Spies Never Die

SPIES NEVER DIE

There’s always another chapter.

By Michael Hawron

SPIES NEVER DIE There’s always another chapter.

© 2019 by Michael Hawron.

All rights reserved.

Printed in the United States of America.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover art by Chris Works

Foreword My 2018 Best-in-Texas award-winning spy novel, Just Good Clean Fun was a work of historical semi-fiction. The title and concept were inspired by actual events. Many of the people and events in that story were quite real. In that tale, the CIA created two ultra-secret teams: the Yin and the Yang. College students and other young adults were recruited to fill the ranks of these two rather controversial divisions. Sometimes, former friends were operating across divisional lines and, unbeknownst to them, they were often opposing people they knew. Just Good Clean Fun introduced the characters of the Yang team: Mitch Hawkins, his new colleagues, and his family. We also learn of some of the more dangerous agents in the nefarious black-ops world. Then there are others— guardian-like folks—who do their best to make good of a bad situation. After rogue elements of the Yin team began attempting to assassinate Yang agents who held different political views, the CIA closed down the Yin and Yang operations, disbanded the teams and decommissioned the spies. Those agents who made their debut in Just Good Clean Fun are now living out their individual lives in whatever adventures they choose to embrace. These are their stories. Someday, their paths may cross yet again . . . Michael Hawron Spring 2019

Dedication

To all those who appreciate the gift of life.

CHAPTER ONE ,

ALEXA HAWKINS STRETCHED OUT IN HER COMFY, PINK POOLSIDE CHAIR, watching her son Jimmy and daughter Sally frolic on the steps at the shallow end of their kidney- shaped swimming pool.

Her pretty hazel eyes traced along the top edge of the tall, white concrete wall surrounding the backyard of their property. The turquoise gemstones that hung from her slender silver earrings caught the sun’s rays and made dancing patterns on her tan shoulders.

Her red fingernails drummed randomly on her chair’s white armrests. The late afternoon air was heavy with the intoxicating scent of Plumeria. A timid breeze made a half- hearted attempt at stirring the hot and humid thickness that settled over Manila this time of year.

A fortnight ago, when Alexa and her two children had unceremoniously fled Hong Kong, it was cold and gray there. The balmy tropical warmth of the Philippines helped

~ 1 ~ ease the tension which had wracked her body these past two weeks, ever since the horrible tragedy.

Mitch would have loved this, she thought to herself, as she allowed the fingers of her left hand to lazily twirl through her long, thick auburn hair. Her husband, Mitch Hawkins, had constantly battled with asthma in the cold damp winter months while living along the South China coast. Warm sunshine seemed to be the only really effective remedy.

She experienced a sharp pang of guilt for feeling so comfortable, as her subconscious replayed that painful memory of the intelligence officer’s grim briefing: “Mitch perished in the fire.” Those five miserable words kept echoing in the darkest recesses of her mind.

The events of that fateful night were still a jumbled blur: the hasty dash down a long, dark, winding path to escape the monstrous flames of the hill fire; rushing to board the rescue helicopter; the eerie night passage across the waters of the South China Sea aboard that mammoth bulk carrier ship, the MV Flinders Range; and finally, arriving in the circus-like, tropical atmosphere of Manila, Philippines.

Agent Marc Thomas had been a steadfast support to her by helping care for her two children during this tumultuous transition. She was grateful he had come from Tamworth, Australia, to be with their team in Hong Kong just prior to their forced evacuation.

He loved Alexa’s children as if they were his own. And they loved him. Marc never seemed to tire of their rowdy play. It was remarkable how well he functioned with only one arm.

~ 2 ~

Alexa had never met another amputee who seemed as oblivious to his handicap as Marc appeared.

Specialists Tamara and Rusty Phillips had accompanied Alexa and the kids to Manila as well. They had become fast friends during their years of high adventures together in the CIA “Yang” operations on the continent of Australia, before being reposted to Hong Kong.

These past few days had bonded them even more closely. The spy team members had all been debriefed by Internal Affairs. Tamara and Rusty were free to leave, but they chose to stay a while longer.

Alexa missed the witty banter that seemed to constantly surround the two New Zealanders, Matt and Simon, whenever they were together. Although she often acted as if she were annoyed by their antics, their dry humor often helped take the edge off a tense situation. She hoped to see them again. She could use a good laugh.

The two Kiwis had remained behind in Hong Kong to help close up their clandestine espionage operation, nicknamed the “Noodle Shop.” They were also tasked with arranging for Mitch’s charred remains to be shipped back to the States.

The story of her life as she knew it had come to a full stop. Alexa did not yet know what the next sentence would be, or if she had come to the end of the paragraph, the end of the chapter, or the end of the entire book itself. She was too numb right now to think of any plans.

~ 3 ~

The classroom never really prepares you for life, she mused, as thoughts of younger days as a college student drifted in and out of her mind.

Alexa had grown up on a sprawling sheep station in the sparsely populated outback region of western New South Wales. Majoring in political science at the University of Sydney was her first encounter with the complexities of urban life.

As it turned out, the reality of international politics was very messy and not nearly as tidy and predictable as her professors had theorized.

Life does prepare you for the classroom, though, Alexa concluded. I could enlighten those impressionable young college students far better than any elaborate curriculum or glossy textbooks could!

For now, however, she was majoring on keeping her two children from crying themselves to sleep at night.

One of her favorite professors, Glenda Richardson, had once made a remark that always stuck with her. “I can’t teach you experience!” she had declared.

“I can teach you from my experiences, but only life itself can teach you experience. There’s no such thing as second-hand experience.”

Suddenly, a bright ray of afternoon sunshine pierced through a gap in the hedge and landed on Alexa’s eyes. As she turned to avoid the blinding glare, her chair bumped into the small table beside her, sending her glass flying, and crashing onto the colorful patio stones. ~ 4 ~

Jagged shards scattered everywhere. The ruby-colored, spicy tropical drink spread out across the poolside patio, in grotesque imitation of a blood stain. She burst into tears and sobbed. My drink’s gone. Mitch is gone. The adventure is over. She blubbered pitifully.

Just then a white-hot ember deep inside her soul burst alive and coursed through her limp spirit in ardent, stern rebuke.

“Get a grip on yourself, girl! There’s always another chapter!”

Alexa was startled to hear herself shouting these words out loud and glanced around to see if anyone was there. No one was. The kids had wandered back inside the house. Alexa was alone with her thoughts.

She poured herself a fresh drink.

~ 5 ~

~ 6 ~

CHAPTER TWO ,

PERFECT IS TOO OFTEN THE ARCH-ENEMY OF GOOD. Consider a baseball game that is in the bottom of the ninth inning. The home team is behind by one run. There are two outs, the bases are loaded and the count is 3-2 for the batter.

Any good ground ball past the infield will score the tying run. However, if the batter is determined to wait on the perfect pitch, one that he can hit out of the ballpark, and win the game outright with a grand-slam homer, he runs this risk: the next good pitch sails right past him, is called a strike and he is out. The game is over.

His team loses while the batter awaits the perfect pitch.

This same reality surfaces in geopolitics. Demagogues and populists alike thrive on creating false dichotomies. “Either we do it this way, or it will be the end of the world!” they warn. Whether the threat be terrorists, or economic ruin, or global disaster from climate change, there is always a pitchman ready to peddle the perfect cure to a receptive audience.

Such hardliners never countenance a third option. Back then, some of the analysts in the U.S. State Department also ~ 7 ~ suffered from this dangerous fault of oversimplification. To them, there were only two viable options: Communism, or American Capitalist-Democracy.

In reality, very few of the world’s 190-some countries are actually purely either one or the other. Some are more of a mongrel hybrid. Many are plain vanilla dictatorships. Some of those dictators were staunch allies of the United States.

During the Carter administration, when bell-bottom pants and leisure suits were in, dictators were deemed out. Old allies, such as the Shah of Iran and President Ferdinand Marcos of the Philippines, were discredited as no longer en vogue, much like last year’s discarded fashions.

Thus, plans were made to “democratize” these countries. Now, a farmer who set about to “potato-ize” his peanut crop might be deemed an outright fool. But bureaucrats who sought to change other countries with a wave of their geopolitical wand were considered to be “enlightened.”

Even the poorest history student today is most likely aware of the miserable failure to democratize Iran. America’s once strongest ally in the Middle East is now its most vociferous enemy.

Well, so much for the collective wisdom of the State Department. The matching debacle in the Philippines is still unfolding, to this very day. The termites were already hard at work way back then, when Alexa and Marc and Tamara and Rusty were temporarily posted at a Manila CIA safe house.

~ 8 ~

A hostage crisis is never settled by a democratic election. In the Philippines, communists from the north and Islamic extremists from the south both sought to seize control of the country. President Marcos walked a tightrope to keep his country viable. As such, The Philippines was a founding member of The Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN).

Some measure of economic progress and stability was achieved. It was often at the expense of his opponents’ feelings, or sometimes even their lives. Marcos skillfully managed to conduct negotiations directly with Beijing officials and had been able to reach somewhat of a mutual understanding and working accommodation.

President Ronald Reagan was a big supporter of Ferdinand Marcos’s efforts. But the State Department considered Reagan a certifiable nut job and as such, ran an end game around the duly elected Commander-in-Chief to bring their own world view into fruition, in direct opposition to his strongly held political beliefs.

Had the State Dept. been able to peer into the future, and see a Philippines today that is now overrun by terrorist organizations, perhaps they might have altered their grand plan. But they couldn’t, and thus they didn’t.

In the final concatenation, Mr. and Mrs. Marcos would have to flee the country for the safety of Hawaii. Much ado was made in the media about the thousands of pairs of shoes that Imelda had to leave behind.

Analysts were much more muted over the fact that the U.S. would end up losing Clark Air Force Base and the Subic ~ 9 ~

Naval Base, two of America’s largest overseas military installations. This fiasco would prove to be a classic textbook example of a pyrrhic victory.

The U.S. State Department would work overtime, aided by the media and certain members of Congress, in order to disingenuously create the political environment that would provide a smoke screen for their coup. In a clear case of fuzzy thinking, their prime objective was not necessarily to usher in the opposition Aquino government, but just to stop President Reagan from supporting Marcos.

Clearly someone had neglected the maxim about “nature abhorring a vacuum.” The same is true in realpolitik.

In perhaps a much earlier version of what has now become commonplace today, the tail attempted to wag the dog— namely, the media was tasked with convincing the White House that Ferdinand Marcos would soon lose the Philippines to the communists, if he were left in power. The media’s claims were bolstered by “reports” spoon-fed to them by embassy officials who were onboard with this scheme.

In the end, they did get rid of Marcos. The country was still overrun by the communists, but everyone at the State Department got a promotion. Either this was a case of “the law of unintended consequences” or the State Department had a secret agenda, running quite contrary to sensible American interests. Before all this took place, however, the following transpired behind the scenes . . .

~ 10 ~

A four-star general lived in the mansion next door to where Alexa’s family was temporarily quartered. One day, a bright blue Frisbee sailed over the garden wall and landed in the pool. Within the hour, a Philippines Army officer, in his smartly pressed dress uniform, was ringing the door bell, hat in hand. The bright tropical sunlight reflected off his jet- black hair and his silver-mirrored sunglasses.

“May I come in?” He was already halfway through the doorway.

The general apologetically explained that his son had been the one responsible for the violation of their privacy. Could he retrieve the offending object? His son wanted his toy back. Alexa showed the general to her backyard where the general could retrieve the errant Frisbee.

After retrieving the stray toy, the general made himself comfortable in one of the rattan lawn chairs, obviously intent on chatting further with his new and pretty young neighbor. The housekeeper brought out a tray with some cold drinks.

Over drinks, the general casually questioned Alexa about her stay in the Philippines, her occupation, her views on the current political situation there and about her family.

She was well-trained to avoid giving direct answers to those first three categories of questions. Instead, she

~ 11 ~ offered information about her family: she was recently widowed.

The general’s questioning grew somewhat muted when he learned of Mitch Hawkin’s recent passing. His dark brown eyes were curious and penetrating. His gaze was direct and unabashed.

I wouldn’t be surprised if he threw that Frisbee over that wall himself, Alexa pondered. He’s on some sort of mission. Or else he is checking up on me for some reason. Play this one carefully, girl!

Over the next several weeks, the Frisbee and an assortment of balls and other toys made their way over the wall and into Alexa’s backyard. Each time the general came to retrieve the object, he tarried awhile to chat.

In time, he made hints of his displeasure with the current Marcos regime. Alexa never did meet the general’s “son.”

~ 12 ~

CHAPTER THREE ,

SEVEN HUNDRED MILES NORTHWEST OF MANILA, Oliver Chung stared absently at the key ring resting on his nicely polished teakwood desk. From his penthouse office in the Lisboa Tower, he could survey all that was taking place on the busy streets of central Macau far below.

Yang agents Matt and Simon had just dropped off the keys to their property. They were forced to evacuate their base on Lantau Island, twelve miles west of Hong Kong, when rogue agents from the CIA’s Yin faction had attempted to burn them out with a raging hill fire.

