The Last Phoenix

by Richard Herman

  “Isn’t she Chinese?” Tel asked.

  “Yes” was all Kamigami said as he plodded down a trail to a nearby kampong. They had been there before while waiting for the fires to burn out, but it, too, had been destroyed in the attack and was burning. Kamigami pushed through the still-hot rubble to the house of the old woman who had been the children’s amah. The house itself was leveled, but a small shed at the back was still standing. Kamigami pulled open the low door and looked in. For a long moment he didn’t move, his face frozen. Then he bent over and disappeared inside. He came out carrying his daughter’s body. From the shreds of her clothes and the condition of her body, there was no doubt that she had been tortured and raped. Tel ripped off his shirt and draped it over her body as Kamigami carried it back to his kampong.

  Kamigami and Tel placed the nine small tin boxes holding the ashes of their families in the small shrine they had built overlooking the beach. It was a beautiful spot, and willowy casuarina trees and palms curved over them, beckoning at the emerald green sea and the islands that floated on the far horizon. Only the three offshore oil platforms that marched in a straight line spoiled the peace and tranquillity that had originally brought Kamigami to this place.

  “We used to come here in the evening,” Kamigami said. “May May always said we were looking the wrong way to see the sunset. But it didn’t matter.” Together they lit joss sticks and placed them on the shrine, one in front of each tin. Kamigami knelt down in the sand, his hands on his knees, and gazed at the shrine. He fingered the flat gold whistle dangling from a chain around his neck. He cocked his head as he studied the dragon engraved on one side. “May May said it made good feng shui at sea.” He turned it over to the tiger. “She said the dragon and the tiger are inseparable. Just as the North Pole must have a South Pole, if there is a dragon there must be a tiger.” He raised it to his lips and gave a little toot. It was a sad, wistful sound that drove a pang of despair into his heart. “It’s all that’s left. Everything else was destroyed in…” His voice trailed off. Then, more strongly, “I came here to escape all this. But it came after me.”

  Tel didn’t know what he was talking about, but rather than pursuing it, he asked the one question that consumed him. “Why?” He waited for what seemed an eternity.

  Kamigami finally came to his feet, looked out to sea, and gestured at the oil platforms. “Maybe something to do with that. I don’t know.” He picked up a shovel and walked quickly toward the amah’s kampong. At a distinctive bend at the halfway point, he stepped off the path. He counted the steps to an open spot and started digging. The shovel clanged off a hard object. Kamigami scooped out more dirt and handed up a metal chest sealed in plastic wrap. He cut away the plastic, knocked off the hasps with the shovel, and threw back the lid. He removed a bundle from the chest and unwrapped it to reveal a submachine gun coated in Cosmo-line. “A Heckler and Koch MP5,” Kamigami said. “It’s time you learned how to clean and assemble one.”

  For the next hour Kamigami and Tel methodically stripped and cleaned the MP5 and a well-used Beretta nine-millimeter automatic. When they were finished, Kamigami packed two rucksacks, hiding the two weapons. Then he dressed in dark gray-green pants and a black T-shirt, taking care as he laced his jungle boots. The boots were the only military item he was wearing. He threw Tel a pair of pants and a T-shirt that were much too large for him. “We’ll find something that fits later,” he told him, shouldering one of the rucksacks and adjusting the straps. Satisfied that it fit properly, he went into a deep crouch as his right hand reached back and snapped open a flap at the bottom corner of the rucksack. The MP5 fell out, into his hand. He slapped in a clip as he brought the weapon to the ready. The sound echoed in the smoky air.

  Tel stared at the dark specter towering in front of him. He had never seen such a look on the face of a human being.

  Kamigami gestured at the second rucksack. “You coming?”

  One

  Oakland, California

  Saturday, July 24

  The formal dedication ceremony of the Matthew Pontowski Presidential Library was over, but Madeline O’Keith Turner did not leave. Instead the president of the United States strolled down the hillside garden chatting with two former presidents and savoring the unusually clear and mild August day. From time to time they would stop and take in the magnificent vista overlooking San Francisco Bay with its view of the Oakland Bay Bridge and the city on the hill. A breeze washed over them, gently ruffling the president’s hair, creating a charming effect not lost on the TV cameras that were held at a distance on the veranda of the small library building.

  The presidential entourage hovered in the background, nervously checking their watches. Only her personal assistant, Nancy Bender, was unconcerned with what the delay would do to the president’s carefully crafted campaign schedule. She alone knew what was on the president’s mind.

  The deputy chief of staff rushed up to Nancy. “How much longer will the president be?” the young man asked. “I’ve got a campaign to run…can’t delay much longer.”

