by Alex Archer
The trip was a particular annex of hell. But no matter how it felt, it wasn’t eternal. And Annja’s body might fail her, but she refused to let her determination do so.
They made it down. Annja had to go in the water to get to the launch. It was colder than she’d expected. But she got into the craft without capsizing it, though her arms came within an ace of failing her, and got Bima in safely as well. As soon as she had her feet beneath her she summoned the sword and cut the ropes free.
The launch’s engine was idling. She fired it up and turned the prow away from the looming, bobbing stern. As she did, the water began to churn greenish-white as the freighter’s big screws began to turn.
The squall was their shield. Annja accelerated into it. The freighter, and its cargo, were quickly lost to sight.
18
An hour after the sun passed the zenith an orange-and-white Sea Knight chopper appeared, headed roughly toward them. The sky had cleared, leaving Annja and Bima exposed to the mercies of the sun. She did her best to shade the now-delirious man with her rapidly sunburning body.
Rather irrationally Annja stood up in the launch and waved. The chopper was clearly looking for the Ozymandias or survivors, and there was nothing else on the sea from horizon to horizon. The big helicopter swept two hundred feet overhead. Faces surrounded by helmets peered in amazement from the open side of the hatch at the spectacle of a tall woman wearing a sports bra and cargo pants hopping up and down, waving her arms and shouting like a fool. She recognized the insignia of the Republic of the Philippines armed forces.
Within ten minutes she had been winched up from the launch and hauled inside the Sea Knight by crewmen. A medic attended to Bima, still alive but barely, strapped to a stretcher on the deck. She had insisted he be taken aboard first.
The helicopter had already dropped its snout and accelerated forward with a rising growl of its twin turbine engines. The launch was left behind to the mercies of the sea.
There was nothing to suggest any men had lost their lives on the small craft. Annja had bailed out as much blood as she could, for hygienic purposes rather than to hide forensic evidence, although after the fact she realized that was a helpful side effect. As for the blood that soaked her pants and Bima’s uniform, that was assumed to have leaked from the wounded soldier.
Of course, if the rescue crew realized she had killed any South China Sea pirates in the boat, it wasn’t likely to lower her esteem in their eyes. But she didn’t want people talking. If the wrong officials heard talk like that, they were going to ask those inconvenient questions she was always so concerned with.
As it was, she spent much of the next two days in the port city of Zamboanga answering questions. They weren’t terribly pointed. Some of the circumspection came from her carrying a U.S. passport, she realized. She’d had it, along with her wallet and credit cards, in a buttoned pocket of her pants. She claimed she had been aboard a freighter bound for Rimba Perak, doing research for a Chasing History’s Monsters episode she intended to pitch on modern-day pirates.
Her ever-pleasant interrogator frowned at that as if he didn’t quite get it. He spoke English well. Middle-aged, with gray liberally dusting the tightly curled black hair that surrounded his large head like a cloud, he had a round belly on a slight frame, wrapped in an indifferently tailored suit. He had thick horn-rims in an inside pocket of his jacket, which he took out to read things. “I thought the show concerned, well, monsters,” he said, taking a sip from a bottle of pink lemonade.
Annja just looked at him. After a moment he laughed, softly and sadly. “I have investigated dozens of these attacks,” he said. “I see what you mean.”
Mostly she played Hysterical American Woman again, claiming to remember few details of the experience. The sudden night attack, shooting, shouting. A badly wounded guard who heroically helped her escape.
That she was too freaked out to give a clear account was neither implausible nor unexpected. The horrors of a pirate attack were too well-known to the Philippine authorities. She hated to foster that particular stereotype about females but she knew it would play into the perception that Western women were pampered and impractical. Her interrogators would have regarded her fighting back against the attacking pirates as unbelievable as if she’d told them about the sword.
Annja did have a couple of uncomfortable moments the second day, when kindly Mr. Baxa, the lead investigator, actually got her dossier from Manila and learned she had narrowly escaped a terrorist attack before.