Most of the Noodle Shop spy team had evacuated Hong Kong to the Philippines via the MV Flinders Range—the gigantic coal bulk carrier which belonged to a shadowy contact back in Queensland, Australia. Meanwhile, Simon and Matt arranged for a ride on casino tycoon Victor Lee’s

~ 13 ~ private launch across the Pearl River Delta where they met with his executive accountant, Oliver Chung.

They had instructed Oliver, “Here are the keys to the house. Sell it for whatever you can. Keep 40% for your troubles and pass the balance on to Mr. Lee. He will know what to do with it.”

The proceeds from the sale of the property would go towards financing the Yang team’s future side “excursions.”

“Was there much damage to the old place? I heard about the fire,” Oliver asked anxiously.

“No damage whatsoever, thanks to our firebreaks which behaved just as we had hoped and planned,” Simon was happy to report. Their hard work during the previous months had paid off.

“But, sadly, we lost Mitch in the fire that night,” Matt added somberly. Oliver grew silent at that remark.

After the two New Zealanders left his office, Chung sat motionless, absorbed in his thoughts. It might be bad joss to earn a profit selling a property where there had just been a death from a suspicious fire.

Oliver enjoyed making money as much as the next fellow, but a commission on a fire sale, literally, seemed somewhat less than honorable to him. He needed to find an auspicious solution.

He suddenly remembered that stunning French redhead who had visited the casino recently. What was her name? – Yvette!

~ 14 ~

Yvette had mentioned that she had a young British friend, Janet Price, who was looking for a remote country location where she could set up a summer camp for city kids. Janet was a dedicated environmentalist with big ideas, but not much money.

She believed that with enough tender loving care, she could turn any wilderness into a Garden of Eden. If he sold the Tung Hang Mei village house for below market value to Janet, this might be good karma.

Yvette’s calling card from the “Bottoms Up” nightclub in Hong Kong, where she performed, was still in Oliver’s top desk drawer. Chung, relishing the opportunity of having a good excuse to see her again, quickly dialed her number.

“Yvette! I think I may have something of interest for your British friend. Can you both meet me at the MuiWo ferry pier tomorrow at noon? I’ll buy your lunch!”

I wonder what has gotten into Chung? He never offers to pay for anything! Yvette wondered as she placed the receiver back on her hot-pink retro princess telephone set.

The following day was one of those rare autumn days in South China when the humidity is low, the skies were clear and the temperature pleasant.

~ 15 ~

After lunch at the Tak Chai Kee restaurant on the water front of Silvermine Bay, the trio began the half-hour walk through the tiny village and up the winding mountain pass into the cozy secluded valley of Tung Hang Mei. When they reached the red gate at the entrance to the property, Janet was already in love with the place, her head spinning with big ideas and endless possibilities.

Janet agreed that the asking price was reasonable but it was still more than she could afford. Wanting to guarantee his future good business fortune from the gods, Oliver offered to loan Miss Price the balance due, interest-free for seven years. If I die tonight, I’ll go to heaven, he envisioned. By the end of the week, the papers were signed and Janet had the key to her future utopia.

After years of weeding and clearing the land and planting and watering thousands of trees and fighting off numerous wild fires which threatened her acre of heaven, Janet had a thriving enterprise. Her Eden’s Ark permaculture farm drew visitors, students, instructors and sponsors from all over the world.

Week-long summer camps gave city kids their first hands-on experience with Mother Nature, fishing in streams, climbing waterfalls and building play structures from native bamboo.

One summer, a young Macanese girl, Olivia Chung, was one of a dozen campers who were all excitedly fishing tadpoles from the stream that ran through the valley below Janet’s house. She was the oldest daughter of Oliver, the very accountant in Macau who had sold Ms. Price her property ten years prior.

~ 16 ~

CHAPTER FOUR ,

BILLY SHANAHAN WAS SLOWLY EMERGING from the snow-white, cocoon-like status of his medically-induced coma. One…two…three…four…

With considerable effort, he willed his numbed mind to focus. His brain obeyed and struggled to count the ceiling tiles directly above his hospital bed, where he was strapped into a prone position.

Shanahan’s spine had been shattered when he fell onto an outcropped granite rock while hastening in the darkness down the northeast slope of Lantau Island after starting the hill fire that was intended to eliminate Mitch Hawkins’ Yang spy team.

His own Yin black-ops extraction team was moored in a tiny bay at the base of the mountain slope. When Shanahan did not arrive at the secluded stretch of sand at the appointed time, the captain of the speedboat team radioed to his base, alerting them to possible complications with their mission.

~ 17 ~

Billy’s two teammates fashioned a stretcher out of bamboo growing on the island. Forty minutes late, they arrived at the beach rendezvous, gingerly carrying their team leader, who was moaning in agony, despite his best efforts to stay silent, lest he betray his mission’s location.

A series of encrypted, clandestine calls had already been made and the U.S. Consulate personnel swung into action, turning and greasing the wheels necessary to preserve the official non-existence of their Treaty Equalizer operation. Their British hosts in Hong Kong would not take kindly to any inkling that U.S. Consular officials had been conspiring with Red Chinese functionaries over the negotiated future of the disputed territory.

The speedboat carrying the wounded Shanahan and his team pulled alongside a police launch under the cover of darkness from the moonless night in the middle of Hong Kong’s busy Victoria Harbor.

Once their cargo had been carefully winched aboard the big gray vessel, the police launch sped to Queen Mary Hospital in the Mid-levels district, where a team of surgeons stood by, ready to patch Shanahan’s broken back together again.

The seven-hour operation was deemed a success. However, no one—on the medical staff, or the Yin team—was looking forward to breaking the bad news to hard-headed William Shanahan that he would have months, if not years, of very painful and extremely taxing rehabilitation.

~ 18 ~

After repeated efforts, Shanahan’s ceiling tile count reached twenty. He began to experience a faint tingling sensation in his extremities. His fingers and toes twitched imperceptibly in response to his mental commands. As the dense fog of the powerful sedative began to dissipate, Yin Agent Shanahan discovered that he could not move his arms or legs. He was securely fastened to his hospital bed, so as to prevent any sudden movements that might further damage his repaired, yet still vulnerable, spine.

As was his custom, when he was confronted with delays or obstacles, Billy’s innate rage began to smolder, looking for the nearest escape valve. Another more powerful emotion overtook his rage: gratitude. As his dulled memory began reassembling itself, he remembered the nauseating sound of the snap when his spine fell on the unyielding granite rock. At that moment he had thought to himself, I’m a dead man!

But here he was, at least not dead, he concluded.

Enough…enough. Enough craziness. Enough violence. Enough rage. Enough death. Enough!

Slowly, these words transformed themselves from thoughts into expressions and then into mumblings, and finally into spoken words which the attending recovery nurses could fathom.

“Enough what, Mr. Shanahan?” nurse Chow Yuk Lin asked anxiously.

In cryptic reply, a smile and then a serene portrait of peace spread over the patient’s face. “Never mind! It’s OK now.” ~ 19 ~

Billy drifted back to sleep and was swaddled by comforting, happy dreams. He was back riding his new, red Schwinn bicycle down the hills of faraway West Bush. Next he was swinging a baseball bat as the words from Coach Jack Hawkins reached the plate at the same time as the baseball arrived, lean into the pitch, Billy.

He chuckled in his sleep as the next scene appeared in the dream sequence, where the diminutive Klaes Kroner was taking on the five big bullies who had described his proud family’s Norwegian flag as “Nazi.” Little Klaes never seemed to tire of getting the tar beat out of him.

The squeak of the heavy wooden door opening awakened him. Agent Shanahan motioned with his fingertips for the attending surgeon to come closer. “I need to talk to my boss about the weather. But not here.”

The doctor frowned, shrugging his shoulders in puzzlement. As he went out the door after checking his patient’s vital signs, a plainclothes detective stopped him. “Has he said anything yet?”

“He said he wants to talk to his boss about the weather, of all things! I think he is still coming out from under the effects of the anesthetic.”

As the doctor continued down the hall, making his rounds, the guard stepped into Shanahan’s recovery room and asked, “Weather?”

Shanahan blinked twice, signaling the affirmative. The man frowned but immediately proceeded with all deliberation to enter a seven-digit code into his pager. Billy had indicated

~ 20 ~ that he had crucial information. He was about to turn whistleblower. He would need to be removed to a safe location before an even worse fate could befall him.

For the next 72 hours until he was deemed stable enough to be transported, Shanahan was kept under 24-hour guard. Three days later, precisely at midnight, he was wheeled to the elevator for the journey to the rooftop heliport. A waiting Sikorsky S-74 whisked him across Hong Kong’s busy harbor to Kai Tak airport where a U.S. military transport plane was readied for departure.

Piloting the helicopter was a childhood friend from West Bush, Bobby Murphy. Billy Shanahan was kept sedated during the eighteen-hour flight to the U.S. Virgin Islands and never saw that his old buddy was the pilot. Murphy saw his passenger however and his pulse quickened. Perhaps the long nightmare is over, he thought hopefully to himself.

At dawn on the second day, the warmth of the pink rays of the emerging sunrise reached his weathered face, causing Shanahan’s eyes to flicker open. His bed had been wheeled onto a large open veranda on the second floor of a gleaming white villa nestled in the lush island hillside. A zephyr from the southwest was playing with the curtains in the doorway.

In front of retired CIA agent William Shanahan was a vista of unimaginable beauty, the teal-colored waters lapping the sugar-white sands of the beach in the distance below. Trees of the richest array of emerald hues dotted the shoreline. For a moment, Billy struggled to ascertain if he hadn’t actually died and gone to a better world. When he tried to sit up to get a better view of the afterlife, a sharp pain rang through his spine, reconfirming his continued presence in this world. ~ 21 ~

Later that morning, a tanned and very fit middle-aged man arrived, wearing shorts, sandals and a tropical shirt. His eyes were hidden behind mirror sunglasses. Despite his attire, he was far from being on vacation. His short-cropped, copper- hued hairstyle evinced his no-nonsense persona.

“This had better be really good, Shanahan!” The officer charged into the room and stared at the wounded agent.

“It is.” Shanahan’s pain came from deeper than his wounds. What he had to say needed to be said. In the end, his doing so could result in his death, or that of others. At the very least, one or more careers would be ending on this day.

Commander William Shanahan’s Fire Department was an illegal, ad-hoc subset of the Yin division of the CIA’s newest and most secret dual-core program, Yin-Yang. Yins were assigned to do the dirty work that even the normal black-ops teams preferred to avoid.

In their testosterone-driven, blinded zeal, some members of the Yin team had gone rogue, ignoring guidelines, rules of engagement and even direct orders from their superiors. A handful of team members were forming their own hit squad and generating bogus orders to cover their actions. The situation was out of control and needed to be reined in.

Billy fully understood that the individuals he was exposing were quite capable of exacting painful revenge upon him for his betrayal. Nevertheless, he felt it was a small price to pay to assuage his tortured conscience. There must be a greater value than cheap “self-preservation.” What about honor? Or human decency?

~ 22 ~

Once his interrogator completed the initial examination and concluded that Shanahan was indeed serious in his intent and in possession of dangerous and crucially vital information, a full team was assembled to properly debrief the whistleblower.

Once again, Billy was warned by those interviewing him that to disclose the names of agents whom he was accusing of crimes might well endanger his own life. “If these men are as pernicious as you indicate, you realize they are quite capable of finding and killing you slowly and painfully?”

“I am fully aware of the nature of this beast.”

The calm resignation with which Shanahan conducted himself perplexed and yet galvanized his debriefing team. His heroic efforts to rehabilitate his badly broken body underscored the exceptional transformation they were witnessing. In time, his examiners would have to chase after Billy as he rapidly paced back and forth in the hallway while recounting scores of incidents where agents had “gone off the reservation.”

As the compiled and analyzed reports grew in quantity and worked their way up the food chain, the rusty wheels and levers of bureaucratic change were first nudged then finally aroused. When the report surfaced that detailed the plan to burn out the Hawkins family in a hill fire at the Yang safe house in the remote reaches of the South China coast, the powers that be decided to swiftly act to shut down the rogue offshoot of the Yin black ops, the Fire Department.

“We can’t keep sweeping crap like this under the carpet as mere ‘friendly fire’!” an admiral thundered. “Round up these ~ 23 ~ miscreants now! Every last one of them! I will not have good agents being rubbed out by self-appointed assassins!”

Before long, the spate of near-fatal “accidents” and the many mysterious fires that had plagued the operations of Yang teams—such as Mitch Hawkins’—around the world for the past decade came to an abrupt end. Now unhindered by rogue friendly fire, the intelligence-gathering work of the various Yang units scattered across the globe blossomed as never before.

Despite his oft-protestations, his handlers decided Shanahan should remain in protective custody in the Virgin Islands until all rogue vigilante members of the Fire Department had been rounded up.

Eventually, all but two were tracked down and incarcerated in a secret military prison. The Lockerbie plane crash over Scotland—the work of Libyan terrorists—eventually took the lives of the remaining pair who had evaded capture. Live by the sword, die by the sword was Billy’s reaction to the news.