  Nancy stifled a sigh. Like so many who worked in the White House, he had an overblown opinion of his importance because of the position he occupied. “Yes you can,” she replied. But she immediately relented. He’s got a point, Maddy. Madeline “Maddy” Turner had just emerged from a hard-fought primary campaign and turbulent convention to win her party’s nomination for president. It had been a near thing, which was unusual for an incumbent. Now her old rival and nemesis, Senator John Leland, was determined to deny her the election and get his boy elected, the former congressman and now governor David Grau. Leland and Grau’s opening salvo was an attack on her legitimacy. They claimed she was a political lightweight and incompetent, not capable of leading the United States, and had come to the presidency only through the vice presidency and the death of President Quentin Roberts. It was turning into a savage personal fight, and the fall campaign and run-up to the November election promised to be a brutal, take-no-prisoners battle.

  A woman reporter floating behind Nancy said, “She may be the most beautiful widow in the United States.” Nancy agreed, for Maddy was at her best on this particular day. The president’s brown eyes sparkled with life, and her makeup was perfect for the sunlight, accentuating her high cheekbones and smooth complexion. “That white linen suit is very elegant,” the reporter continued. “She has a fabulous figure.”

  Indeed she does, Nancy thought. She waited for the inevitable question.

  “Off the record,” the reporter ventured, “is there anything to the rumor about Matt Pontowski?”

  Nancy knew better than to deny it. “Only what the president has said,” she answered. “They’re good friends and have the same mutual interests as any parents.” She didn’t have to explain what the “mutual interests” were. The reporter knew that the president’s and Pontowski’s fifteen-year-old sons were best friends attending New Mexico Military Institute in Roswell. Nancy saw the cause of the delay move down the veranda and walk across the lawn toward the presidential party. She glanced at her watch and went in search of the deputy chief of staff. She found him still fretting over the delay. “Thirty minutes” was all she said. The young man scurried away to set the wheels of the campaign back in motion. “Oh, Maddy,” Nancy breathed. “He does light your fire, doesn’t he?”

  The “he” was Matthew Zachary Pontowski III, the president of the library and grandson of the late President Matthew Zachary Pontowski. Every person, not to mention the TV reporters, at the dedication ceremony of President Pontowski’s library was talking endlessly about the physical resemblance of Matt Pontowski to his famous ancestor. Pontowski was exactly six feet tall, lanky, and with the same piercing blue eyes and hawklike nose. His shock of graying brown hair with its barely controlled cowlick was an exact replica of the late president’s, and he even walked with the same limp. Like his grandfather and father, he had flown fighter aircraft in combat, but no reporter really understood the significance of that
. Still, it was the stuff that made news good entertainment, and they played it to the hilt.

  Secretly each reporter hoped there was some truth to the rumor of an affair between Madeline Turner and Pontowski. But a strong sense of self-preservation held them in check—for always lurking in the background was Patrick Flannery Shaw. No one knew exactly what Shaw did as the special assistant to the president; however, he had direct access to Turner at any time and any place. That, plus a well-deserved reputation as the president’s pit bull, made it mandatory to stay on his good side. The one White House reporter who had gotten crosswise with Shaw had suddenly found himself reporting local events in Pocatello, Idaho. It was an object lesson that didn’t need repeating.

  The TV cameras on the veranda zoomed in on Pontowski. “Matt,” Maddy called, “what a wonderful ceremony.” She extended her hand. “I was quite moved by your words. He was a wonderful man.”

  “Thank you for coming, Mrs. President,” Pontowski said, gently taking her hand. The TV cameras recorded that they touched for a few seconds longer than required by protocol. But that was all. Pontowski shook hands with the two former presidents, and both were eager to recall the last time they had met. The reporters scribbled in their notebooks that the friendly reception was proof that Pontowski had a future beyond that of running the presidential library.

  “What a magnificent view,” Maddy said, leading the small group to the one secure observation point. Because of two attempted assassinations, the Secret Service made sure that no one was within earshot or, for that matter, any other kind of shot. While security was intense, Maddy still moved without fear among people as the agents standing post worked themselves to a frazzle and into an early retirement. “How’s Little Matt?” Maddy asked.

  “Growing like a weed,” Pontowski replied, “and he’s not so ‘little’ anymore. Maybe that’s why everyone is calling him Zack these days.”

  Maddy laughed. “Brian never told me. It’s much better than that horrible name Brian was calling him. I know Sarah will like it.” Sarah was Maddy’s fourteen-year-old daughter, who had a not-so-secret crush on Pontowski’s son. Then the tone of Maddy’s voice changed as she became all business. “Have you had time to think about it?”

  Pontowski nodded. “The ambassadorship to Poland is tempting, but I’ve got to get the library off the ground. I can’t believe the stacks of documents and files we’re sorting.”

  “You’re lucky,” one of the former presidents said. “No real hard issues like the tapes the Nixon Library has to deal with.”

  “Anyway, not yet,” the other president allowed.

  Again Maddy laughed, enchanting Pontowski. “There’s always a rat in the woodwork.” They all assumed her “rat” was the man ambling toward them. Patrick Flannery Shaw was a shaggy bear of a man given to wearing rumpled plaid suits, scuffed shoes, and outrageous ties. At first glance he seemed totally out of place. But the knowledgeable knew he was a shark swimming in his perfect environment.

