The Spymaster's Daughter

by Allan Cole

  Frank said, “Okay, okay, but that’s not how it looks now. There are some really big blank spaces that don’t make sense. Plus, he isn’t talking to us at a crucial time. There’s been no contact whatsoever.”

  Ann stopped and faced the agent. “Frank, you’ve always been a friend of the family. Why are you suddenly turning on us?”

  Frank held up a hand. “I’m not turning on you, Ann. I’m still your friend. And I’m still your father’s friend.”

  He looked long and hard into her eyes. Then he sighed, saying, “Okay, Ann, if you don’t know, you don’t know.” He turned, pumped a thumb at the chopper. The pilot hit the switch and the blades started revolving again.

  “I’ve got to get back to Singapore,” he said, “That’s where it’s all going down.”

  Ann said, “What the hell’s happening, Frank? Those blank spaces you mentioned. Can’t you tell me about them?”

  “Later, Ann,” Frank said. “After I learn a little more about them myself. Meanwhile… if your father should contact you….?

  Ann sighed, very weary. “I know. ET call home.”

  Frank ran for the chopper, whose blades were becoming a blinding whirl now, blasting a gritty wind at Ann. She turned her back on the dirt storm, covering her face. She leaked a tear or two, sniffled, then wiped the tears away.

  Then she stood up very straight and marched back to the hospital.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It was a bombed-out building, with tenting laid across several gaping holes to discourage the elements. The entrance, a sagging door set in a sagging doorframe and held up by skateboard wheels, so it could move back and forth, had a sign hanging from it: HOTEL CALIFORNIA. Beneath that announcement, was another sign pointing straight down, as if through the Earth, which read: THIS WAY TO CALIFORNIA.

  The old hotel had been a grand place in its time, possibly even a converted mansion that had belonged to a rich family. But it was so battered and beaten up by years of warfare occupants that there was no way to tell.

  In the distance – an eerie backdrop to the Cambodian frontier version of the Hotel California – artillery shells were exploding, sending up plumes of flame and fiery clouds into the starry night.

  The sounds came with strange irregularity: there would be a flash in the sky, far-off landscape was suddenly illuminated, then the light would fade and then there would come a deep - Crump! And after what seemed like a long time later, the ground would pitch and tremble as if Prometheus himself had struck the earth with his giant’s fist.

  If an interested observer had visited the place on the night when the brief truce had ended, he might have paused outside to listen to another, much closer sound. And it would have seemed every bit as deadly as the distant fist. Not just because it was closer, but because it was the sound of an angry Ann Donovan taking all her frustration out on a heavy punching bag.

  Ann had an area fixed up as her personal gym, filled with makeshift weights: like old axles of various sizes and weight; bags of sand, ranging from small to very hefty; and ruined chairs from the colonial era that had been broken down so only their sturdy legs and cushioned seats remained

  – perfect to turn into weight benches.

  Homemade karate towers rose here and there, with long posts sticking out like the many arms of Shiva, the towers positioned for the flurry of attacks Ann always unleashed after her main exercises.

  In the makeshift gym, Ann had a 150 pound bag dangling from an eyebolt that was fixed into an overhead beam. Until recently, this arrangement had worked perfectly. Ann could punch and the kick the bag, working off all her aggressions. But in the past few weeks the frustrations had grown so much that the rickety beams were starting to sag. And when she really went after Dr. Brennan and the brass in Paris, little showers of dust and debris fell on her bare shoulders, sticking to her sweaty skin.

  Her workout togs consisted of running shorts, a loose, camo tee-shirt sans sleeves and midriff, and street shoes, instead of karate slippers, because in a real-life street fight that’s what she’d have on her feet. And the weight was important for timing and muscle strength. She almost never wore elbow or knee guards. She believed in toughening up her skin with repeated contact with the bag, so that she could take any punch given and deliver worse.

  Tonight was a night when she desperately needed to test her makeshift gym to the extreme. After Frank Holiday’s visit she’d gone home, changed and had attacked the bag full force – no holding back. A black belt in three different martial arts disciplines, Ann knew a lot of different ways to kill a punching bag.