“I need something to do! I can’t recover, only to then just vegetate!” Shanahan pleaded.

His handlers understood that he was looking for a purpose for living, after his long nightmare.

Highly trained military and intelligence personnel are very specialized and valuable cogs in a vast machine. Once they are removed from their current service operations, they are still very valuable individuals, who don’t just disappear. The

~ 24 ~ society they return or retire into is also an extremely complex set of machinery.

Any mechanical engineer worth his salt understands that loose objects, spare tools or redundant parts cannot be left about where they can fall into the machinery and become damaged, or damage the machinery into which they fall.

Likewise, those pulling the levers of our society must fully appreciate the reality that our wounded warriors cannot just be DD-214ed and forgotten. They must find a useful, meaningful purpose to their post-military or post- intelligence service days, lest they be at risk of damaging, or being damaged by, the ongoing machinery of life.

A good machinist readily recognizes the inherent worth of a custom tool, whether or not it is currently being used. So must the movers and shakers of society also value the worth of the thousands of retired men and women who once served their country.

These individuals possess a particular strength of character tempered under life-threatening conditions which cannot be duplicated in a classroom or a seminar. They are not scraps, to be recycled when and where possible. They should not be suicide statistics waiting to happen. These brave men and women are essential components in a nurturing society.

The CIA bean counters, who were squirreled away in the accounting department, were tasked with finding the money to finance this off-the-books project. After scratching their heads, these accountants went to work on their digital spreadsheets.

~ 25 ~

There, in the Money That Never Existed Account, they found ample funds available in the “special projects” account, in both the “miscellaneous” and “experimental” subaccounts. It was decided to post expenditures with the anodyne tag of “health care expenses.” It was good for the health of the country, after all, they reasoned.

Billy Shanahan and his fellow erstwhile agents had fully seen the face of evil when confronting various madmen around the globe. This evil was just a heartbeat away from the average suburban household. These former commandos had the training—and now the funding—that was necessary to bolster the efforts of local law enforcement agencies which struggled to keep pace with the evolving terror threats.

Since this new task force technically didn’t exist, they would be able to go places and function effectively where uniformed officers could not. Once their missions were completed they could disappear into the background. They could be repositioned at any number of cover facilities or safe houses scattered around the continent.

“I want to be assigned to the coconut anti-piracy squad on Waikiki Beach,” suggested one agent who’d lost a leg to frostbite in the mountainous stretches of the Khyber Pass, but who had still retained his sense of humor.

“We’ll see what we can do.” His handlers weren’t laughing.

~ 26 ~

After much deliberation and many consultations, it was decided that Billy Shanahan was uniquely qualified to assist those suffering PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder) who still showed a desire to be of further service to their nation. He was issued a set of credentials and diplomas which established his bona fides as a certified counselor.

His “clients” would be special ops personnel who had seen the darker side of human nature. In spite of what they had suffered, they still desired to serve their country. Most civilians could never fathom the depths of the personal hell they’d experienced. Some had barely escaped with their lives after former comrades had gone off the reservation and treated everyone who disagreed with their extreme views as the enemy.

One job description cover which fit neatly into the intended scheme of things was “hostage negotiator.” Professional training could be documented under the umbrella of the social sciences of sociology, psychology, anthropology and psychiatry, all of which were flexible enough to provide the necessary instruction, and shade.

A hostage negotiator could thus get close and personal with the threatening behavior of the miscreant in question. Should “negotiations” fail, these seasoned practitioners had other more lethal options at their disposal, honed from their years of previous training and field experience.

Before long, a new professor was installed at the Los Alamos satellite campus of the University of New Mexico, Professor William S. Blackwater, PhD. In the course catalog he was listed as teaching Situational Ethics. The asterisk next to

~ 27 ~

Psych501* denoted that a referral was required in order to attend his class.

Shanahan—now rebranded as Blackwater—clandestinely trained agents, hidden in plain sight in his unassuming classroom. There, drawing from decades of experience, he taught his students to recognize shadow operations and to avoid attack by rogue elements. He did not need a textbook, although a nice, glossy official one had been created for his course. He regaled and frightened his understudies with true spy tales from around the globe.

Professor Blackwater had more than enough case files of real-life operations for his syllabus so that he did not need to teach from the textbook. Each of these prior operations was turned into a group learning assignment, to be studied and analyzed by the class in teams of three students.

Each team was tasked with critiquing any planning flaws, detecting any inherent risks, spotting any missed warning signs and offering an alternative to the mission plan that had been executed. Their findings were peer-reviewed and the report that was deemed the best was added to future class resource materials. From the ranks of these students, those showing the most promise were earmarked for parallel training in field team leadership.

From time to time, Shanahan would remember Jack and Shelly Hawkins in faraway West Bush. How they were coping with the death of their son Mitch?

~ 28 ~

CHAPTER FIVE ,

WHAT TO DO WITH MITCH HAWKINS? Or more precisely, the late Mitch Hawkins? That was the big, hairy question facing the CIA Pooh Bahs. A fine line, a tightrope, needed to be walked here.

Now that fuller details were emerging about the plan of the Yin Fire Department’s rogue splinter team to eliminate the Yang agent Hawkins and his family, the CIA controllers back at Langley needed to give the illusion that the Yin’s efforts had been successful, in order to properly halt their deadly crusade. Thus, Agent Hawkin’s “remains” needed to be recovered from the site of the fire, while the very-much- alive Mitch Hawkins was quietly spirited far away.

If Mitch were dead, then certain events needed to occur to confirm his passing, most obviously along the lines of habeas corpus. Subsequently, there would need to be the usual funeral and memorial services and accompanying mourning by the next-of-kin.

~ 29 ~

Finding a body to double as the late Mitch Hawkins was not difficult: the shores of Hong Kong’s outlying islands were often littered with the bodies of unsuccessful smugglers and undocumented refugees trying to escape into, or out of, the territory. Since there had been a fire, returning the cremated remains to the family would seem quite normal, thus making the ruse that much easier to enact. DNA testing was not available back then.

The biggest problem came with informing Mitch’s next of kin. Hawkins’ family would only be truly safe if Mitch’s assassins were convinced he was indeed dead. The family would need to exhibit the obvious signs of mourning in order for the subterfuge to be effective.

Thus, the bitterest pill in this prescription was that Mitch’s wife and children could not be told that he was still alive. At least, not yet. Not until all members of the rogue hit squad had been rounded up, or eliminated. The PSYOPS team had a number of go-arounds trying to determine how best to deal with this thorny ethical issue.

In the end, and for a number of reasons, it was decided that Hawkins’ remains should be returned to his place of birth, to his parents. For one, West Bush was 8,000 miles away from the prying eyes of the assassins.

It was also felt that Mitch’s young children would be less traumatized if they were not confronted with the visual and emotional image of the urn containing their dad’s earthly remains. There was much discussion, argument and disagreement over all of this. Grief counselors were fiercely divided in their assessments as to how all this would play out. ~ 30 ~

Jack and Shelly Hawkins had been vital and productive recruiters for various CIA pilot programs, and it seemed a cruel reward either way: to let them mourn the loss of their son, or to ask them to carry the burden of the charade when they would one day be face-to-face with their daughter-in- law and grandchildren. How many lies were necessary? To whom was it best to tell these lies?

While all of this was being discussed, the CIA personnel department came across the file of June Hawkins, Mitch’s sister. Her division at IBM had been awarded a sensitive contract for an on-site mainframe computer installation. Prior to being allowed access to oversee the project, June was thoroughly vetted. Her record was squeaky-clean and she obtained one of the highest levels of clearance possible. It was decided to drop the problem into her lap, as far as how to handle family matters. “The Company” had no trouble locating her.

She received a fax from her former liaison at the PSYOPS site, the one she worked most closely with when she had overseen the installation of the secret supercomputer system. The message to June requested a meeting, with the view towards gaining her recommendations regarding the best avenue for fixing an ornery glitch they were having with the hardware interface. She agreed to the meeting.

June happened to be on vacation, visiting the Terracotta Army near Xi’an, a huge city smack dab in the middle of China. Someone had to be rather resourceful to find me way out here, she pondered. Someone with a lot of resources!

When June later arrived at the rendezvous, she was puzzled to be confronted by two large burly men that she had never ~ 31 ~ seen before. These certainly aren’t the software engineer types. The only way this pair would get through college would be on a football scholarship. I wonder what law I could have broken here in China?

Her mind raced back over recent events in her memory but turned up nothing remotely of an illegal nature. Oh well, I’ve faced tougher board meetings than this, she thought reassuringly to herself, and put on her best poker face. Her dad, Jack, was an avid Pinochle player. June had to use every ounce of self-discipline when playing against him, so as not to display any “tell” that might tip her hand. The Hawkins could be oh, so competitive.

“Please be seated, Ms. Hawkins.” The first stranger’s polite, gentle tone had the reverse effect of immediately putting June on edge. Something is up! They are being far too polite.

Then the second stranger began. “It’s Mitch. There’s been a situation. Before we can proceed with details we need your assurance that what we share with you stays in this room. Understood?”

June nodded, sending her long blonde tresses in motion.

“In fact,” chimed in the first, “we need you to sign this paper of confidentiality and disclaimer before we proceed.”

She studied over the form. It was fairly standard issue, the type she had signed when working on those classified government projects. But what does this have to do with Mitch? Curiosity driving her, she signed and dated the form. She purposely added an extra initial and a flourish to her

~ 32 ~ signature that was not customary. An in-house company lawyer had taught her that little “escape clause.”

“First of all, your brother was not really working as an editor for a publishing company in Hong Kong. He was working for us. But you have no proof of that. He was on to something quite big and that got him some attention of the most unpleasant variety.”

“Is he OK?” June interrupted.

“Yes and no,” the other speaker replied. The two officials carried on like a tag team.

“That depends somewhat on you,” the other chimed in.

June had a naturally protective nature when it came to her family and this Laurel-and-Hardy routine was aggravating her beyond reason. As her pulse rose, so did the pitch of her voice as she demanded, “Stop playing games with me!”

“All right, all right! We need your help to keep Mitch’s family safe. We need to know that you can keep some information to yourself.”

“Of course I can,” she countered. “Just ask me what the government project was that I was working on two years ago.”

Number one took the bait. “OK. What project were you working on two years ago?”

“I can’t tell you! I signed a confidentiality agreement. Satisfied now?” she smirked. June was not the type to suffer fools gladly.

~ 33 ~

Number Two took a more conciliatory approach. “June, your brother is officially dead. But apart from the sprained ankle he suffered in the hill fire, he is actually very much alive and well. He is now someone else, far away. Once we have successfully tracked down and neutralized all members of the rogue hit squad who were after him, life can go back to normal, hopefully.”

Good cop, bad cop routine, June observed. “Since you two haven’t introduced yourselves, and I assume that you have no intention of doing so, I’m going to call you ‘Good Spook.’ Your buddy over there will be ‘Bad Spook.’ ”

Over the hours that followed, the two CIA agents sketched out the basics of the Yin-Yang operation to Mitch’s sister. The Yang espionage team that Mitch had headed up was involved in some delicate maneuvering behind the scenes as American business interests were quite concerned over the direction of the negotiations between China and Britain over Hong Kong’s future.

This assignment required Mitch and other members of his Yang team at the Noodle Shop to appear quite sympathetic to the Red Chinese cause in order to win their trust and thus gain access to, and influence with, key communist officials.

A rogue splinter element of the counterpart Yin division interpreted these actions to being anti-American and pro- communist. Those agents in that self-designated Fire Department took it upon themselves to eliminate such perceived threats any way that they could.

~ 34 ~

Over time, several methods had been attempted: sabotaging cars, setting house fires, kidnapping Mitch’s young son and finally deliberately setting a hillside on fire in strong winds to burn out the team from their secluded safe house in the Tung Hang Mei Valley of Lantau Island, near Hong Kong.

Commander Billy Shanahan had been part of this group of vigilantes until things reached an insane, fever pitch. Even in his most zealous rage, he could not countenance what was being planned, so he sought ways to alert a rescue team as to the Yin’s assassination plot. He then delayed the setting of the deadly fire as long as possible.

As kismet would have it, this hardened Yin commando had once been the recipient of coaching and mentoring while a young lad by none other than Jack Hawkins, Mitch’s dad.

Risking his life by his betrayal of the mission, Billy Shanahan contacted a liaison who alerted the “First Responders.” They were the good guys who had been trained by Marty Lanzo and had taken it upon themselves, at the encouragement of Shelly Hawkins and other “watchers,” to form a unit to counter the insane, destructive schemes of the Fire Department villains. Their plan succeeded.

Although Mitch Hawkins had in fact been caught in that intentional hill fire, he was rescued under cover of darkness just before the flames roared through the spot where he was trapped with his left foot hopelessly wedged between two boulders.

In his stead, the special ops team left behind the body of an unidentified illegal alien who had drowned trying to sneak into Hong Kong by swimming through the murky waters of ~ 35 ~ the South China Sea. The body was about the size of Mitch’s. Later the next day when the investigating teams surveyed the destruction, the human ashes discovered were quite indistinguishable.

