“Got it, Pop.”
Pop! Pontowski thought. Was there condescension in his son’s voice? He didn’t know. Then he laughed out loud.
“We might have to stay overnight to take off in the morning,” Zack said.
“Why?” Pontowski asked, knowing the answer.
“Well, the field elevation is almost five thousand feet, and the temperature has got to be over a hundred on the ground. I haven’t calculated the density altitude, but it’s gonna be high. It’s safer to take off in the morning.”
“Make a decision,” Pontowski said.
“How do you like Mexican food?” Zack replied.
“Love it,” Pontowski said, meaning that he really loved the chance to spend some time with his son. The World Trade Conference and Zou Rong could wait another day. Zack flew a standard pattern into the airfield and came down final at eighty knots. He flared and made a sweet touchdown. “Beginner’s luck,” Pontowski grouched.
The amount of food Zack consumed amazed Pontowski, and the dark-haired teenage girl serving them was more than happy to keep his son’s plate full. “I think you’ve got an admirer,” Pontowski conceded. “She’s pretty enough.”
Zack’s reply surprised him. “Dad, do you really think Gramps went AWOL?”
Pontowski thought for a moment. “I can see him doing it.”
“Why?”
“We’ll probably never know for sure, but that’s the way your great-grandfather was. Once he decided to do something, he did it. But knowing him, you can bet it was for a damn good reason. He put principle above everything else.” Zack shoveled more food into his mouth. “If you eat like this at NMMI, I’m getting one hell of a bargain on room and board.”
Zack nodded as the girl brought out another plate of tamales. “Bloomy said Gramps was a very strong-willed man.”
“When he believed in something,” Pontowski said, “the strongest. It was his best trait. I wouldn’t want to get in his way when he set out to do something.”
“I hope I can be like that,” Zack said quietly.
I hope so, too, Pontowski thought, hearing the resolve in his son’s voice.
The cabdriver turned onto Tun Razak and pulled over to the curb. He pointed across the busy boulevard. “That’s the American embassy,” he said in Malay. “The police won’t allow me to stop in front.” Kamigami got out and stretched while the driver opened the trunk. “Bags extra,” the driver said to Tel. “Twenty dollars U.S.”
Tel protested. “You said twenty ringgit.” He looked at Kamigami. “That’s what he said at the hotel.”
“Twenty dollars U.S. or no bags,” the driver barked. Kamigami shrugged and shouldered the driver aside. He lifted two of the duffel bags out of the trunk. “I call police!” the driver shouted. He reached to close the trunk lid on the two remaining bags.
Kamigami brushed the driver back like a fly and dropped one of the heavy bags on his foot. The driver bent over in pain. “Twenty ringgit or I drop the other one on your head,” Kamigami said in Malay. The driver looked up into Kamigami’s face and, before Tel could hand over the money, hobbled down the sidewalk as fast as he could, abandoning his cab and forgetting about collecting the fare. Kamigami picked up the two heaviest bags and motioned for Tel to get the two others, which were still in the trunk. “I expect the guard will stop us at the entrance. Just do what they say until I can get it sorted out.”
“I thought you said they know you,” Tel said.
“They may not remember me,” Kamigami said. They dodged a few cars crossing the street, and Kamigami led the way to the Marine guard. They deposited the four bags at the corporal’s feet, and Kamigami gave him a friendly smile. “My name is Victor Kamigami. I’m an American. These are for Mr. William Mears. I believe he’s still here, an administrative officer, if I remember correctly.”
Kamigami’s soft, high-pitched voice surprised the guard. “Please wait over there,” he said, pointing to a spot closer to the street. “And please take your bags with you.” He keyed his radio while Kamigami and Tel moved back. “Two individuals, one who claims to be an American citizen, are here with four duffel bags for Mr. Mears.” It was common knowledge inside the embassy that William Mears was the CIA chief of station. The guard gave Kamigami a questioning look as he listened to the reply. “He said his name is Victor Kamigami.”
“You might not want to stand too close to me,” Kamigami said in a low voice. Tel obediently moved a few feet away, not understanding why. He discovered the wisdom of the request a few seconds later when a large unmarked van drove up, slammed to a stop, and a tactical squad of Malay police in full battle gear burst out the side and rear doors.
“Down!” the Marine guard shouted. “On the ground! Spread-eagle!” His automatic was out and leveled directly at Kamigami. Tel fell to the ground. He was amazed that Kamigami was already down and spread-eagle. He looked at Kamigami in confusion.
“I guess they remember me,” Kamigami allowed.
“Gentlemen,” the Marine guard said, “the Ambassador.” He stepped aside as Winslow James minced into the basement room of the embassy. He nodded at the two CIA agents, William Mears and Charles Robertson, and surveyed the weapons and other items spread around the room. “Well, well, what do we have here?”
“Sir,” Mears said, “this is Victor Kamigami.” He read from his clipboard. “Twenty-four years in the U.S. Army, all of it in the Rangers and special operations. Reached the rank of command sergeant major before deserting and fighting as a mercenary for Zou Rong in southern China in…ah, 1996. After that he went into hiding on the east coast near…”
“Near Kemasik,” Kamigami said. “Terengganu Province. Mr. Ambassador, may I present Tel Zaidan? He and I were the only survivors when our kampong was destroyed.”
Winslow James nodded in gracious acceptance, always the polished diplomat. “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Zaidan.” A concerned look spread across his face. “I must apologize, for I haven’t heard of the tragedy that befell your village.” Mears and Robertson exchanged glances. It had been included in the daily intelligence summary that was placed on the ambassador’s desk every morning. The ambassador looked at the two CIA agents, effectively dismissing Kamigami and Tel. “I take it that you know Mr. Kamigami?”
“We’ve met,” Robertson, the junior CIA agent, said. Robertson instinctively felt the scar on his neck, the result of their first meeting when Kamigami had jabbed his fingers into Robertson’s neck and crushed his larynx. Only the quick action of May May, Kamigami’s wife, had saved him from suffocating.
Kamigami couldn’t help himself. “The last time we saw each other, Chuck and Bill were hanging around in Singapore.” The two CIA agents had been transporting Kamigami to Singapore for extradition to the States when he escaped. In the process Kamigami had handcuffed them together and left them dangling from a bridge railing.
“I see,” James said, not understanding at all. “And what do we have here?”
“We took these off soldiers in the National Park,” Kamigami said. “They were operating out of a large base camp and were from the same group that destroyed our kampong.”
“Do we know anything about this so-called base camp?” James asked. No answer from the CIA agents. James rummaged through the uniforms, ID tags, and papers on the table. He glanced at the weapons stacked against the wall. “It appears they were well armed.” He picked up a pair of boots and examined them.