Call to Duty (37 page)

The dull, distant echoes of bombs woke Zack from a fitful sleep. The luminous face of his wristwatch told him it was 1:50 in the morning and he tried to ignore the bombing. But the much fainter sounds of antiaircraft artillery blended with the sporadic explosions to trap his attention. He rolled over to go back to sleep. But sleep eluded him and, frustrated, he got out of bed and walked across the cold floor to open the blackout curtains. He could see a dull red glow outline Chartwell’s roofline. Now, wide awake, he quickly dressed and stepped outside in the cold night air. He picked his way along the path and followed it to a better vantage point. The northern horizon was glowing. The Germans had bombed London again.

He whistled a long, low “Oh-oh.”

“Goddammit!” a voice rasped behind him. “Stop that confounded noise.”

Zack twisted around to see a dark shadow standing behind him. The famous outline was topped by a bowler hat and only needed the cigar to complete the image. It was Winston Churchill. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “I thought I was alone.”

Churchill’s bodyguard emerged out of the shadows and a flashlight blinked over him. “It’s Flying Officer Pontowski, sir. He’s one of the house guests.”

Churchill said nothing, pulled out a cigar, and went about the process of lighting it with a long match. This is something to write home about, Zack thought. He cataloged his impressions, not wanting to lose the details. The man was short, perhaps five foot seven inches tall, must have weighed two hundred pounds, and had massive shoulders. The match flared and Churchill puffed, bringing the Romeo y Julieta to life. For an instant, the prime minister’s face glowed in the surrounding darkness and Zack thought how much he looked like the cartoon character John Bull, the English equivalent of Uncle Sam. He is the ultimate English bulldog, Zack decided—squat, solid, and tenacious.

“There is nothing,” Churchill said, drawing on the cigar, “that can redeem one who whistles.”

Without thinking, Zack turned back to the red glow and gestured at the horizon. “I kill the people who drop those bombs,” he said. There was no reply and the three men stood in silence gazing at the horizon. Then the young American remembered the question that had puzzled him. “Sir,” Zack ventured, “how did you know Hitler was the enemy when most of your countrymen sought appeasement?”

“Is this of importance?”

“Perhaps only to me,” Zack replied. “I was thinking of the future.”

“There is always evil in this world and it is only a matter of recognizing it.” Churchill stared at London’s glowing skyline. “Evil”—he warmed to the subject—“is one of the absolutes of our existence, yet the twentieth century has convinced itself that it does not exist. What fools. Hitler smacked of putrid corruption from the very first and I became certain of it when I read
Mein Kampf
. It is a pity that you Americans have not read it.”

“I have,” Zack told him. “I found it bloated and heavy going, especially in the original German. He did give us fair warning that he is a bloodthirsty killer.”

There was no answer and he heard a shuffling sound. When he turned, he saw Churchill’s back as he walked toward the big house. The detective who served as his bodyguard spoke in a low voice. “Whistling drives him round the twist but you’re fortunate—he likes Americans.” He followed his charge down the path.

Zack didn’t move, thinking about the chance encounter. The prime minister had not been at his home when they had arrived or, for that matter, when he had gone to bed. Churchill must have driven in from London during the night. A young woman came scurrying down the path, her arms crossed in front of her against the cold. “The prime minister asked if you would please join him,” she said. It was not a request and Zack followed her into the big house. “He likes to speak to the men who actually carry out his orders,” the woman explained.

Churchill was standing at a high podiumlike desk when Zack was ushered into his study, the cigar clenched in his teeth. “You were impertinent,” he said, not looking up from his work.

“Please accept my apologies—I didn’t mean to be.”

Churchill grumped, seeming satisfied. “You’re the American who plays polo. Not well, I might add, but aggressively. Where did you learn?”

“I worked on a ranch near Santa Clara, California, during my summer vacations. I was an exercise boy and played occasionally when they needed a fourth for an impromptu match.”

“Why haven’t you transferred to your forces with most of your countrymen?” Churchill asked.

“I decided to see out what I had started.” He thought for a moment. “Besides, I like my squadron.”