  And now, as the moon rose over the blasted-out garden in back, she was really settling into it. Punching and kicking with all her strength.

  First the face of Frank Holiday would rise up in her mind’s eye, and she’d pile in, punishing the heavy bag for looking like Frank. Then her father’s face would replace Frank’s, and she’d attack that with equal fury.

  Was it possible? Had her father become a rogue agent? She hammered that question for all she was worth. Putting everything she had into the bag. Her head and arms were so covered with white plaster that she looked like a ghost.

  Finally, at the point of exhaustion, Ann stopped. She bent over, hands on her hips as she drew in great draughts of breath. Regaining her equilibrium.

  She stood up straight, still breathing hard. Her eyes hardened and her face took on fierce edges. “No damn way,” she said aloud. “No damn way.”

  Her breath becoming more even, she strode over to the far corner where she’d constructed a primitive shower. It consisted of a large tub that had been mounted into the wall and ceiling beams. Pipes ran into the tub from the outside.

  Mark had crafted a valve which was fitted into the tub’s bottom. The valve was operated by a long rope. Ann wasn’t sure how the whole thing worked. All she knew was that if she stood under the tub and pulled on the rope a fountain of delightfully cool water would cascade over her head and shoulders.

  Ann did this now, pulling on the rope and stepping into the shower fully clothed in her gym-wear.

  She grabbed a bar of harsh local soap and scrubbed off herself and her clothing. The she rinsed and shook herself like a dog, scattering water. Once again she pulled on the rope, letting the cold water pour all over her body.

  And the whole time she muttered, “No damn way!” *****

  The three friends were gathered in what might have once been a hotel lobby, taking stock of Ann’s problems. The large room was dimly illuminated by a single naked bulb hanging from the high ceiling by a long wire. The furniture consisted of a few battered couches with overturned crates and a stack of folding chairs for entertaining.

  There was a large blasted out hole in the far wall of the lobby, covered by a sheet of heavy plastic. The Jeep sat on the other side of the plastic window so Mark could keep a wary eye on it.

  Ruth said, “So all the S.O.B. told you was that there was some trouble with your father? He didn’t even hint at what that trouble was?”

  “He said more,” Ann grudgingly admitted.

  “For crying out loud, Doc,” Mark said, “you’re not in the CIA. You didn’t take an oath of secrecy. Tell us what’s going on so we can help.”

  “It’s not as easy you think,” Ann said. “Talking, I mean.”

  “It’s not against the law, is it, Dr. D?” Ruth asked. “We know about your father and your grandfather – and even great-grandfather because you told us, right?”

  Ann sighed. “Sure I can talk. In fact, when I was just a kid my counselor encouraged me to talk – as long as we were in-country, that is. He said you have to tell everybody about it straight away so they don’t think you have anything more to hide.”

  “Hold on,” Mark said, raising a hand. “Back up a minute. You had a counselor? A CIA-type counselor?”

  “We all did,” Ann said. “All of us CIA brats. Your counselor tells you how to act in different situations. When to sort of lie and when to tell the truth.”
r />   “What’s a ‘sort of lie,’ Dr. D?” Ruth demanded. “I was brought up to believe that a lie is a lie is a lie.”

  “And your point is?” Ann asked.

  “I thought you pretty much believed the same thing,” Ruth said.

  “Well, I do,” Ann said. “Except when you can’t tell the complete truth because your father might get killed.”

  “This is fascinating, in a sick kind of way,” Mark said. “How do you not tell the complete truth?”

  Ann thought a minute, then said, “By telling the questioner every single boring detail about yourself that you can think of – except the one thing that you need to withhold. Nine times out of ten their eyes will glaze over and then they’ll start telling you their life story. Most people are fairly anal retentive and only listen out of politeness because it’s your turn to talk.”

  Ruth laughed in agreement. “First rule of nursing school,” she said. “Get the patient talking about themselves and they’ll become so absorbed that when you stick ‘em with the needle they’ll hardly notice.” Another laugh. “Ego… Nature’s own anesthesia.”