  “Mizz President,” Shaw said, putting on his thickest southern accent, “we got a passel of people who need tendin’.”

  Maddy pleaded helplessness. “What can I do?”

  “Win the election,” the older of the two presidents said.

  She shook hands all around, coming to Pontowski last. “Matt, please think about it. I don’t need an answer until after the election.” She turned to go. “Oh, Mazie needs to talk to you. Can you escape from all these dusty archives?” “Mazie” was Mazana Kamigami Hazelton, her national security adviser.

  “For Mazie,” Pontowski answered, “anytime.”

  “I believe she’s free tonight,” Shaw said. “I’ll set it up for after the banquet.” Then the president was gone, locked in a deep conversation with Shaw.

  “Sounds like a command performance,” the younger of the two presidents said.

  “With the Dragon Lady,” the older growled, “damn right.”

  Pontowski only smiled and shook his head.

  San Francisco

  Saturday, July 24

  “General Pontowski,” the Secret Service agent said, “this way please.” Pontowski followed the amazingly fit young man into a service corridor on the ground floor of the Fairmont Hotel. They stopped at a guard station, where Pontowski emptied his pockets and was searched. A uniformed guard ran a wand over him, searching for metallic objects. The wand buzzed when it passed over Pontowski’s right knee, and three guards immediately surrounded him.

  “It’s the pins in my knee,” Pontowski explained as he pulled up his pant leg to show the long scars on his knee. “Ejected from an F-16,” he explained. “Bad landing. Shattered my kneecap.”

  “Understand, sir,” the Secret Service agent said. “But we’ll need an X ray to confirm, if you’re to see the president.”

  Pontowski was confused. “I thought—”

  “I can vouch for him,” a familiar voice said. Pontowski turned to see Chuck Sanford. “Evenin’, General. Setting off alarms—again?”

  A smile spread across Pontowski’s face. “It’s been a while, Chuck. I thought you were with Brian.” Sanford was normally assigned to guard Brian Turner, the president’s son.

  “I’ve been on vacation. I’ll pick up the duty when he goes back to the Hill.” The Hill was the New Mexico Military Institute, where Sanford headed the detail guarding Brian. Because of the close friendship between Brian and Zack, Sanford and Pontowski had met many times. “I’m lookin’ forward to gettin’ back to the land of the sane and borin’. How’s Zack doin’?” For a moment the two men were silent. It was not a simple question, because Zack had saved Sanford’s life in New Mexico. But Zack had had to kill a man to do it.*

  Pontowski chose his words with care. “He’s doing just fine, and his counselor says he’s handled it as well as any adult.” The relief on Sanford’s face was obvious. “I swear he’s grown three inches over the summer,” Pontowski continued. “He’s been working at the library here until school starts.”

  Sanford signed a clipboard and motioned Pontowski to a service elevator. They rode in silence to the presidential floor. The doors swooshed open, and the security drill repeated itself. “Sorry for the inconvenience,” Sanford said.

  “I understand,” Pontowski replied. “It must be hell during a campaign.”

  “You wouldn’t believe,” Sanford allowed. He led the way down the service corridor to a door leading into the Presidential Suite. “I’ll wait here for you,” the agent said. He held the door open, and Pontowski entered a kitchen.

  Pontowski’s back stiffened. Mazana Kamigami Hazelton was sitting at a small table with Patrick Flannery Shaw. “Hello, Mazie,” he said, ignoring Shaw. “What can I do for you?” Mazie was a petite woman, barely five feet tall, and the best of her Japanese and Hawaiian heritage was captured in her beautiful face and eyes. She came out of her chair and held Pontowski’s hand with hers, no longer the cool and aloof national security adviser but an old friend.

  “It is good to see you,” Mazie said. She stood back and studied him. “It’s not fair. You just keep getting better and better looking.”

  “And you’re still the charmer.”

  “Maddy wants to see you,” Mazie told him. “But we need to talk first.” They sat down at the small table with Shaw. “She really wants you to be her ambassador to Poland.” Before Pontowski could reply, she held up her hand. “There’s more. Zou Rong is leading the Chinese delegation to the World Trade Organization conference in Chicago next week. He wants to speak to you.”

  Pontowski frowned as memories washed over him in full flood. He could no more stop them than change the course of the Mississippi River. For a moment he was back in southern China leading the American Volunteer Group—the AVG, a ragtag collection of pilots flying A-10 Warthogs—in support of Zou and his abortive revolution. Zou had saved himself by cutting a deal with Beijing. Pontowski had extracted the American Volunteer Group at the last moment and brought them back to the States. But it had been a ne
ar thing. Now Zou was the chairman of the Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress—the real power in China—and in line to be the next president. Common wisdom held that Zou was not content to wait until the current president died, and the two were locked in a power struggle.

  “Why me?” Pontowski asked.

  “That’s what we want to find out,” Mazie said. Pontowski tightened his lips, not liking what he was hearing.

  “We need an inside with the new boys in Beijing,” Shaw said.

  “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.”