“Which is?”

“Four-eighty-seven, sir, New Zealanders. We fly Mosquitoes.”

Churchill’s massive head came up and he shot Zack a hard look. “Were you on the raid against the E-boats at Dunkirk?”

He was surprised that Churchill followed operations so closely. “No, sir. I arrived just in time to see them recover.”

“A damnable waste,” the prime minister muttered. “The Germans were expecting an attack.” Zack wanted to ask how he knew that but thought better of it. “There must be a way,” Churchill said.

“There is,” Zack told him. “We just have to be more devious about it next time.” They talked for a few moments before Churchill dismissed him.

Willi was waiting for Zack when he came out of his bedroom later that morning. He was carrying his musette bag and ready to leave. “What happened last night?” she demanded.

“Nothing that I know of.”

“With the prime minister, you fool,” she retorted.

“Oh, that. We talked.”

“Well, he left word for you to be available when he wakes.” She glared at him. “Apparently, he wanted to ‘talk’ some more.” Zack shrugged and followed her into the main house for breakfast, amused at her discomfort.

The summons came for him two hours later. Churchill’s valet, David Inches, held the door to the master’s bedroom open and closed it behind him. Churchill was propped up in bed like an oriental potentate, newspapers on the floor. A bat
tered red dispatch box was open on the bed beside him. Churchill came right to the point. “Last night,” he growled, “you asked a question because, as you said, you were thinking about the future. Pray tell, why are you concerned about impending tomorrows that you may never see?”

“If I do live that long,” Zack said, “I don’t want to make the same mistakes that got us into this mess.”

“Then you plan to enter politics?”

The idea surprised Zack; he hadn’t thought it through that far. It shocked him that the answer was formed and immediate. It must have been hovering in his subconscious, waiting for the right moment to explode into his life. “Yes, sir. I suppose that I will try. It’s going to be a difficult course to navigate.”

Churchill’s face came alive at this and he rummaged through the papers that littered his bed. He found what he wanted—a batch of papers held together by a string threaded through holes punched in the upper left-hand corner of each page. He read, “The oceans we travel on are storm-tossed on the surface and dangerous with shoals and barrier reefs. Yet with cunning navigation we will reach safe harbor. But the ever-changing oceans move with a force beyond our feeble imaginations and we must contend with this force as it is—not as we would want it to be.” He looked over his reading glasses at Zack, expecting to find an admiring audience. Instead he saw a grin on the young man’s face. The prime minister’s lower lip jutted out in petulance.

“A speech about the future?” Zack smiled.

“Of course.”

“Your audience will love it,” Zack told him.

“Mr. Pontowski,” Churchill said, settling back to work. “I hope you survive this war. I can see a future in you.” When Zack left, one of Churchill’s aides entered. Churchill did not look up from his reading. “A most unusual young man,” he said. “He has a sense of presence and surety unusual in one so young. You can hear it in his voice. Very captivating.” He paused and read a report about the disruption the German E-Boats were causing with channel shipping and training exercises. Under the leadership of Ernst Hofmann, they alone were able to still disrupt Allied operations in the English Channel. “Christ! Those E-boats are a menace totally out of
proportion with their numbers. I want them eliminated well before D-Day.”

He thought for a moment. “Perhaps Four-eighty-seven Squadron would like another go at them.”

Training Site Entebbe, North Carolina

Woodward and Kamigami maintained a discreet distance from the three Intelligence Support Agency operators working their way up the hill on a night training exercise. Like the three men, Woodward and Kamigami were wearing night vision goggles and were easily able to follow them as they moved through the heavy foliage of the North Carolina countryside in nearly total darkness. The three ISA agents were moving with a new confidence and Kamigami was pleased with their progress. The agents were in much better physical shape and had cross-trained so they could take over for any member of the team who might go down. On this exercise, they were functioning as a mortar team.

“Baulck just got a stick in the face,” Kamigami said, his soft voice almost inaudible. The ISA team was experiencing the usual problems wearing NVGs—lack of depth perception and losing details in heavy shadows.

