“Because you’re at total odds with the current regime,” Pontowski added.
“They are expansionist,” Mazie said, “and engaged in an arms race. But we believe that if Zou Rong and his group come to power, all that can change.”
“Good luck,” Pontowski said under his breath. He had a different take on Zou and what was really going on in Beijing.
“But you will see him?” Mazie asked. Pontowski thought for a moment before making a decision. He nodded once. Mazie pushed back in her chair. “Maddy’s waiting.”
Shaw humphed for attention, demanding the last word. “The campaign is heatin’ up, and the press is sniffin’ after her like a pack of Dobermans goin’ after a poodle in heat. So far I got their peckers tied to a tree. But if they sense there’s anything goin’ on between you and her…well, let’s just say those boys are more than willin’ to do themselves an injury if they smell—” Pontowski gave Shaw a cold look, cutting him off in midsentence. But the older man wouldn’t let it go. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why she lights up like a June bug when you come around. But you’re a political liability, son.”
“So what are you saying?” Pontowski demanded.
“Cool it until after the election, okay?”
Pontowski stood and followed Mazie into the lounge. Maddy Turner looked up from the briefing book she was reading, and came to her feet as Mazie closed the door behind him, leaving them alone. Maddy rushed into his arms and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Then she led him back to the couch and sat down. For a moment he stood, not knowing what was expected, until she patted the cushion beside her. He sat, and she cuddled against him, caressing his hand. They talked about the boys, their families, and the personalities that walked on their stage. Gently they found what had been lost. Finally she couldn’t avoid the one issue they had to lay to rest. “Oh, Matt, I’m so sorry for what happened in Poland. I wanted to do something, but we had to hold it at arm’s length for political reasons.”
“I thought you had hung us out to dry.”
“I’d never do that,” she promised.
Kamigami and Tel squatted in the brush on the hillside overlooking the small hamlet. Below them, men shouted as they swept through the streets, killing everyone they found. “What can we do?” Tel asked.
“Nothing,” Kamigami replied in a low tone. He motioned Tel to silence, and they waited for the attack to end. It didn’t take long, and soon the men were looting and torching the wooden structures. Then they climbed into trucks and disappeared down the dirt road to the east. “Let’s go,” Kamigami said, leading the way into the valley.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Tel complained. “The other villages were Malay. This one is Chinese.”
Kamigami examined a soft spot in the dirt and found a footprint. “Nike or Adidas,” he said. “Those were Malay doing the killing.”
“So the Chinese are killing Malays, and the Malays are killing Chinese in revenge?”
“Something like that.”
“Was our kampong the first?”
Kamigami thought for a moment. “Probably.”
The question was back. “Why?” Tel moaned.
“That’s what we’re going to find out.” A shadow moved in the tree line on the hill above them, and Kamigami’s right hand flashed, sending Tel a command. Kamigami took refuge behind a burned-out car and dropped his rucksack. He chambered a round in his Beretta and checked the safety while Tel retreated to their original spot on the hillside. Once Tel was safely out of the way, Kamigami slipped into the brush and worked up the hill to circle around to the backside of the area where he had seen the movement. He smelled urine first and shook his head. Whoever was out there was very deficient in basic tradecraft if they were urinating in the open. He moved at an oblique angle to his target and secured the area. He didn’t need any nasty surprises from a lookout or backup that had gone undetected. Satisfied that the area was clear, he closed on the target. He saw two men wearing civilian clothes lying on the ground. They had spread a ground cloth to make themselves comfortable while they scanned the village with a pair of high-power binoculars.
This is too easy, he reasoned. They had to see us when we were down there. He listened as they talked loudly in Cantonese — a language he understood. The man with the binoculars pointed to the spot on the far hill where Tel was hiding. The boy needs more training. One of them moved, and Kamigami saw the soles of his boots. He froze. The boots had the same ribbed pattern as those in his kampong. His face was impassive as he drew the Beretta and thumbed off the safety. Then he thought better of it.
He holstered the Beretta and moved silently toward them. They never heard him as he stood behind them. He decided he wanted them to see him and reached for the golden whistle hanging on its chain around his neck. He gave a short blast, and as they turned to the sound, he fell on them, banging their heads together. One man groaned, stunned but not unconscious. Kamigami slammed his hands against the man’s temples in a clapping motion. He checked the man’s breathing and reflexes. He was out cold. Kamigami worked fast, calculating that the man would regain consciousness in a few minutes.
The man’s head was racked with pain, and his temples throbbed as he fought his way back to consciousness. He was lying on the ground and, other than this splitting headache, was unharmed. A shadow moved across his face, and he looked up. He forced his eyes to focus on the image swinging in the shadows. His partner was hanging upside down from a tree by his ankles, free from any obvious wounds but totally lifeless. The man staggered to his feet and touched the body. It was still warm but strangely blanched. Confused images flashed through the pain — lying on his stomach and watching the boy on the far hill, reacting to the sound of a whistle, turning in time to see a huge creature descending on them, smothering under its weight. A vague memory of two giant hands crashing against his head kept coming back, demanding his attention. He forced it away as he cut down the body, not sure what to do.
Then he saw the two closely spaced punctures on the neck. He stroked his own neck where the punctures would have been, and felt his carotid artery pulsing with life. His fingers went to his own teeth and touched his canines. The spacing was the same as the holes in his comrade’s neck. His eyes searched the ground where the body had been hanging for signs of blood. Nothing. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. The sound of a whistle, far away but clear, echoed over him.
He turned and ran, crashing through the dense foliage.
Kamigami reached the spot where Tel should be. Okay, where are you? It puzzled him, for so far Tel had been following his directions to the letter. He felt something poke him in his back and whirled to face the threat, his MP5 coming up to the ready. Tel was standing there with a long stick, a big grin on his face. “Gotcha!”
“Not funny, boy,” Kamigami groused. “I could’ve shot you.”
“I don’t think so,” Tel replied. He felt the need to explain. “I saw the lookouts, and I wanted to draw their attention away from you. I knew you would come back here, so I hid.”
“Why did you have to hide from me?”
“Well, I couldn’t be sure it would be you, could I?”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Kamigami muttered, wondering who really needed more training.
Two
The Annex, the nondescript office building where the real work of the Presidential Library took place, overflowed with files stuffed with documents, photographs, books, reports, letters, diaries, movies, videotapes, newspaper clippings, interviews, memoirs, and magazine articles all devoted to one subject — the life and times of President Matthew Zachary Pontowski.