Mitch’s wife Alexa and their two children, Jimmie and Sally, had been whisked away by helicopter, then on an ocean freighter, to a CIA safe house in Manila. Mitch had been spirited away down one of the many rabbit holes the agency maintained for just such exigencies.

The goal was to allow the Fire Department to think that they had successfully eliminated Mitch, so their agents would stand down.

For this ploy to succeed, Mitch’s family could not be told of his rescue, lest their lack of mourning tip off the assassins that Hawkins had in fact safely escaped. It was a bitter pill, Good Spook acknowledged soberly.

“So where’s my tamarind seed?” June challenged.

“What seed?” “Bad Spook” countered tentatively.

“Grrr! You’re supposed to be a spy. Surely you’ve seen that 1970s spy movie with Omar Sharif where at the end he supposedly dies in a fire. Julie Andrews was given a tamarind seed as proof that he was actually still alive.

“We don’t have any tamarind seed, Ms. Hawkins,” Good Spook said woodenly, surveying her face closely for any sign of a reaction.

“Of course you don’t! How did you ever pass spy school, anyways?” June was running on fumes and pure adrenaline

~ 36 ~ at this point as she pulled a small brown, shiny object from her pocket.

“You should have one of these though, right?” In her hand was a brown-and-white well-polished conker from a horse chestnut tree, about the size of a ping-pong ball.

June went on to explain. “We had a huge horse chestnut tree across the street from our childhood home in West Bush. Mitch and Marty were always knocking the chestnuts out of the tree in the autumn to get at the shiny conkers inside. You’d think those chestnuts were gold, the way those two got so excited about gathering them up. When Mitch left for college, he gave me a conker for good luck. He said he would always keep one with himself also.”

The two men exchanged nervous glances. Bad Spook took a small, royal blue felt bag from his coat pocket. “Mitch said to give this to you. He said you’d know what it meant.”

June took the small soft bag from the agent’s outstretched palm and tugged at the golden string tied around the top. As the knot yielded, she upended the cloth bag into her other hand. Out rolled a gleaming, well-worn conker. A solitary happy tear rolled down her cheek. She was silent for some time.

“OK. What do you want from me?” June relented.

“Go to Manila and spend time with Alexa and the kids. They could use some cheering up from a friendly face. Spoil the kids. And observe how Alexa is doing. It’s been known for loved ones to bolt over such a trauma,” the agent requested.

“Bolt?” June asked. ~ 37 ~

“Go over to the other side. Defect. Blow a whistle. Go to the media. Whatever they feel will give them some closure. Or revenge. Or both,” Good Spook explained.

“After that, we need you to arrange for a memorial service for Mitch back in West Bush. We’ll provide you with a nice urn filled with the cremains.” Bad Spook plowed ahead, dispassionately.

“I’ve changed my mind,” June blurted out, provoked to boiling point over the second agent’s callousness.

“You can’t! You wouldn’t! What do you mean?” the flustered agent shouted.

“I’ve changed my mind. Your new name is Tin Man, you heartless creep! And of course, I’ll do what is needed. By the way, you better make sure Alexa gets the maximum survivor’s benefits she is entitled to!” June concluded.

“What?” ‘Tin Man’ exclaimed. “We can’t do that. She isn’t really a widow, you know…”

“Oh, so then it’s OK that I tell her that Mitch is not really dead? What about my parents? They’ll be relieved to know that their son is still alive.” June’s voice conveyed the firm confidence that she had these agents in the palm of her hand.

“We’ll see to it that Alexa is taken care of properly.” The less heartless of the two agents conceded.

He continued, “And you can tell your mom verbatim, ‘The First Responders found Mitch’s body.’ Those exact words. She will know what it means. But make sure she is looking

~ 38 ~ away from everyone else when you tell her. The little sparkle in her eye might betray her otherwise.”

“I think we’re done here,” Tin Man intoned. “Do you have any questions?”

“Yes. Make sure your buddies in IRS see that I get a great tax refund next year for all my troubles. I’m sure that is something you can easily arrange. After all, it’s much easier than raising folks from the dead.”

June left the following day for Manila on a Cathay Pacific 747 flight via Hong Kong.

She had been upgraded to first class.

~ 39 ~

~ 40 ~

CHAPTER SIX ,

JIMMY AND SALLY WERE SO EXCITED TO MEET THEIR AUNT JUNE. Sally tugged on June’s arm until she agreed to go see the ‘magic wall.’ “It’s magic!” Sally exclaimed, pointing to the tall concrete barrier surrounding their backyard. “Every now and then, a ball or Frisbee just magically appears from the other side! See?” She was pointing to a large blue ball lying on the grass near the pool. “It wasn’t there when I went to bed last night!”

Later on, June would question Alexa about Sally’s claim about the magic wall. “Is she making stuff up in order to cope with the loss of her dad?” They both had a good laugh after Alexa explained to June about the Filipino general next door and his obvious overtures of friendship.

“I would imagine that in a country like this, it’s not such a bad idea to have a general or two as a friend,” June opined. “Is there anything I can get for you?”

~ 41 ~

“A new assignment would be nice!” Alexa replied without hesitation. “I need a fresh challenge to keep my mind busy. Suburban living can be so boring! Too much peacefulness is unhealthy.”

She motioned with her slender arm around the spacious, well-appointed living room, with its walls freshly painted a pale cream color and the tinted sliding glass doors that filled an entire wall, opening to the gorgeous backyard with its sparkling clear swimming pool and manicured colorful tropical foliage. The unmistakable intoxicating fragrance from the Plumeria trees wafted into the room.

June was heartened to see that her brother’s widow was in fairly good spirits and determined to carry on living with a purpose. They’ll be glad to hear this news. I wonder what kind of an “assignment” she has in mind? What could they possibly come up with that would be reasonable for her, while parenting two young kids?

Alexa corrected her tone and backpedaled a bit. “I’m sorry, that was out of line. I shouldn’t complain like that! I realize there is nothing that you can do about my situation. Anyways, you don’t need to be dragged into my universe. I’ll settle for a couple nice cold imported beers if you can rustle some up for us.”

“Beer, I can do!” June heartily agreed, and then reflected. She really doesn’t have a clue what I’m up to. Those folks sure are good at keeping the left hand from knowing what the right hand is up to, even if they are sisters-in-law.

“I know just the place to get the coldest brew in the city. I met someone on the plane who told me about it. I’ll pick up ~ 42 ~ some snacks for the kids while I’m out. I’ll see if I can find a decent pizza.” June phoned for a taxi and headed out the door. She was heading to the restaurant Route 196. As the front door clicked shut behind her, a gleaming new taxi pulled up to the curb.

Before long, June was sitting across the dark wood table from a very fit gentleman wearing a Hard Rock Café t-shirt and aviator sunglasses. It was the man from the plane.

“First things first. I told Alexa I was going to get her some cold beers, some snacks for the kids and a decent pizza, for myself. Got anyone you can put on that assignment while we talk? I’m sure you already know what kind of beer she likes.” June ticked off her shopping list. Let their pages do the walking through the yellow fingers, she thought humorously of an old joke—from the days when there were telephone directory books.

Hard Rock excused himself, returned a few moments later and flashed a tidy, automatic smile. “That’s taken care of. Everything should be ready in fifteen minutes. Now, how is Alexa holding up?”

“Well, I see we have dispensed with the introductory small talk already,” June quipped. “Alexa’s fine. She’s not planning on bolting. In fact, she is itchy for some work to do for you fine folks, for whatever reason. Oh, and I’m fine as well, thanks for asking.” June never missed an opportunity to point out someone’s lapse in good manners.

Hard Rock outlined a few details of a plan. Before long, an icy cooler of beer was slid alongside June’s chair. Then a

~ 43 ~ delivery boy arrived with pizzas wrapped in a red padded bag.

“Two large pizzas for Mr. Smith?” he announced. He eagerly exchanged his load of piping hot food for the crisp $20 bill that was extended his way and then vanished.

“Really, ‘Mr. Smith’? How imaginative!” But before June could say anything else, another delivery showed up, this time two brown paper sacks carried by a young Filipina.

“Hungry, Joe?” she said with a wink. “Joe Smith” dispensed another $20 bill and sent the girl on her way. June surmised that this fellow probably had an endless supply of $20 bills in his pocket. She decided to push her luck. As he helped her load everything into the taxi, which miraculously appeared as soon as they exited the bar’s side entrance, June asked him matter-of-factly, “I could use some cash for the taxi.”

Without hesitation, Hard Rock handed her a $20 bill. June waved a cheery goodbye as her taxi sped off. My very own government-issue walking ATM machine. June chuckled to herself.

~ 44 ~

CHAPTER SEVEN ,

JIMMY AND SALLY TORE INTO THE BAGS OF SNACK FOOD. Alexa went to grab some plates for the pizza. June busied herself with opening the first of two frosty bottles. After the kids had eaten their fill, they ran out into the backyard, burning off their sugar buzz. Alexa and June clinked bottles as they started on the second round.

“Thanks! It’s great to see the kids happy,” Alexa confessed.

“Tell me more about your general-friend and his visits to collect his toys,” June prodded.

“Well, I’m certain he has plenty of servants he could send to retrieve the stuff. I think he enjoys perpetuating Sally’s fascination about the ‘magic wall,’ ” Alexa began.

Sally burst into the room and interrupted the adults as she breathlessly announced, “Mommy, Mommy, look! Another Frisbee! A pink one!”

~ 45 ~

Alexa and June broke into peals of laughter.

“What’s so funny? It’s magic!” Sally stomped her feet. She ran off to play with Jimmy.

June’s visit was drawing to a close. She was due back in the States for a scheduled meeting. She hated to leave Alexa and the kids so soon.

A few days later, in the international departure lounge of the Manila International Airport, Jimmy and Sally were tearfully hugging their new favorite aunt goodbye and begging June to come back soon.

June peered out the jet window at the azure waters of the Pacific Ocean 35,000 feet below, as she sipped on her glass of expensive Bordeaux and settled back in her roomy leather sleeper chair. Just then a steward approached her. “Ms. Hawkins, your Chateaubriand is ready.”

I could get used to this stuff.

It was a long flight, but at least it would be comfortable.

One evening, a couple weeks after June’s departure, Alexa confided with Marc, Rusty and Tamara about her hunch that the general—“General Ball” they had dubbed him—was seeking a U.S. backdoor contact.

~ 46 ~

They agreed that Alexa should go to the U.S. Embassy there in Manila for advice. The next day she caught a taxi to the embassy, ostensibly to check on the arrangements that had been made for the return of her husband’s remains State-side.

Years ago, Mitch had left her a business card, and instructed her to use it, should she need help or feel threatened. She tucked it in her purse that day. “Hard Rock” had already passed on word to those who needed to know that they should anticipate a visit from Alexa.

As it turns out, “General Ball” was actually none other than Lt. General Fidel Ramos, the Acting Chief of Staff in the Marcos administration. History would later demonstrate that he and his buddies were certainly not just playing ball.

After passing through the security checkpoints manned by the Marines, Alexa was ushered into a consular official’s office. The young diplomat smiled at her and asked how he could help. Without speaking, Alexa slid the card across the desk. It contained no words, just a symbol:

~ 47 ~

The casual smile quickly faded from the young official’s face as he picked up the card and left the room. When he returned several minutes later, his bearing was much more serious and very respectful.

“We’ll contact you tomorrow,” was all he said, as he ushered Alexa Hawkins out of his office, down the hall, and out a side entrance from the complex. As they parted, he waved and added “at noon.”

Alexa did some shopping at the nearby market and then headed home in a taxi, not exactly certain what had just transpired.

The following day at noon, a telephone repair van pulled up outside her house. The driver lightly sounded the horn once. Alexa looked out the living room window and then glanced at the wall clock with a wry smile. It was exactly noon. This was no local utility making a service call. She opened the door as the two uniformed men, wearing aviator mirror sunglasses approached.

As soon as the men entered and Alexa had closed the door behind them, two separate operations instantly sprang into action. The older man directed her toward the dining room table, where he withdrew a notebook and began asking her questions. The younger man, carrying a tool bag, darted here and there about the house, busying himself with something.

Alexa explained about General Ball’s visits and his hints of disloyalty towards the Marcos government. The man said

~ 48 ~ little. When the younger man reappeared and nodded to his elder, the latter arose and prepared to bid his farewells.

“As long as you feel comfortable, please continue to allow the general to visit. If you are concerned about him making advances towards you, just have one of your friends nearby, in the kitchen perhaps.

“Feel free to sound sympathetic to his views. But remember, you are a guest in this country, and a temporary one at that. So refrain from committing yourself to any opinion or any active involvement. We will be able to hear everything the general says. If we need to send you any specific instructions, you will receive a phone bill in the mail. We appreciate your discretion in this matter.”

Donning their sunglasses, the two men wished her well and then let themselves out the front door. As they departed and started walking towards their van, the younger man turned and called out loudly, “Goodbye, ma’am, your phone should be working just fine now!”

Back at Langley, those CIA commanders in charge of the “Yang” operations for the Far East were notified of this development and set up a new Manila monitoring desk. The Yang division of the dual “Yin-Yang” program was the eyes and ears of the overall arrangement.