“I think they missed their objective,” Woodward said. On cue, the three-man team stopped and retraced their steps, finding the exact spot that had been identified as their objective. They quickly set up the M224 sixty-millimeter mortar tube and readied the twenty rounds they had been carrying. Two men stayed with the tube while the third man, Andy Baulck, disappeared, moving into cover to provide security for the other two. Kamigami surveyed the terrain and calculated he would find Baulck twenty meters down the hill with his back to the mortar team.

“Baulck and Wade were Rangers,” Kamigami said. “I wondered what had happened to them. Time to find out if Baulck has learned anything.” He removed his bulky NVGs and waited for his eyesight to adjust to the darkness. “Never
could patrol with these,” he explained. Then he disappeared into the brush.

Woodward moved to a new position where he could see the ruins of a large building on the firing range in the valley below them. He estimated the distance at five hundred meters, well within mortar range. He waited while the seconds ticked down. He checked his watch and focused his attention. At the exact time to open fire, the loader dropped a round down the tube and a dull “whomp” reached out. The round was on target. The loader quickly fed round after round into the mortar while Wade walked the point of impact across the building. Woodward was impressed. He had seen what these men could do with C4 explosive and every weapon they got their hands on. He was going to arrange for them to train some of his men in the SAS.

“Where’s Baulck?” the loader said when the last round was expended. “It’s time to boogie.” As the security man, Baulck should have counted the rounds in order to know when to rejoin. But the missing Baulck did not appear. “Damn,” Wade, the team leader, groaned. “We’ll have to go get him.” They quickly booby-trapped the mortar tube by placing a small charge of C4 explosive with a pressure release switch under the base plate.

Baulck appeared out of the underbrush pushing Kamigami ahead of him. “Look what I found,” he said, “sneaking around in the dark. What do you think we ought to do with him.”

“Well,” the loader said, “we could strip him bare and paint him pink.”

“I only brought green paint this time,” Wade said. “But I don’t think I’ve got enough. A half-green Jolly Green Giant is not a pretty sight.”

“Consider yourself dead,” Woodward said from the shadows.

The three men turned toward the voice. “Ah, what the fuck, Captain,” Wade complained.

“Never let up for a moment when you’re on patrol,” Woodward said, his point made.

“Secure the tube and let’s move out,” Kamigami said. The ISA team deactivated the booby-trapped mortar tube, packed
up, and moved confidently into the night. Woodward and Kamigami followed them, again at a distance.

“Excellent work with the mortar,” Woodward told him. “All they left of the target was a smoking hole. By the way, did you let Baulck get the drop on you?”

“Sort of,” Kamigami replied. “I didn’t push too hard.”

A shadow separated from a tree behind them. “If you talk, you die,” Baulck said.

“They’re ready,” Kamigami allowed.

The White House, Washington, D.C.

The shortness of the walk from Michael Cagliari’s desk to the Oval Office was ample indication of his importance in the Pontowski administration. Only the chief of staff, Leo Cox, stood between him and the President. Few men had such access to power and the national security adviser was careful not to abuse it. So when the shaggy, bearded academic shambled down the hall into Cox’s office and said he had something of importance, Cox immediately escorted him into the President. “Courtland’s at it again,” Cagliari said. “He’s on the floor of the Senate right now. I think you should hear what he’s saying.” Pontowski nodded and Cox switched on the TV set and punched up the closed circuit channel to the Senate.

“Is Bobby watching this?” Pontowski asked.

Cagliari nodded. “I called him.” The President’s three main advisers were a close-knit team, and with Bobby Burke in his office at the CIA’s headquarters in Langley dialed in, all would be on the same wavelength. They listened as Courtland demanded that the United States government act to counter the increasing flow of drugs out of the Golden Triangle, protect American citizens, and hold Chiang Tse-kuan accountable for his barbaric actions. He claimed that the government’s antidrug policy was a total failure and that Congress would have to force the administration to act.

“So far this is classic Courtland,” Cagliari observed. “Now here comes the bit about his own personal suffering.”