She shook her head and sobbed—hating herself, but hating the consequences of having the Philippine government wonder about her a whole lot more. “It’s my job,” she explained tearfully. “It—it takes me places where trouble can happen.”
She hated herself even more because Mr. Baxa seemed horribly upset by how upset he had made her. He ended up giving her a whole box of tissues and apologizing effusively.
He also answered her questions about Bima. She was terribly afraid that cheerful, brave young man would die from a combination of the wound, blood loss and dehydration, even though there had been bottles of drinking water in the boat.
She was also concerned about what the injured commando might tell the Philippine authorities. There had been no opportunity to coordinate stories with him. In the launch, Bima had alternated between delirium and unconsciousness, blessedly mostly the latter.
“His condition had stabilized,” Mr. Baxa told her, leafing through the documents on the table in front of him, “when last I heard about him.” Something about the way he said that puzzled her. She asked him what he meant.
“He was flown out aboard a Rimba Perak armed forces air transport this morning,” Mr. Baxa said. “The Sultanate’s government made urgent representation to mine to repatriate him as soon as possible. They have promised a full transcript of any information he is able to give them, provided he survives. It appears he will do so.”
He frowned. “I suspect,” he said, polishing his glasses with a handkerchief and sounding disapproving, “that my government hoped first, to spare themselves the expense of keeping him in intensive care any longer than they had already, and also to escape the onus should he die. There could be an incident. In any event—” he put the glasses back on “—he was able to tell us nothing. And both the Ozymandias and the pirates who took her have vanished, as though from the surface of the earth. It is also a depressingly common story.”
He sighed, reached over and turned off the little cassette tape recorder. “Ms. Creed,” he said, “I trust you will forgive me if I tell you that all my investigator’s instincts tell me that much of what you have told us is a tissue of fabrications. Shocking, but there it is.”
She let herself stare at him wide-eyed, as was her natural reaction. It’s what an innocent person would do, she told herself.
“However,” he said, “the evidence is overwhelming that, whatever the particulars, you are an innocent victim of a particularly vicious attack. Whatever knowledge you might be withholding from us, my instincts also tell me, is by no means guilty knowledge. Indeed, something tells me you played a far more active role in the escape than that poor sailor. It’s a miracle he could walk any distance, much less fight off South China Sea pirates.
“In any event, I frankly doubt that any additional information you could give me would be of any practical use. Even if we knew exactly who was responsible, that would not be the same thing as being able to do anything about it. Such pirates as these have protection, and I don’t just mean their sometimes frighteningly complete arsenals.”
He rose. “You are free to go, Ms. Creed. I hope that I have not wronged you. And I hope, for both your sake and that of my republic, that your business does not bring you back to our archipelago again for a good long time.”
NEXT MORNING a Philippines Airlines 737 deposited her at the Sultan Rashid International Airport in Meriahpuri, capital and principle seaport of Rimba Perak.
Mr. Baxa had kindly arranged to hav
e Annja’s backpack, including her cell phone and notebook computer, brought from her hotel room in Mati. With so little luggage, and ever-helpful Chasing History’s Monsters credentials, she cleared customs with surprising quickness. The process was efficient, featuring neither the hinting and grubbing for bribes characteristic of the Third World, nor the rudeness and suspicion that characterized the First.
Shouldering her pack, she turned toward the exit of the smallish but new and blindingly modern airport. The light outside was so dazzling through polarized windows that she put on her sunglasses before striding toward the doors.
Two men materialized out of the crowd before her. One, bearded and broad-shouldered, stood taller than she, leaving aside his turban. He looked Indian to her, probably Sikh. The other was a small, exceedingly neat man, bareheaded, with receding, black, slicked-back hair. Both wore conservative suits and ties.
“Ms. Annja Creed?” asked the small one in English.
“Yes,” she said, trying not to sound as glum as she felt. Secret police? she did not ask.