  But Mark The Moralist, as he was sometimes called, was not to be thrown off point. “Hang on, Doc. What happens that one percent of the time when your tactics fail? And the questioner keeps pushing.”

  Ann gave him a look. “Do you want me to tell you the truth,” she said, “or sort of lie?”

  “I’m an old-fashioned boy,” Mark said. “I prefer the truth.”

  Ann shrugged. “Nothing happens,” she said.

  Then her expression changed slightly, although Ruth and Mark didn’t notice right away. She seemed suddenly wary, as if something had just come to her attention.

  Mark snorted. “Nothing?” he said, incredulous. “The CIA cops don’t show up and disappear the guy?”

  Very casually, Ann turned her head toward the plastic-sheeted window. She caught an almost imperceptible flash of motion near the Jeep. Ann’s eyes flickered, but she showed no emotion.

  Absently, she said, “No. Nothing happens.”

  Very slowly, she got to her feet.

  Mark kept going. “How do we know you’re not lying right this very minute. Or, as you put it, sort of-?”

  Ann shouted, “Everybody down!”

  Mark and Ruth goggled at her.

  “Down!” She commanded.

  Ruth and Mark dove for the floor as Ann rushed toward the window. But before she reached it there an explosion of blinding light that filled every nook and cranny of the room.

  Eyes shut, Ann continued forward.

  Ruth and Mark weren’t fast enough and were stunned by the light grenade. All sensations were torn away by the piercing white light.

  There was a ripping sound at the window as a dark figure cut through the plastic sheeting. Ann heard the noise and spun, lashing out with a kick. She connected and a man grunted, careening back through the window and into the yard.

  Overhead, crowbars smashed through the ceiling and two assassins reeled downward on ropes. They hit the floor and went on the attack. They wore huge goggles to protect their eyes from the glare, making them look like monstrous insects.

  Eyes still closed, stretching her senses to their limits, Ann waited while the men moved swiftly toward her. But at the last second, Ann attacked. She hit them hard, sweeping the feet from under one thug then powering into the other with a flurry of hard fists.

  As the harsh light died down, more men charged into the lobby, surrounding Ann.

  In the corner, Mark came to his feet, lifted Ruth up bodily and stuffed her behind a couch. Then he entered the fray, a giant against so many midgets, swatting the men aside with his big, sweeping paws.

  Ann, meanwhile, was wading into the attackers and for a brief moment it looked like she and Mark were gaining the upper hand.

  But then an explosion ripped off the front door, knocking Mark and Ann to the floor.

  A thug entered, a grease gun held in both hands. He opened fire, ripping up the room with a stream of lead.

  Ann rolled to the side as bullets stitched the floor.

  Then, bizarrely, the shooting stopped.

  Ann came up on an elbow to look and through the smoke and grit. She saw a tall, elegant Asian push past the gunman.

  It was Ah Beng.

  He wore his left arm in a sling made from a silken bandana and he strode into the room as if nothing was amiss. Mark started to get up, but Ah Beng jerked his head and the gunman aimed his weapon at Mark, ratcheting back the bolt. Mark glared at the guy, but wisely sank down. Ruth stared over the back of the couch at the scene, frightened, but pulling herself together to face whatever was to come.

  Ah Beng walked straight to Ann, and offered his right hand to assist her. Ann ignored the hand and with one rippling motion, she leaped to her feet.

  Two alarmed gunmen jerked back, aiming their weapons, but Ah Beng motioned for them to stand down.

  Ann and Ah Beng stared at one another for a long moment, each trying to get a handle on the other. Then Ah Beng twisted his lips into a smile.,

  “You are the American doctor, Ann Donovan?” he said.

  “That’s me,” Ann replied. “My hours are pretty flexible. You really didn’t have to shoot your way in here to get an appointment.”

  Ah Beng indicated his arm. “Your father did this to me,” he said.

  Ann shrugged. “Give me half a chance and I’ll do the other,” she said.

  “Where is your father?” Ah Beng demanded.

  “If I knew,” Ann said, “I wouldn’t tell you. But as it happens, I haven’t the foggiest idea.”