Their well-positioned agents operated above ground, operating in a transparent and independent capacity, seeming to harmlessly and haphazardly befriend persons, movements and political entities with left-leaning sympathies. Their assignment was simply to reconnoiter, befriend and report their findings. More often than not, the ~ 49 ~ agents’ personal sympathies were in alignment with those they were observing. They took no direct intervening action themselves, however.

The Yin counterpart division handled all covert and black ops matters. The Yin agents were fed their instructions from their own set of commanding officers, once the data from the Yang teams had been digested, analyzed and actionized by the overlords back at Langley. The intent of this complex scheme was to strengthen U.S. business interests in various hotspots worldwide.

Alexa’s teammates had already been involved in major reconnaissance missions in Canberra and Kakadu, Australia, in the 1970s and most recently in British Hong Kong during the early 1980s. Other operations were underway elsewhere around the globe, with a similar configuration of Yang and Yin agents.

~ 50 ~

CHAPTER EIGHT ,

GENERAL BALL BECAME A REGULAR VISITOR at Alexa’s home. Other “friends” of his, some of them generals as well, also came around. “How should I act around these generals? Do I engage in discussion with them or what?” Alexa anxiously sought out Tamara’s advice.

“I hate to tell you this, but the best, and safest thing for you is to play dumb. They love a pretty woman to be impressed by what they say. You will intimidate the hell out of them if you act as intelligent as you really are. That’s a real turn-off for these types. Just be your beautiful, charming self and nod stupidly like it is beyond your ability to comprehend.

“Forget about your college degree and women’s liberation. Think ‘cave men.’ You will be surprised at what they will feel free to say in front of you if you play your cards just right. I hate it, but it is the local reality that we are dealing with here. Think Neanderthal era,” Tamara advised.

Slowly, in their informal evening gatherings over drinks and heavy hors d’oeuvres, bit by bit little details about their planned coup began to slip out, just as Tamara had predicted. ~ 51 ~

One night General Ball hosted a cookout with thick steaks and fine wines. His friends felt at ease in Alexa’s home, far away from their nosey underlings. They also felt that they were safely away from all of the human snitches and the hidden electronic listening devices the Marcos regime used. Little did they know they had escaped the frying pan, only to fall into the fire, albeit friendly fire at that.

After the big meal, and several rounds of drinks, the men settled into lawn chairs and spoke in low, conspiratorial tones. They were setting the timing for their planned coup.

The next morning, Alexa noted there was a piece of mail slid through the brass front door mail slot, a bill from the phone company. “OVERDUE BILL. IMMEDIATE PAYMENT REQUIRED!” was printed in bold red letters across the top.

Remembering the visit from the “phone company” weeks before, Alexa took a deep breath before she opened the envelope.

The boys’ plans discussed last night are not in our country’s best interests. We need your help to convey a warning. Be ready at noon to go out shopping.

At noon, a shiny black limo with tinted windows rolled up in front of Alexa’s door. Jimmy was intrigued by the luxury car and ran out to examine it before his mom could stop him. Her heart skipped a beat when the rear door opened as her son approached the vehicle. After a brief hesitation, he hopped in and the door slammed shut.

Yelling through the front doorway to her daughter Sally to remain in the kitchen with Tamara, Alexa ran to the car

~ 52 ~ with fear in her heart. With the viciousness of a protective mother bear, she tore open the heavy door. Then she froze.

Jimmy was happily giggling as the agent next to him was letting him work his walkie-talkie unit. Catching sight of his mom standing in the doorway bathed in bright hot sunlight, Jimmy hollered excitedly: “Mom! Hop in! It’s supercool! It has TV, a stereo, and leather seats! Watch this!” He pressed a button that made the glass partition go up and down on the bench seat.

During their years in Hong Kong, the Hawkins traveled mostly on public transport, or in taxis. Private cars were quite useless in the over-crowded city, being hopelessly expensive and ultra-conspicuous targets, due to their rarity. Young Jimmy had never seen the inside of a limousine.

“Hop in, ma’am, it’s hot out there! Nice and cool in here! Your boy’s fine! He’s not harming anything. In fact, it’s a stroke of genius to have him come along on your shopping trip. He adds a nice touch,” The agent cajoled.

Frowning somewhat, Alexa slid in across the wide leather bench and slammed the door close. As soon as the lock went click the limo was speeding away from the curb.

Alexa inquired, “What kind of shopping am I doing?”

“Shoes.”

“Where?”

“At the Malacañang Palace.”

~ 53 ~

Alexa was both intrigued and frustrated. She loved an adventure as much as anyone, but she loathed being kept in the dark about plans.

“Are they having a sale there today?” She didn’t expect an answer.

The mirrored glass partition quietly slid down and a trim young woman in the front section of the limo turned and spoke to Alexa through the opening. She wore a stylish beige business suit and the aviator-style sunglasses that seemed to be standard issue among the vehicle’s occupants.

Lifting her sunglasses with her finely-manicured hand that sported an elegant diamond bracelet, the female agent then peered directly at Alexa through her ice-blue eyes.

“My, my! Your expense account must run a lot higher than my late husband’s did!” The widow Hawkins observed.

“To be accurate, Mitch was two pay grades above me,” Agent Hill responded.

“But today we are after much bigger fish. Bigger fish require shinier lures, that’s all. These diamonds are fakes. But everything else about me is real,” Agent Connie Hill purred.

She continued. “We need to get you in to see the First Lady, Imelda. You’ve undoubtedly heard about her extensive collection of expensive shoes.”

“Yes!” Jimmy interjected. “She has 2,000 pairs of shoes!”

~ 54 ~

“Well, Jimmy, your mom and I are going to ask Mrs. Marcos if she would be interested in marketing a line of high-end shoes in the fashionable Sydney market.” Connie flashed an infectious smile.

“You really think that the wife of the President of The Philippines is interested in a footwear business venture with me?”

“No, Alexa, probably not. Fact is, that doesn’t matter. We only need to get our feet in the door, as it were.” Agent Hill smiled at her own joke as she checked the mirror. Then she raised the glass partition shut.

At the palace gates the black limo was stopped by two armed guards. Agent Hill lowered her window, treating the guard on the right to her dazzling smile. “Officer, we are here to see the First Lady about the latest fashions in footwear.”

The guard ordered the rear windows to be lowered. The driver complied. When the guard peered inside, the first thing he saw was Jimmy’s bright, excited eyes staring at him. “Cool! Is that an automatic rifle?”

“Never mind boy!” The guard leaned deeper into the roomy interior of the large vehicle. The next thing the guard noticed was Alexa’s long shapely left leg crossed over her right knee. ~ 55 ~

Seeing where his eyes were focused, Alexa couldn’t resist teasing the guard with a brief sensuous brushing of her legs together. She then cleared her throat, directing his gaze upward. Following Connie Hill’s lead, Alexa also offered the most bewitching of smiles. “Is there a problem, officer? I don’t think we should keep the First Lady waiting. I’m sure she is anxious to talk about our new line of shoes.”

Scratching his head, he mustered, “What time was your appointment?”

Agent Hill looked at her watch, which showed a quarter to one. “Twelve forty-five. We are going to be late!”

He looked to the other guard for advice, but he simply shrugged his shoulders. After another moment’s hesitation, he regained his composure and ordered. “Proceed slowly around the driveway to the right. The guard there will show you where to park your vehicle.”

Stealing a final quick glimpse at Alexa’s thighs, he concluded, “Have a nice day, ma’am!”

Despite the abundant charms of Agent Hill and Alexa Hawkins, it was little Jimmy who was the real icebreaker at the palace. Before long, they were seated in an opulent greeting room. A gleaming white door, trimmed in gold leaf opened, and the First Lady breezed in. She held out her hand as she approached Alexa and Connie.

“I wasn’t informed that I had an appointment this afternoon but you are most welcome. The guard says you wish to have a meeting with me about your fashion business?”

~ 56 ~

“Please forgive our subterfuge, Mrs. Marcos. We had to be certain not to draw any attention. We need to speak to you privately, please. It’s a matter of some urgency.”

Imelda Marcos nodded to the guard. “Would the young man like to go with Lt. Rico to get some ice cream?”

“Thanks! That would be perfect,” Alexa answered.

The three women sat in comfortable chairs drawn close to each other. Agent Hill spoke first. “My country’s highest officials send their warm regards. It is my duty to convey to you recent intelligence which shows you and your husband are in gravest danger.

“I believe President Marcos will understand the message ‘the snake is ready to strike the hand that feeds it’ and will know what actions you both must take immediately. I really wish we’d met under happier circumstances. Please be very careful.”

“Any idea where my husband might catch that snake?” Mrs. Marcos inquired hopefully.

“It will most likely be in Alexa’s backyard this evening, with some more of its kind,” Agent Hill answered, as Alexa’s face went pale.

The First Lady of the Philippines pressed a small button under the table next to her chair. The guard reappeared with Jimmy in tow, happily devouring spoonsful of mango ice cream. “Let’s hope we meet again under more pleasant circumstances,” she said as she ushered her guests towards the door. Agent Hill slipped a small card into their hostess’ hand as she passed by on her way out of the room. ~ 57 ~

A flurry of activity erupted moments after the limo whisked Alexa, Jimmy and Agent Hill away from the palace and the San Miguel district. Imelda hastily delivered the card to her husband Ferdinand. He had been monitoring her visitors from an adjoining room. Quickly he phoned the number on the card, using his encrypted satellite phone.

“I’m sorry to hear about the problems you are having with your plumbing. I will send a team of expert repairmen as soon as possible.” The voice on the other end of the call spoke before President Marcos had opportunity to identify himself. Then the line went dead.

“Is my family in any danger?” Alexa fretted on the ride home. Jimmy was busying himself with some souvenirs he had acquired at the Malacañang Palace.

“Perhaps,” Connie replied. “It’s best you act and appear as if nothing has changed. You mustn’t alert your neighbor. He has no reason to suspect you. Just try to be your normal charming self when he and his buddies come calling this evening. We will have a team watching closely for any signs of trouble.”

Before Alexa reentered her home, the CIA team positioned elsewhere in Manila was already formulating their plans to ensure the safety of President Marcos and First Lady Imelda. Several evacuation plans were being studied and

~ 58 ~ resources made ready for use at a moment’s notice. Other teams were being assembled to deal with The Snake.

Tamara greeted Alexa upon her return. Jimmy brushed past them, impatient to brag to his younger sister about his big adventure. “General Ball stopped by. He said he would be having a shipment of champagne and hors d'oeuvres sent by for later this evening. He said they were planning to celebrate something big.”

“Well then, let’s all get spruced up for the big occasion,” Alexa replied.

Sensing the tension written across her friend’s forehead, Tamara pressed her. “What’s wrong?”

“Just a nasty headache. I think I got too much sun,” Alexa Hawkins said as she hastened to her room. She realized that she would need to be much more convincing this evening.

Back at the Malacañang Palace, a plumbing van arrived at the gate and was quickly allowed to enter. Once inside the palace, the team of extraction experts went over details with Marcos and his most trusted staff. The generals were planning a coup and had stirred up a considerable mob.

The team instructed Marcos to draw up a list of those items he deemed most valuable. He was given specific instructions as to weight and size constraints. Many tough, fast decisions would need to be made.

Four Sikorsky helicopters were on standby at nearby Clark Air Force base to assist in their escape. From Clark they would travel via U.S. Air Force C-130 planes to Guam, and finally to Hawaii. ~ 59 ~

Security teams were positioned in Alexa’s neighborhood before the evening’s festivities. The CIA’s Southeast Asia desk hoped to garner more specific details from eavesdropping on Alexa’s dinner guests that evening so as to learn exactly who, what, when, where and how events were to go down.

They already knew why. Marcos had made one too many enemies. The regime was now beyond salvaging, but perhaps they could at least rescue a loyal, longtime ally and provide him with a few years peace in his remaining days.

But nothing was certain in this line of work.

That night, General Ball and his guests arrived at twilight, as usual. As the pink and orange hues of the Manila sunset faded, lanterns were lit and corks began popping off the chilled bottles of bubbly. The men seemed a bit noisier and more animated than usual. Drinks were quickly emptied, and refilled. The food disappeared quickly. Now festive music was playing, occasionally punctuated by laughter, and loud, boastful toasts.

After an hour or so, Alexa excused herself, citing a growing migraine. She could no long feign ignorance to all that was about to transpire and feared her inner turmoil would betray her knowledge of the situation. General Ball kissed her lightly on the hand, and wished her a speedy recovery. Tamara, Rusty and Marc stepped in to fill the gap as hosts.

Alexa had barely undressed and gotten into her bed, when her door burst open and a colonel—who was a new guest that evening—forced his way in. He was quite drunk. He intended to add the beautiful Australian woman to his long ~ 60 ~ list of conquests. He closed the door and swiftly crossed the room.

His strong arms pinned Alexa to the bed as he tried to smother her face with sloppy kisses. She managed to free one hand and slapped his face, yelling at him to stop.