He showed her a shield in a leather carrier. It might have identified him as a bubblegum quality-control inspector. She didn’t feel inclined to scrutinize it too closely.
“We are from the Sultanate of Rimba Perak’s Department of Public Safety,” the neat little man said. “We must request that you accompany us, please, Ms. Creed.”
She showed them a big smile. “Of course,” she said. Mostly because she knew she had no choice, so there was no point in antagonizing them. Of course, it might not make much difference.
Do I hope they’re who they say they are? she wondered, as they took up station to either side of her and escorted her out into the slamming hot molten-silver sunlight. Or do I hope they’re not?
“SULTAN,” the lean man in the white suit said in his New England–accented English, “everybody admires what you’re doing here with this little country of yours. You’ve done a great job bringing your Sultanate back from the tsunami. The whole world knows it.
“But now it’s time to get serious. Serious about the war on terror. And that means getting with the program with the United States of America. No holding back. It’s crunch time.”
And how well has the United States done rebuilding its own Gulf Coast, after the 2005 hurricane? Sultan Wira wondered. He knew the answer full well. He chose not to say it. It would be ungracious. Sultan Wira was a young man who believed in being polite.
When at all possible.
His visitor was a tall, middle-aged man with nearly white-blond hair cut close to a narrow head beneath the brim of the white Panama hat he never took off. The color of his pale eyes remained indeterminate behind his equally perpetual sunglasses, and he wore an expression suggesting he smelled something unpleasant you stepped in. His U.S. diplomatic credentials identified him as Cyrus St. Clair.
Sultan Wira took neither name nor status altogether literally. He had ruled his small breakaway nation for a decade. He had not done so by being naive, nor slow on the uptake. Nonetheless, his capable intelligence service assured him that his guest did officially represent the United States.
“You yourself have suffered personal loss at the hands of terrorists,” St. Clair said, as if Wira might be unaware of the fact. “After all, you were thrust into rulership of the Sultanate at the tender age of fifteen, back when reconquest by Indonesia was a very real possibility, after your father was assassinated by terrorists. May God rest his soul.”
“I appreciate your solicitude, Mr. St. Clair,” he said. He had a rich baritone voice. It had cost him hours of practice, and some expensive speech coaches, to overcome the hormone-driven tendency of his voice to crack when he spoke, right after he ascended to the throne. He had gone on to develop his voice as best as hours of practice and tutoring could make it. He knew it would be an asset and he needed all the advantages he could get.
“As well as that of your government,” Wira said. “I would point out, however, that despite the best efforts of the Sword of the Faith movement, my government and I have survived. And even made some progress in modernizing this country, despite the tsunami.”
St. Clair nodded. He looked like a schoolmaster trying to hide impatience at being interrupted by a pupil. “Yeah, yeah. Sure. We know that. But the world has changed. Everything’s changed. I know the concept of nonalignment plays well with the national-pride crowd. But the threat is out there, and it’s growing. A small country like this one can’t go it alone. It’s brave, sure. But, realistically, not a chance.”
Wira smiled. They sat in the scented shade of a flowering jasmine tree on a terrace overlooking the palace gardens. A pitcher of iced green tea sat on the round white table between them. St. Clair’s glass was conspicuously untouched. No doubt he would have preferred something harder.
Wira was mildly surprised St. Clair hadn’t asked for alcohol, to emphasize his authority as an emissary of the world’s only superpower over a pissant rag-head potentate. And Wira would have obliged him, as hospitality demanded. Although he drank no spirits himself, the palace stocked them in abundance for its nonobservant visitors. Wira had worked hard to secularize his country’s government while honoring its majority Islamic faith—and others as well. That he was succeeding was shown by just how vigorously the Sword of the Faith kept trying to put him away for good.
