immortal Pakdee (Anna) teams up with _Supervisory_ -Special Agent PK Tanaka, on official business. _'Five Dead Dolls'_ is human trafficking and mass-murder at its worst, snaking its way from the far-flung villages of poorest Asia to the dark side of Dixie. A federal trial will have the eyes of the world watching, and a deadly conflict between European kidnappers and US and Thai law enforcement agencies unfolds. From the Mekong River to the French Quarter, it'll leave the good guys reeling and the bad guys wishing they'd picked regular jobs. _Coming 2014_.

# Acknowledgements

from the author:

To Ret ('Timi'), you gave me an ideal logical character base for Police-Major J. Pakdee-Chayochaichana, aka: 'Anna' _._ _"You know that?"_

To Mrs. Rae Beckmann, if you're out there...that English mistress who said I had it in me: _Writing...that is._

To 'Garry' (you know who you are) for a goldmine of useful info on the ways and whims of the Eastern Seaboard and other things. And for getting me in the door(s) of places on Walking Street I cannot afford.

To 'Nadia-Tattoos' who inspired the character 'Nattaya Coyote'...last heard of on board a yacht anchored somewhere along the Belize coast. The man she reputedly hacked to death was her husband, though, not some _Federal employee_. Her family in Roi-Et is doing fine and her current boyfriend knows nothing...

To 'Barney' (Jimmy) and family of West Virginia...you showed me genuine hospitality and helped us make it through a tough couple of Appalachian winters. We got the job done thanks to you and your crew!

To the ASEAN community, the best place on the face of this earth. You always give me something to look forward to and return to.

To all the frontline officers who keep our borders safe. Over the years I've worked with more 'PK Tanaka(s)' than I could possibly count. _Persistence pays; pity about the lousy salary. We're not charity-workers, guys!_

Finally, to all those jaded expats of every color, creed and religion, floating around out there who gave me no trouble whatsoever in drawing up the likes of dastardly villains in the 'syndicate'.