Her struggles only seemed to spur on his determination as he reclaimed his grip on her arms and pressed himself down on her. She managed to thrust her knee quickly up between his legs, hoping to inflict enough pain to slow his advance.

His lust was now mixed with fury and he hit her savagely across the face, causing her lip to bleed profusely. Alexa choked on the blood as she attempted to call out for help.

The room began to spin, but not before she heard the door slam open and an angry voice of authority yelling at her attacker. Her ears rang painfully as General Ball’s sidearm fired and a .45 round entered one side of the colonel’s head and exited the other.

Ball pushed the colonel’s dead body off Alexa and onto the floor. The general’s face bore the pained look of deep embarrassment, as if he himself had been responsible for the attempted rape. His proud, haughty, confident demeanor was gone. He appeared visibly shaken and quite broken. Just moments before he had been at the pinnacle of his merrymaking.

“I am so very sorry, Miss Alexa,” was all he could manage to say, too deflated to look directly at her. He retreated from

~ 61 ~ her room and ran to find Tamara to come tend to her friend.

“Damn!” The agent stationed outside the house and closest to Alexa’s room exclaimed involuntarily upon hearing the gun shot. He spoke into his microphone, relaying the news to the other agents nearby. “A shot’s been fired! Sounds like it came from Alexa’s bedroom! Something’s wrong!”

Agents converged on the property from all four compass points, storming the front door and going over the property wall and pouring into the yard, guns drawn. There were more military guests on the property than invaders, but the latter group had the advantage of surprise. They also had the advantage of sobriety. Only a couple of the Filipino generals managed to unholster their sidearms before the agents began barking orders.

This was a quintessential “Mexican standoff.” On one side, there were a houseful of inebriated Filipino top brass, with a dead body and an injured foreign citizen. Distinguished careers could easily end over such inconvenient messiness.

On the other side, there were a dozen nameless CIA agents who technically did not exist in the Philippines, trying to rescue members of a deep cover operation which was fundamentally in direct opposition with the mission of the generals they surrounded.

Technically, they were enemies.

Both sides needed an exit strategy, but neither side had planned a contingency for the scenario playing out before their stunned eyes. The awkward silence was filled only

~ 62 ~ with the sound of shuffling feet and the metallic sounds of weapons being positioned and repositioned.

“Gentlemen! I do believe we have come to an impasse here! But, no worries, I believe there is a simple solution.”

Everyone whirled around to see who had dared to speak. It was Rusty, standing in the kitchen doorway, still wearing his blue-and-white-striped apron and holding a big wooden serving spoon.

“Generals, you have a dead body on your hands. One of your fellow officers attempted to rape the hostess—who is a guest in your country—and roughed her up pretty good. She would not have to go very far to report the incident to her embassy. Any of these dozen men and women who just arrived could take her statement. They all have diplomatic immunity. You don’t.”

Rusty continued, much to the surprise of his fellow Yang teammates. He was normally the laconic one who preferred to let others take the lead.

“On the other hand, we would prefer that you never saw these men in black. It would be best if you were not curious about why they are here, or what the connection is between us. So I have a proposal which I think you will find to be mutually satisfactory.

“The new arrivals will escort the six of us who live here to points unknown. Alexa will not press charges. You will not hinder our departure, or attempt to follow us. The fact is, you never saw any of us here.

~ 63 ~

“You will clean up all the mess you’ve made here. You will remain here until we have all left. The agent next to your leader there will keep his weapon trained on the general to insure your cooperation. In exchange, we will take care of making the dead colonel’s body disappear. None of this ever happened. Do we have a deal?”

Silence.

Eventually, grim nods signaled assent to the plan Rusty had just proposed. The agents quickly shuffled Alexa, Jimmy, Sally, Tamara, Marc and Rusty and their most essential belongings to the awaiting black vehicles outside. The cars sped away into the night.

Realizing they now vastly outnumbered the one remaining CIA agent who was guarding General Ball, a few of the officers exchanged furtive, hopeful glances. What was his exit strategy going to be? Just then the hum of a helicopter was heard overhead. The agent made a small motion upward with his chin, and then shook his head at those who were considering another strategy.

“Gentlemen, let’s get this place cleaned up now! I don’t have all night! And neither do you!”

~ 64 ~

CHAPTER NINE ,

THE CONVOY OF BLACK LAND ROVERS SPED towards Clark Air Force base where Billy Mitchell’s S-74 Sikorsky helicopter was fueled and waiting. The Motorola radio crackled to life in the front vehicle with this report from the remaining agent at Alexa’s former safe house: “Cleanup is complete. Partygoers all left peacefully. I’m on my way!” The whirr of the rotors from the rescue chopper interrupted his transmission. Jubilant thumbs up flashed throughout the convoy.

Debriefing took place in a low, non-descript, gray cinder block building at the northern edge of the airfield. Those conducting the interview were lavish in their praise of the team’s success. This remnant of the former Noodle Shop spy network, that had been abruptly and unceremoniously retired from Hong Kong, scored a major accomplishment during their temporary layover in Manila.

~ 65 ~

“Mitch would have been proud of you, Rusty! You were so calm in the midst of that nightmare!” Alexa beamed.

“I only gave the appearance of calm. I could hardly believe all those words were coming out of my mouth!”

“It’s true, Rusty, what Alexa said. You did a masterful job of getting yourselves out of the corner you got painted into,” the admiral in charge of the debriefing declared.

“We received valuable intel in a timely fashion. The snafu at your place last evening only served to garner us more valuable time to complete our extraction of the Marcos. Now we must make you disappear from Manila, so you can live to spy another day. Are you ready to travel?”

Tamara spoke first. “Rusty and I would like to make a short detour to the southern island of Mindanao, and do some hiking to those fabled fantastic waterfalls near Malabang. Then we’ll be ready for reassignment after that.”

The admiral frowned. “We need to get Alexa and her two children to higher ground now. Things are more stable for us in Sydney. We feel they would be safest there. But we need someone to accompany them.”

“I’ll go!” Marc volunteered, happy to spend more time with the kids back in the beautiful continent of Australia.

“So it’s settled then?” Rusty inquired.

The admiral nodded. As he departed, he reflected proudly, These are truly some exceptional folks we have here!

~ 66 ~

CHAPTER TEN ,

THE PROVERBIAL INK WAS STILL DRYING on the secretive agreement by the diverse set of parties in Kraków, Poland, when one rat suddenly decided he wanted a yet bigger piece of the cheese.

Sensing a timely opening, a senior Communist Party official planned to deliver the head of that troublesome union leader, Lech Wałęsa on a plate, for a goodly price. Word had gotten around about the new accord. Optimism among the Polish people was at a new high.

General Nowak was certain he could entice Wałęsa to meet a “delegation” to discuss terms for loosening control on the labor unions. That was the bait.

There would be no awaiting delegation. It would be a death squad. It was hoped that the ensuing chaos would safely plunge Poland back into the clutches of the Old Guard of the Communist Party.

~ 67 ~

Mona’s network got wind of the plan.

“Mona” was Heather Mott, Mitch Hawkins’ childhood crush, and now a senior analyst and operations specialist for the Mossad. The New Zealand agent, Simon, had not yet left Vienna for the mission field of Somalia where he intended to coordinate hunger relief programs. It was planned as a cathartic change from spying on nations.

Vienna in the autumn is a bewitching city. Before the onset of a long and brutally cold winter, nature hosts an orgy of sights and tastes for those awaiting the approaching gloom. Hardwoods—beech, birch, oak and elm—erupt into blazes of color, draping the well-manicured mountainsides.

In the dozens of heuriges—wine taverns—scattered within the city limits, the new wine from neighborhood vineyards is quaffed along with generous helpings of tasty meats, cheeses and breads. Wooden tables are spread outdoors under giant castania—chestnut trees. The heady sense of celebration is palpable all along this fabled stretch of the Danube River.

There, at the Neustift Heurige, Simon was trapped between mindboggling arrays of good food and good drink. A waiter approached his table and set down a basket of fresh rolls.

Simon frowned. He hadn’t ordered these. To touch one of them would cost a dollar each. These were not given out free in advance of a meal, as was the case in New Zealand.

There was a steep price for all of this gemütlichkeit—a very Austrian word connoting a state of warmth, friendliness, and good cheer. There was nothing quite like it anywhere else.

~ 68 ~

Looking at the basket, Simon noted a folded pink notecard sticking up from between two pumpernickel rolls. He plucked it out and noted a small round logo, a caricatured likeness of Leonardo da Vinci’s famed enigmatic woman.

Mona! The thought ran through Simon’s brain cells like high voltage. A rush of happy memories flooded his wine-soaked mind. That alluring mix of sensual beauty and strength of character had deeply haunted him. He hesitated opening the card, pausing to take a deep breath.

I need to see you tonight. Same time. Same place. –M.

Simon clearly remembered. It was the opulent Hotel Sacher on the busy Philharmonikerstrasse. It was 8:45 p.m. when Mona had placed a light kiss on his cheek in the hotel’s lounge. Simon thought of the irony—the hotel had often been the setting for spy stories, including Graham Greene’s 1949 The Third Man. But this was not a fictional movie Simon was starring in. Mona was the real deal.

He arrived a few minutes after 8:30 p.m. at the Sacher. Sitting in a red velvet arm chair in the hotel’s luxurious lounge, Simon recalled the sleek, flowing lines of Mona’s dress of the same color. Her dark eyes had glistened like deep wells of mystery.

He clearly remembered their last encounter when she had purred in sultry tones, “Oh, and before we go any further, I wanted to put your mind at rest by letting you know that we won’t be having a date. But please do order a drink for us, would you? We need to talk.”

~ 69 ~

Just then his reveries were interrupted by the bungling actions of an elderly lady, whose outfit best resembled a pile of castoff clothing from an old soup kitchen. Her fingertips protruded through the worn ends of her coarse gray gloves, revealing grime under her unpolished nails.

Suspended from her arm, which was propped up by her battered oak cane, was an eclectic assortment of bags and packages. As she stumbled, she dropped the newspaper she was clutching in her other hand. She paused as if she were preparing to retrieve the paper, but then thought otherwise. Hesitantly and unevenly, she made painful progress across the lounge until disappearing into the ladies’ restroom on the far wall.

Simon picked the crumpled newspaper off the carpet and prepared to toss it into the black lacquered wastebasket beside his seat when he noticed a hint of pink protruding from the crumpled pages. His hand froze.

As nonchalantly as possible, he set the paper next to him on the seat. Rearranging his overcoat so that it covered his lap, he let the pink notecard slip out of the newspaper as he lifted it, tossing it casually into the basket with his left hand, while tucking the notecard into his coat pocket with his right hand.

He tried to remain calm, hoping that his rapidly beating heart was not audible to those around him. After a few moments, he checked his watch and feigned impatience that his appointment hadn’t showed.

Leaving the hotel entrance, he walked to the end of the block and entered the ornate Café Mozart. He positioned himself on a beige upholstered bench along the dark walnut-paneled ~ 70 ~ wall so that he could watch the front door. He ordered a grosser brauner—a dark, rich coffee, and then set about to study the bag lady’s note.

A general from your Camaldolese Monastery meetings is going back on his word. For 30 pieces of silver, he’s selling out, hoping to stop Lech Wałęsa before he becomes too popular to eliminate. You must get word to the cardinal in Warsaw. The mermaid will lead you to him.

Simon contacted Matt and asked if he’d be up for a little more sightseeing before they left Europe for good. He wanted to head north, and see Warsaw.

“You want to see the mermaid, heh?” Matt teased.

“How did you know about the mermaid?” Simon demanded.

“Everyone knows about her! She’s the very symbol of Warsaw. She’s right in the centre of the Old Town, nothing covering her birthday suit except her sword and shield.”

~ 71 ~

“You and all of your international trivia,” Simon replied dismissively.

“Oh, there’s nothing trivial about her! You’ll see!” Matt said with a wink.

Bathed in brilliant early morning sun, the pair lingered in the square after admiring the statue of the warrior mermaid. An elderly woman dressed entirely in black walked slowly by, fidgeting with her black rosary beads.

Simon asked her in his broken Polish, “Is there a church nearby where they will hear my confession?”

“Why yes, indeed!” she whispered in perfect English with eager, happy eyes. “And you are most fortunate! The cardinal himself is there today! The Blessed Virgin must be smiling down upon you this day!”

As it turned out, the Archcathedral Basilica of St. John the Baptist was located within a stone’s throw of the ancient square. With over two dozen active large churches in Warsaw, four decades of communism had done little to stomp out the Polish faithfulness to their Catholicism.

The Basilica’s original Gothic design dated from the 14th century. The massive edifice was central to Polish royal life and survived many wars, and numerous re-buildings. It was totally reconstructed following the Nazi destruction of the cathedral as part of their planned total annihilation of the city in response to the famed 1944 Warsaw Uprising.

As Matt and Simon strode across the city square toward the side entrance of the church, a black IMZ Ural motorcycle sped towards them. The passenger in the side car of the ~ 72 ~ heavy Russian-made Ural released the safety and cycled his automatic weapon. The driver revved the bike and took dead aim at the two New Zealanders.