  Ah Beng looked at her with some amusement. “Why should I believe you?” he demanded.

  “Because I have an open and honest demeanor?” Ann grinned, pointing at her face.

  Ah Beng motioned to one of the gunman. Immediately, the guy went to Ruth and put the gun against her head.

  “Convince me,” Ah Beng said.

  Quickly, Ann said, “A couple of hours ago I was accosted by a man in a helicopter who said the American government was hunting my father. He said my father was a renegade. That he was operating outside the rules – and the laws – of our country. My country.”

  Ah Beng stared at Ann for a long time. Then, he asked, “Who was this man?”

  “Frank Holiday,” Ann said. “A CIA agent.”

  “How do you know he was who he claimed to be?” Ah Beng asked.

  “Because he was my counselor for ten years,” Ann said.

  Mark and Ruth couldn’t help but exchange quick looks.

  Ah Beng nodded to the man threatening Ruth and he lowered the gun. “When you see your father,” Ah Beng said, “I want you to pass on a message.”

  “I have no idea if I’ll see him or not,” Ann said. “So please don’t count on me.”

  Ah Beng chuckled, then fished an envelope from his pocket with his good hand. “Oh, but I have full confidence in you, Dr. Donovan,” he said.

  He handed her the envelope, bowed slightly, then turned and made his way out the door. His men slowly withdrew, keeping their weapons trained on the room.

  Then they were gone. A moment later they heard vehicles start up and drive away.

  Ann turned to her friends. “Everybody okay?”

  Ruth crawled over the couch and plopped into the cushions. Mark slumped down beside her.

  “Just get a nice morphine drip going,” Ruth said, “and I’ll be fine by and by.”

  Ann felt numb. She nodded absently, then looked at the envelope with much trepidation.

  Mark said, “If you don’t open it, I’ll never speak to you again.”

  Ruth was more cautious. “What if it’s an anthrax bomb or something?”

  “It’s not,” Mark said, sounding more confident than he felt.

  “How do you know?” Ruth asked, then jumped as Ann ripped the envelope open with one motion.

  Ann paused for a long moment, then reached inside and drew out a photograph. She l
ooked at the photo, studying it, driving her friends nuts with the suspense.

  “Well?” Mark demanded.

  Ann shook her head and offered Mark the picture. He grabbed it and looked, Ruth crowding in to see. It was a photo of an elementary school class. Happy ten-and elevenyear-olds were smiling into the camera.

  The face of one boy, whose features were slightly Asian, was circled in black marker pen.

  “Who is he?” Ruth asked, looking up, surprised to see total confusion on her friend’s face.

  “I don’t have the faintest idea,” Ann said.

  “I hate to sound like Captain Bringdown… which I am,” Mark said, “but whoever this kid is, I think he’s probably in a pretty bad way. Taking into account the visitors we just entertained, that is.”

  Ann nodded, but said nothing. She took the picture back from Mark and stared at it, searching for some clue. At that moment a phone rang. Instinctively, they all looked at each other – whose phone was it? All of them were still numb from their experience.

  The phone kept ringing, then Ann looked over at the torn plastic window. The sound seemed to be coming from beyond. “Did somebody leave their cellphone in the Jeep?” she asked.

  Mark and Ruth patted their pockets, then shook their heads.

  “Not us, Doc,” Mark said.

  Ann went to the window. She looked around, carefully surveying the area. Again, the phone rang. Ann slid through the gap and went to the Jeep.

  Mark was at the window, watching her. “I chased a guy away from the Jeep earlier,” he said. “But I thought he was just some sneak thief.”

  Ann reached under the seat and pulled out a cellphone. It was ringing its little heart out.

  Mark warned, “Maybe we ought to check it out, first, Doc. You never know…”

  Ann snapped the phone open and put it to her ear. Without waiting to hear who was on the other side, she said, “Is that you, Daddy?”

  Far away, in some darkened room, Jack Donovan grinned, feeling very proud of his little girl.

  “God, you’re fast on the uptake, sweetheart,” he said.

  In the courtyard, Ann’s face lit up at her father’s voice.