“It amazes me,” he said mildly, “how many offers of partnership Rimba Perak and I have received since rich new oil reserves were discovered beneath our soil and territorial waters. The Australians, the Filipinos, the Chinese, the Indians, the Japanese—even the Russians and the French. Everyone seems so eager to be Rimba Perak’s friend—and protector.”
St. Clair clamped his lips to a bloodless line, draining away the little color they had. He said nothing.
“I am not so overwhelmed by this multinational display of generosity,” the Sultan said, “that I fail to wonder what strings might come attached to it.”
“Surely you don’t suspect the U.S. of ulterior motives?”
“Naturally not. I do find it in the interests of my people, as well as myself, to pay close attention to the desires expressed by my near neighbors as well as benign but distant great powers. Give-and-take with the community, if you will.”
“Well, just remember what our president said,” St. Clair replied from behind a patently false smile. “If you’re not with us, you’re against us.”
Wira laughed delightedly. “Your president says so many amazing things,” he murmured.
St. Clair stood up. The interview was clearly over. He clearly felt it was his decision, and not that of a mere head of state. “And when the commander in chief of the free world talks, the wise listen.”
“I assure you I always listen most attentively, Mr. St. Clair. I bid you good-day.”
19
Wira sat several minutes on the veranda, sipping his lemonade, enjoying the shade and the perfume of his garden. He found few pretexts for relaxation. Now he was giving his visitor a decent interval in which to leave. He almost felt gratitude to the man, despite having seen quite enough of him for one day. If not longer.
At last, unable to postpone any further, he rose and went into the palace. The foyer was cool, with high, white walls. Fragrant floral sprays sprang from vases in niches in the walls. Potted plants of various sizes were everywhere. He had inherited his father’s love for greenery.
As he walked down a corridor a man materialized at his side. He was small, even for a Malay, wiry, of indeterminate but plainly advanced age. His head was shaved. He was dressed in a traditional sarong. Wira nodded at him.
“Krisna,” he said. “I perceive you’re going to nag me.”
“Someone must guide my Sultan when his feet stray from the path of wisdom,” his Grand Vizier said.
A simile occurred to the Sultan, concerning a sheepdog. He smiled to himself and left it unsaid. Despite his name—which meant “wisdom” in Malay, and was common among islanders of all faiths and also be
longed to a Hindu god—the Grand Vizier was a devoutly traditional Muslim. Comparing him to a dog, an unclean animal, would have insulted him, which Wira did not intend. As Sultan, Wira had to make many unpleasant decisions, take many harsh actions. He hated to act unkindly unless necessity forced it. And Krisna had been his loyal adviser and friend since boyhood.
“I appreciate your solicitude, as always,” he contented himself with saying.
“You must take care to placate Mr. St. Clair,” the Grand Vizier said.
“Why?” Wira asked. “Because he’s CIA?”
“Oh, no, my Sultan.” Krisna shook his hairless head. “He is most assuredly not CIA. I suspect he belongs to some other, more secret arm of the U.S. government. One which by reason of flying below the radar enjoys more latitude than the CIA, you see.”
Wira waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t care about details. I dislike playing games. There’s so much work to be done. I want to help our people educate themselves, to develop a strong economy—without allowing ourselves to become addicted to our own oil, a prisoner of monoculture, as it were, like the Saudis.”
“The United States of America is hardly a detail, Excellency,” Krisna said stiffly.
“Neither are the other powers who pretend such avid friendship. At the very least, let them buffer one another. Play games undermining each other—and meddle in our affairs the less. In particular, Krisna, I have no desire to serve the U.S. as a torturer-by-proxy. Nor do I intend to suffer being deposed by some kind of color-coded people’s revolution, bought and paid for with U.S. dollars.”
They came to the foot of a broad stairway sweeping up to the palace’s second floor. Wira glanced down at his smaller companion and sighed. “Please forgive my vehemence, old friend.”
“There is nothing to forgive, Excellency. I only advise that you take care not to give the Americans anything to forgive, either. They’re not good at it.”