Matt was first to hear the roar of the engine, echoing off the surrounding buildings in the Old Town center. Turning to see the motorcycle bearing down on them, he shouted a warning to Simon and shoved him aside. Matt jumped the other way and hoped that the space between them was enough to avoid the path of their attackers.

Just then, a filthy, dislodged cobblestone rose up before the approaching front tire of the speeding IMZ. The tire caught the edge of the rock and the bike went airborne. The weight of the sidecar and passenger caused the motorcycle to flip violently clockwise, spilling driver and rider to the ground with a dull thud and the sickening sound from a pair of split skulls. Red oozed through their black knitted caps onto the cobblestones. Within seconds, the wailing sound of police cars in hot pursuit pierced the town square.

After dusting himself off and regaining his feet, Matt turned to Simon. “Mate, that lady wasn’t blaspheming when she told you the Blessed Virgin was smiling down on you today!”

Simon could only manage a weak smile. “Quick, let’s get into the church before authorities arrive and want to check our papers.”

The cathedral door closed behind them, blocking out the bright sunshine, leaving the pair in a darkened interior. Outside, loud shouting could be heard as the police cars screeched to a halt in a circle around the mermaid statue.

~ 73 ~

Simon scanned the walk, looking for the confessional. It was on the opposite wall. Matt took a seat near the entrance to keep an eye and ear out for trouble. Simon slid through the pews and stood in line, waiting for his turn to enter the ornate confessional. He pondered what he would say. He’d never been to confession. I guess that would be a good start, he thought.

His thoughts drifted to Poland’s hapless geographic position. It struck him as ironic that what the Nazis to the left of Poland failed to destroy in WWII, the communists to the right of Poland endeavored to decimate afterwards.

Yet, in spite of all the armies of all the nations tromping back and forth across Polish soil, Poland was still a nation, and here he was. Suddenly, the tiny red light glowed, signaling that the confession stall was available. He entered.

As the small door covering the grill in the joint confessional wall which separated the penitent from the confessor slid quietly open, Simon could vaguely discern the figure of an elderly clergyman within the dimly lit booth. He took a deep breath.

“Bless me, your Eminence. This is my first confession. Our lady friend Mona sends her regards.”

The cardinal shifted anxiously on his seat and leaned closer to the opening as Simon continued.

“She regrets to inform you that the Camaldolese Accord is in jeopardy. A general in your city plans to assassinate Lech Wałęsa and plunge the nation into chaos. Please forgive me for being the bearer of bad news!”

~ 74 ~

“Go in peace, my son. Fear not. I know of the poisonous General Nowak of whom you speak. You must take extreme caution from this moment on. There will be two first class tickets at the LOT counter for you, at the Chopin. There’s an evening flight to Cairo. This will get you close to your destination, no?” The hairs stood up on Simon’s arms.

Leaving the dark interior of the basilica through the main front doors, Simon squinted as his eyes adjusted to the noonday light outside. Matt came alongside him and spoke in a low tone. “All went well?”

“What’s LOT, and who is Chopin?”

Matt was ready with the answer. “LOT is actually one of the world’s oldest, still-operating airlines—over 60 years now. It flies from the Frederic Chopin airport.”

“The cardinal warned me to be extremely careful, as if he was aware of some danger,” Simon confided.

“Let’s grab some lunch and leave pronto!” Matt advised.

They returned to the tiny pension hotel at the outskirts of Warsaw where they had spent the night upon their arrival. There they finished packing and headed to the dining room downstairs, bags in hand. A meal was already set out for them, with a steaming bowl of a local specialty in the center of the old wooden table.

“Eat hearty!” their host said invitingly. His face bore a crooked grin. He then left the two of them alone to partake of their meal. However, they soon realized that they were not entirely alone, as a huge, menacing black Doberman had stretched itself across the doorway of the back exit. ~ 75 ~

Simon picked at the bowl of steamed blood sausage before them, but suddenly lost his appetite. He whispered to Matt, “Don’t say I’m paranoid, but what if this food is poisoned? We didn’t order any lunch, yet this was ready for us when we arrived. Usually service is slow to non-existent. Strange?”

Matt countered, “My dear friend, you know that the paranoid often live much longer than the carefree. What do you suggest?”

“I wish we could just slip out the back door and avoid the front desk. We have our bags right here with us. We could do the “bums’ checkout special.” Do you think that Fido over there will let us by?” said Simon.

As if understanding their conversation, just then the large guard dog growled low and long, tensing his hind legs as if to spring.

“He looks hungry,” Matt observed. “But I think maybe we can kill two birds with one stone, as it were.”

“How’s that?” Simon was eager to hear of any possible solution to their current predicament.

“Pardon the pun, but my plan is wonder-ful: You wonder if the food is poisoned. You wonder if the dog will bite you if you try sneaking out the back door. Voilà! I wonder if you gave that mutt some of your dinner, you might get the answer to both your questions.”

Simon stabbed at a piece of the black sausage with his fork and lifted it in the direction of the Dobermann. The beast growled at first and then sniffed cautiously at the proffered meat. He then lunged at the food, causing Simon to drop the ~ 76 ~ fork to the carpet. The dog swallowed the sausage in one greedy gulp, shaking the fork loose from his meal.

The two men watched breathlessly. The dog let out a short, pained whimper, twitched violently to and fro, and then lay utterly still. Their eyes as wide as saucers, Matt and Simon glanced at each other, and then nodded silently towards the now-unguarded rear exit. Stealthily, they made their way across the room. The door was locked!

Simon reached into his back pocket and withdrew a set of long, slender tools. While Matt kept a wary eye towards the kitchen, Simon applied his device to the door. After a few tense moments, a hushed yet rewarding “click” was heard. The two spies slipped out into the alley beyond and hailed a passing taxi. It screeched to a halt and scraped along the curbstones.

Once they were seated in the rear of the taxi, Matt turned to Simon, and broke the silence, declaring in a sour-grapes voice, “I never did care much for blood sausage, anyways!”

“Chopin Airport, hurry!” Simon instructed.

~ 77 ~

~ 78 ~

CHAPTER ELEVEN ,

FINISHED WITH THEIR ASSIGNMENT IN EASTERN EUROPE, the two Kiwis—Simon and Matt—settled into their vastly different new roles as relief coordinators in Somalia. There they planned to dedicate all their available energies towards the goal of getting food aid to hungry children in East Africa. Who would oppose such noble efforts?

Apparently some very powerful people did.

The current warlord in Mogadishu took exception to the new Westerners in his domain. The following year, the two relief workers were kidnapped while they slept. Coarse feed sacks were placed over their heads and tightly secured before they were tossed in the back of a truck which then sped away into the awaiting night.

Simon did his best to memorize the twists and turns the truck made. Matt tried to judge distance and time. Their concentration was often broken though when they were unceremoniously tossed in the air as the truck hit another deep rut in the road. Their backs ached terribly from

~ 79 ~ bouncing on the rough metal truck bed. Finally the truck screeched to a halt.

They could hear excited shouting between the driver in the truck and the guards at the camp. “Two white spies!”

Simon and Matt were dragged from the truck and tossed into a makeshift holding pen, prodded along at bayonet point. In the holding pen they were stripped and then tied to two poles in the center of the hut. Men were shouting at them with words they did not understand.

Presently, a commander in gleaming white, freshly pressed full dress military uniform entered and approached the two captives. Unlike the men he led, he spoke excellent English. “So, you thought you could just come here and spy on our loyal troops, by pretending to be aid workers?”

The more Matt and Simon denied the accusations, the more incensed the warlord became. “You are CIA!” he shouted.

Matt tried to keep his wits about him, despite his fears that this madman might flay them alive at any moment, if he so fancied.

“How can we be CIA? We are from New Zealand!”

Matt’s reply caused the warlord to pause for a moment as if he was seriously considering the matter.

“Ha ha! Big joke! No matter! The CIA can use people from any country! Maybe you are more than spies! Maybe you are mercenaries!” An evil gleam crept over his eyes as he pronounced these words. It sounded like a death sentence.

~ 80 ~

Simon was desperate to prove their innocence. He suddenly remembered hearing Heather Motts talk about a contact she had at UNICEF, the executive director Justin Gilbert. He decided to try name-dropping, as he had few other weapons at his disposal.

“Director Gilbert knows that we are here. We are just here for the children.”

Suddenly, like the tumblers in the lock of a safe falling into place, the words he spoke magically seemed to free them. It was one of the many nuances of the English language that now came to the rescue of the two captives.

When Simon had used the word “for” he had meant they were working on behalf of the children’s needs. What the corrupt warlord heard instead was “we are here to get the children.”

“Oh, you are Gilbert’s people; you are here to get the children! That is a much different matter. But you are not the usual couriers!” he exclaimed.

“Cut them down immediately! Give them food and drink!” He ordered his men, now assuming the role of gracious host instead of menacing interrogator.

A new gleam crept over his ugly, deadened eyes. “How much did they send you—for the children, of course?” The madman clumsily tried his hand at sarcasm.

Simon and Matt exchanged nervous glances. They sensed he spoke of ransom money. But they were penniless.

Or were they?

~ 81 ~

A year into their relief work, and shortly after they had completed all the paperwork on their new Feeding Kids Foundation, they received an endowment of $750,000 from the estate of the late Ms. Heather Motts. “I am in your debt,” Simon recalled her saying to him at their Vienna meeting.

“Three quarters of a million U.S. dollars,” Simon replied, glancing at Matt as he spoke. Matt nodded his approval.

“Oh! This is for a big shipment, I see!” The warlord’s face lit up, as if he could already see himself handling the money.

“You want girls? Or boys? Or maybe a mixture? Something for everyone, perhaps.” He gestured magnanimously with his outstretched muscular arms.

Simon and Matt looked at each other, trying not to let their mouths fall agape. What had they stumbled onto?

The two of them, moments ago accused of being spies, were now being treated like royalty. The commander instructed his men to escort the two New Zealanders back to their hotel. “I will need a couple days to round up that many children. Meanwhile, you can arrange for the money to be transferred.”

For their return journey, Matt and Simon rode comfortably in the back seat of a late-model SUV. They said nothing to each other on the journey back to the city.

But their minds were desperately racing to formulate a plan.

~ 82 ~

The two former Yang agents sprang into overdrive mode as soon as their paramilitary escort left them.

“Heather claimed the Vatican had extensive resources. Let’s see if they can help. Maybe that cardinal in Warsaw will remember us.” They headed for the café they occasionally used for clandestine meetings. A priest was sipping his tea in the corner table.

“What time is the evening novena, Father?” Simon asked.

The Catholic priest understood the pre-arranged distress signal. “Soon, very soon.”

He finished his tea and left some money on the table to pay for his meal. As he left through the front door, he nodded ever so slightly towards the back of the café. Once he left, the two men walked through the hallway that led to the restrooms in the rear, and to an unlocked back exit door.

A white van emblazoned with “Catholic Relief Services” was waiting in the deserted alleyway, the rear doors ajar. Matt and Simon quickly slipped inside as the van pulled away.

The relief van was in fact a mobile, hi-tech communications center, equipped with the latest encryption and satellite technology. They were soon patched through to Warsaw. The cardinal remembered their helpful tip-off.

“General Nowak’s been arrested. Wałęsa is safe.”

~ 83 ~

Matt explained that as incredible as it seemed, they believed they had stumbled upon a child prostitution smuggling operation which somehow involved a creepy Somali warlord working with UNICEF. The cardinal did not sound surprised.

“We’ve heard rumors of this. Mona’s people mentioned it. You are now caught between a rock and a hard place. Both of you will need to be very convincing actors if you plan to get out of this predicament alive—and intact. Many very powerful people are involved. Do your best to act miserably unscrupulous and you may survive.”

“Your Eminence, is the plan to stop this shipment of kids?” Matt asked.

“No! You must act as fully cooperative accomplices if you wish to get out of your tight spot alive. The concept of human rights is viewed quite differently where you are right now. We’ll have to ‘fight fire with fire’ in order to be successful.” The cardinal signed off.

As soon as he finished his call with the two men in Somalia, the cardinal went into another inner chamber and pressed a button on the large desk. After a few moments, a grim- faced attendant entered. The cardinal spoke rapidly.

“I need to reach the Mossad in Kenya immediately. They’ll need to assemble a strike force within twenty-four hours. Call the colonel. Tell him Mona referred me.”

“Yes, your Eminence. Right away.” The attendant swiftly disappeared without another word.

~ 84 ~

From their base in Kenya, the Mossad had been monitoring the activities of the Somalia warlords. They were angling to catch some very big international fish. Perhaps the two former Yang agents could assist them in their quest.

The next morning, Simon and Matt returned to the café for breakfast. The priest was at his usual table.

“May we join you, Father?” Simon asked nonchalantly.

“Please!” The priest gestured expansively with his left arm, while his right arm was occupied stirring his tea.

Word had filtered back in a circuitous route from the Israeli agents in Kenya, to the cardinal in Warsaw and finally to the priest who was now sitting in the café in Mogadishu.

The priest slid a pair of gray rosary beads across the table. “Please take these with you. They will ensure you both the blessings of our Virgin Lady—and that of others as well.”