But the senator surprised them by doing the unthinkable. He revealed in open session what he had learned from behind
his committee’s closed-door hearings concerning the rescue of Nikki Anderson.

“That son of a bitch,” Cagliari growled. “I can’t believe he’s doing this.”

Courtland’s face filled the TV screen, full of concern and indignation. “I am asking for legislation that will permit my committee to appoint the armed services foremost expert on special operations, Lieutenant General Simon Mado, as an overseer of any future rescue operations. We must act to prevent such ill-planned, hastily executed, and uncontrolled covert missions in the future.” Courtland was now looking directly into the camera, his voice was more sad than indignant. “This is a perfect example of how inept and lax this administration has been in responding to such situations and I assure you that no one would like to see a rescue operation mounted more than me…my own daughter is held by Chiang…” He choked off his words with a visible show of emotion and returned to his main point. “But I cannot allow more American lives to be needlessly wasted.”

“That’s enough,” Pontowski said.

Cox flicked off the TV as the intercom buzzed. He picked up the phone and listened. “It’s Bobby Burke,” he said. “He’s on the way over. I’ve never heard him so angry.”

When Burke arrived, he was furious. “That son of a bitch,” he said. “He knows what we’re doing. My God! What the hell is the man thinking of?”

“It’s simple enough,” Pontowski explained. “He keeps short circuiting our plans and we end up looking like fools.”

“That’s so obvious,” Burke snorted, “that he can’t get away with it.”

“It doesn’t play that way to the press,” Pontowski said. “What with his own daughter a hostage. Courtland makes sure that someone feeds the reporters the story on what’s happening to his daughter as deep background. Then when he criticizes what we’re doing, it looks like he’s putting the general good above his own personal concerns. We’re talking the stuff of tragedy here. Makes good copy for the seven o’clock news.”

National Security Adviser Cagliari stood and paced the floor. The men had all seen it before; when Cagliari paced and talked, he was most dangerous. “Perhaps this could be
turned to our advantage. But we need to act now.” He laid out his reasoning and, twenty minutes later, the secretary of defense was ordered to deploy Mackay’s contingent to its forward operating location and await an execute order.

The Golden Triangle, Burma

Samkit was the first to sense the new presence in the heart of Chiang’s fortress compound and within minutes the servants were pleading illness, begging to be sent home. The news then rippled out, spreading outside the walls and into the villages that surrounded the compound. Demons were about.

She forced an outward serenity over her features when James, Chiang’s majordomo, ordered her to fill the gaps as more and more servants retreated to safety outside the walls. Samkit calmed those who remained and took charge of the young girls serving Chiang and his foreign guests. It was a rare chance to watch Chiang firsthand even though her oriental sense of balance was offended by the presence of both the Colombian-Germans and the Japanese at the same meeting. It was that imbalance, she cautioned herself, that had allowed the spirits and demons to enter.

She quickly inspected the three girls as they gathered outside the massive doors that led into the drawing room, making sure their trays were correct and the portable bar was properly stocked. Satisfied that all was ready, she pulled one of the kitchen staff aside. “Tell Miss Courtland that we are serving early. She should come now.” The older woman responded to the anxiety in Samkit’s voice and hurried to deliver the message. Samkit knocked discreetly and opened the doors. Her senses jangled as a strong force engulfed her—danger, disruption, and death were present in the room—but she didn’t know for whom. She would have to visit the temple outside the compound that night and make an offering to the
nats
, the ancient spirits who had never yielded sway to Buddha.

The servants entered and went about their duties while Samkit hovered at the door, making herself invisible, memorizing the features of the four Japanese who led the four major families of the Yakuza and the three Colombian-Germans
who controlled the Medellin cartel. Heather walked through the open door wearing a simple black off-the-shoulder cocktail dress with a full skirt. The room fell silent as she moved across it. Samkit continued to take the measure of the strangers. All were expensively dressed in dark suits and handsewn Italian shoes. Their hard and dispassionate faces did not match their clothes. A cold shiver of fear shot through Samkit as Heather selected a glass of wine from a tray and joined Chiang.

He stared at Heather impassively, not returning her greeting. An inner voice told her to be attentive and submissive and she sank to the floor beside his chair, curling her legs underneath, leaning against his leg. It was a graceful gesture that was not lost on the men. One of the Colombian-Germans smiled at her and asked her name.

“May I introduce Miss Heather Courtland?” Chiang said in English, his manner as charming and sophisticated as ever. “The daughter of Senator William Douglas Courtland.” The men stared at her in silence. They all knew of her captivity. One of the Japanese said something in his own language. Heather focused her attention on the man and noticed a solid ring of tattoos showing just above his collar and at his wrists as Chiang answered him in Japanese. Then, in English, “Mr. Morihama says you are a most beautiful insurance policy.” He reached over and stroked her hair. “Gentlemen,” he said, “it is because of Miss Courtland that I can guarantee there will be no interruption in the ‘traffic’ at my end. She is, indeed, an insurance policy.” His fingers tightened in her hair, pulling hard. “Please stand up, Heather,” he said, slowly untangling his fingers.

She did as he ordered and stood beside his chair. His hand ran up the inside of her leg, stroking her inner thigh. He continued to speak in carefully modulated tones, his actions at odds with his words. “I am confident that as long as Heather is my guest,” he jerked at her panties, aware that the men were more interested in her humiliation than his words, “the DEA will not interfere in my operations here.” She gasped as he dug a finger into her. “Of course, I cannot extend such a guarantee beyond my area of control. But then you, without doubt, know how best to neutralize the Americans who intrude in your own provinces. Acting in concert is our
strength.” Then he dropped his hand. “You may go,” he told her.

Heather walked with as much dignity as possible past the seated men. Morihama stopped her. “Yes,” he said in heavily accented English, “you are a most beautiful insurance policy.” Then he ran his hand up her leg.

“I am given to understand,” Chiang said, “that you have an interest in tattoos.” Morihama jerked his head in a sharp nod, his face rigid. “If you wish,” Chiang continued, “she’s yours tonight. You will discover that Miss Courtland has a most interesting tattoo. But you must search for it. Be kind enough to return her undamaged. Shall we consider it part of our ‘arrangement’?”

The men were laughing and talking as Heather retreated from the room, shaking with fright and humiliation. Samkit wanted to follow her, but her instincts warned that much more was to be learned by remaining. The men resumed their discussions as if she weren’t there. Finally, Chiang brought the meeting to an end. “Why don’t you discuss the details with your counselors and we can gather tomorrow. Perhaps we can come to a final agreement at that time.”

Samkit motioned the servants to leave. She was closing the door when Chiang said, “Entertainment has been arranged for tonight, should you care to partake. Perhaps you would also be interested in what has been arranged for the day you leave.” Samkit could not see the men but sensed their interest. “Have you ever seen a Kran execution?” Chiang asked. “It is a very ritualized beheading with a sword in which the executioner must first demonstrate his expertise by cutting off the head of a bullock with one stroke—one bullock for each of the condemned. The executioner and two bullocks arrive tomorrow. I think you will find it most entertaining.”

Samkit slipped the doors closed and ran from the compound, seeking out the anthropologist, her contact. The demons were thriving on the evil imbalance that had descended over them.

Bethesda Naval Hospital, Maryland

The reading lamp was turned down low as Pontowski gazed at his sleeping wife. As at all hospitals, a stillness had
descended over the corridors in the late evening and only an occasional hushed footstep could be heard passing in the hall. Pontowski calculated that Dr. Smithson was hovering outside, hoping to talk to him and bask in the glory of advising the President of the United States. How silly, he thought. Matthew Zachary Pontowski did not have a vain bone in his body. Age had done that to him. But at times he delighted in being contrary and pricking the bubble of self-importance that some people inflated around their egos. Smithson was one of those people and only his undeniable competence kept him in Tosh’s service. Pontowski preferred the company of people like Edith Washington, the head nurse on the floor, Mazie Kamigami, or Leo Cox.