Those ordinary-looking rosary beads were transmitters, with miniature homing devices that would allow for very accurate tracking of the convoy by the Sayeret Matkal.

“God be with you!” The priest hurriedly blessed them, signing the cross.

Members of that elite Israeli Sayeret Matkal unit were now doing deep reconnaissance, busily collecting information about the pending shipment of children. The agents had learned that African warlords made good money rounding up healthy youngsters.

~ 85 ~

These children were shipped in big trucks to strategically placed relief centers where pedophiles, posing as UN relief workers, would select the best children for their wealthiest clients. They were rewarded handsomely for their efforts.

This sick trafficking was sponsored by the cream of society: billionaires, heads of state, top UN officials, royal families and various hedonistic celebrities. Their accommodating host had a mansion on a private island in the Caribbean which guaranteed privacy for his powerful guests and their dirty activities.

The more details about this criminal network the Israeli agents discovered, the more determined they became to stomp it out.

Meanwhile, back in Mogadishu, Simon and Matt had just been informed by a messenger from the warlord that they should be ready to depart at dawn, as the shipment of kids would be ready at that time. Neither of them could sleep well that night. Sickening visions of the kidnapped children tormented them.

Before dawn, a black Land Rover screeched to a halt in a cloud of brown dust outside their hotel. Loud pounding on their door woke the bleary-eyed Kiwis from their fitful sleep. They were hustled down the stairs and into the awaiting vehicle.

“Hurry up! We must leave before the dawn patrol!”

Once at the warlord’s camp, they saw huge trucks with canvas canopies parked by the stream. Guards patrolled the area, rifles readied. “For your own good,” the warlord

~ 86 ~ explained as hoods were thrown over Matt & Simon’s heads and tied securely. “The less you know, the longer you’ll live.” They were then directed to the back of a jeep that was parked at the front of the caravan of vehicles.

“Move out!” Came the order, as the trucks roared to life. As the convoy bounced along the pair of ruts that served as the local highway, the onyx rosary beads beamed their location to a satellite overhead. A green blip registered on a monitor somewhere.

“They’re on the move!” the Israeli agents noted. “Estimate two hours until intercept.”

The moans and cries from the captive children added to the misery felt by the two former Yang agents in the stifling heat and choking dust of the journey. As the convoy of six truckloads of captives neared a bend in the road that followed a shallow stream bed, a roar was heard coming from the north, like a swarm of angry hornets.

What Simon and Matt could not see through their thick hoods was a tight cluster of vehicles speeding towards the convoy. Reddish-hued dust churned in their wake. It seemed that a competing warlord was about to intercept the convoy of human cargo. They were still 50 miles from the intended staging area, southeast of Addis Ababa.

Shouts and screams filled the air as the drivers attempted to coax more speed out of their vehicles in an effort to escape the ambush. Their progress was impeded by a waiting machine gun, perched on the back of a camouflaged personnel carrier in the bushes directly ahead.

~ 87 ~

Their vehicle screeched to a halt as Simon and Matt banged their heads hard against the side of their jeep. Shots rang out overhead.

The two were then dragged from the jeep in the direction of the invading collection of battered ancient military vehicles, which had now surrounded the convoy. They could hear the horrific sound of muffled shots—those being delivered at very close range.

“Out of the frying pan, into the fire!” Simon quipped.

“Shut up, fools!” The punch to his jaw sent Simon reeling. Then he heard a harsh whisper right up in his ear.

“I need to beat you, for your own good. The louder you yell, the less hard I’ll have to hit you.” That sentence was punctuated by a firm blow to Simon’s ribs. Simon yelled for all he was worth. He could not see who was hitting him, or anticipate where the next blow was coming from.

After some more beatings, and more screams from Simon, he and Matt were placed in a new vehicle, which then sped away, with the sound of the caravan of children now following behind them in a new direction.

Suddenly, the hoods were removed from their heads. “Relax! You are in good hands.” A full set of bright white teeth smiled at the two thoroughly disoriented men.

“Father Toohey’s rosary beads were most helpful to our rescue mission. You can thank your lucky stars that you did bring them with you after all. We were able to track your movements by their signal.” The leader of this new militia spoke excellent English, in a precise, clipped fashion. ~ 88 ~

“Rescue? Is that what you call this?” Matt argued. “You’re just different creeps transporting the same child slaves!”

“We may look like your average local warlords, but our evil is only skin deep. We’re undercover Israeli agents. We will take you and the children to safety. But in order to do so, we had to disguise our mission as garden-variety criminal behavior,” the Israeli major explained.

He motioned to his lieutenant, who approached and then tossed a small sack into Matt’s lap.

“What’s this?” Matt frowned.

“It’s your money back. We relieved your warlord partner of it,” the major continued. “We would like you to recycle the money—buy more children, which we’ll intercept along the way. Each time, we intend to get closer to the head of this snake. The local warlords are supplying young girls to some filthy, yet powerful people. We intend to take down the entire supply chain.”

Simon stared at the Israeli officer, not quite certain he had heard correctly. His eyes fell on a small patch of scarlet cloth sewn onto the major’s front pocket. In black script letters Mona was written across it. Glancing around, Simon noticed that all the other agents had the same curious patch. His heart was pounding in his head.

“What’s that red patch mean?”

“It’s a tribute to one of our fallen agents, one of our best. She went by the code name Mona. She was captured and killed in the line of duty, but not before making her captors

~ 89 ~ pay dearly.” The major paused, as if in silent, respectful reflection. “We’ve dedicated this mission to her memory.”

“I’ve met her.” Simon choked back his tears.

“Then you must be the ones that she spoke about in her will, the ones she bequeathed her savings to.” The major stared into Simon’s eyes, not blinking. He continued. “Few people on this earth were able to impress Mona. When she spoke of the ‘two Kiwis,’ I thought she meant two other agents we’re aware of, the Maoris.”

“We know them.”

Matt fondly recalled the devil-may-care attitude of their former colleagues Samson and Kenny. I wonder what those rascals are up to?

“Ah, then you men weren’t always ‘relief workers,’ were you? This is perfect!” The major smiled to himself at the sudden realization he was partnered with professionals.

Simon and Matt performed several more missions in conjunction with the Israeli Sayeret Matkal agents. On their seventh and final convoy posing as smugglers of kidnapped juvenile sex slaves, they purposely let word leak out that this time they were transporting some young girls of exceptional beauty.

~ 90 ~

The hope was to flush out the top dog. Their ruse proved successful. The top pedophile organizing the entire child trafficking operation couldn’t resist showing up personally for the delivery of these touted young beauties. He turned out to be none other than the senior director of UNICEF’s African relief operations.

SNAP went the Israeli trap.

Under ‘persuasion’ from the Israeli agents, he outlined the scheme by which these hand-selected best young women were sent to the private Caribbean island, known as “Orgy Island,” owned by billionaire Jeffrey Weinstein.

The exact source of Weinstein’s accumulated wealth was unknown, but it was easy enough to make a reasonable guess. His “guests” on his pleasure island included U.S. presidents, princes from the British royal family, prime ministers, Hollywood big names, business tycoons and even Stephen Hawking.

“Hawking!” Matt spat. “What was he doing there?”

“Perhaps he liked to watch,” Simon grinned.

Once the details of the story supplied by UNICEF director- turned-informant were confirmed, Interpol raided the secret island compound and hauled dirty Jeffrey off to prison.

All the clients who were named furiously denied any knowledge of such goings-on and promptly lawyered up. The resort was shut down. Numerous civil and criminal cases dragged out for years in the wake of this sting operation. ~ 91 ~

At the end of the interrogation, in an isolated stretch of the African savanna, the Israeli major instructed his team to supply their UNICEF prisoner with a rope and a ladder, and to conduct him to the nearest tall tree.

“He’ll want to do the honorable thing now. He knows only too well that the alternatives awaiting him would be much more painful, once his betters find out that he has exposed them. We’ll allow him this undeserved mercy.”

Later that evening, when a blanket of shimmering stars filled the night sky in the center of that continent, three of the undercover agents went to check on the UN official. His inert form was suspended from a lone, giant baobab tree. The Israeli soldiers broke off a branch from a nearby shrub, and wrote the word “Mona” in the dry ground.

Then they left without speaking a word.

From time to time throughout the next decade, the two New Zealanders would garner awards from various organizations for their tireless humanitarian efforts.

They would give these various medals and plaques to the African children they served, for decorations in their huts.

Cholera would eventually force Simon to return home. Malaria would send Matt home the following spring. When they recovered, the pair devoted much of their spare time ~ 92 ~ giving lectures at various charity functions in order to raise both awareness of, and support for, child-hunger relief programs, and to combat child trafficking.

But first they took that long-awaited fishing vacation on the Eglinton River on New Zealand’s South Island, where Agent Kelly had interrupted their angling some fourteen eventful years earlier . . .

~ 93 ~

~ 94 ~

CHAPTER TWELVE ,

HE WAS SURROUNDED BY JUNGLE-FESTOONED, EMERALD BRAZILIAN MOUNTAINS, just one hour to the north of Rio de Janeiro. Simon and Matt’s old buddy, Mitch Hawkins—now traveling undercover as Dr. Tony Michaels—sat at a table in the quiet Café Carioca in Petropolis. From there he could see the imposing Imperial Museum. Looks more like Bavaria than Brazil, he thought. He pondered his next move.

After Mitch Hawkins’ “death” in the fires of Hong Kong, he had been secreted away to Budapest, where he met up with some of his old Yang CIA buddies, Simon and Matt. After they had been instrumental in facilitating the Camaldolese agreement in Kraków, which sped the demise of the Soviet empire, they all went their separate ways.

In Vienna, Mitch met up with Magnus Carter, PhD, at the US embassy. Carter was a constitutional and citizenship law scholar, assigned temporarily to the Austrian capital. Carter mentioned that Brazil was now in the process of redrafting

~ 95 ~ their national constitution, partly in reaction to the excesses of the previous military dictatorships. When Mitch expressed great interest in that project, Magnus made some calls. He had many valuable connections around the globe. One of them was in the capital, Brasilia.

On Carter’s firm recommendation, Dr. Tony Michaels was offered a position on the subcommittee charged with formulating specific guarantees and provisions for the child and youth codes.

The team met in the old imperial city of Petropolis, situated high above the lush rain-forested mountains. Formerly the summer residence of emperors and aristocrats, the quaint city resembled Germany’s Munich much more than it did any city in Brazil.

With work on the draft of the new Brazilian constitution now complete, Michaels had time on his hands.

Dangerous! He thought. Idle time means nothing but trouble!

Tony was used to danger, and was quite accustomed to trouble as well, but usually of the planned and anticipated variety. Unscripted detours had proven to be perilous.

Word had drifted back to him about Billy Shanahan’s rehabilitation at the Company’s safe house in the Virgin Islands. He knew that would be a long climb back to health—both physically and mentally—for his former nemesis. He wished him well. Maybe we’ll meet up some day under happier circumstances?

~ 96 ~

While sipping his robust cafezinho, a tall stranger in an immaculately tailored white linen suit slid into the bench seat opposite him.

“It’s lovely here, this time of year, is it not?” he said by way of introduction. He gestured towards the profusion of colorful bougainvillea vines draped over the entranceway.

“Forgive my interruption. I am Dr. Joao Moreno. I believe we have a mutual friend.” With a broad, easy smile, his clear brown eyes peered directly at Tony.

“Do I know this friend?” Tony quipped testily.

“Magnus. Magnus Carter.”

Tony Michaels relaxed. He released his grip on the handgun nestled in his coat pocket. “Ah, dear Magnus! What a fine scholar! How is he?”

“Magnus is well. He sends you his greetings and his warmest congratulations on the job well done at that conference in Brasilia.”

“Dr. Carter did me a great service by recommending me to assist in drafting your new constitution. I am in his debt.”

“Well, Dr. Michaels, I was hoping you would be of that exact sentiment. Magnus has a problem. He is not able to deal with it directly, due to his current sensitive posting. He was hoping that you might be able to assist him,” Joao said politely. “He felt you would be perfect for the challenge. Especially since, officially, you don’t exist,” he added with a knowing smile.

~ 97 ~

Tony tensed again. “How could I be of assistance?” He feigned not to catch Joao’s reference to his presumed death.

Dr. Joao Moreno explained. “Magnus has a niece he is very fond of. She is extremely intelligent, and alas, extremely idealistic. Windy Cook is her name. She has gotten herself caught up in a rather nasty cult.

“The cult’s leaders are extremely paranoid, and for good reasons. There are a number of international warrants and civil lawsuits pending against them. They move constantly, work with ex-cons who arrange new identities for them, and never buy cars or homes in their own names, and always pay in cash.

“As such, they are the slipperiest of slippery characters. Interpol has fondly dubbed them ‘Adam and Evil.’ I know your English expression, ‘it takes a thief to catch a thief,’ but in this case I think we need something more along the lines of a rat to catch these two rats. You would need someone who specializes in dirt—or dirty operations.”

As Tony Michaels listened to that last sentence, an old familiar face popped into his mind. The Seagull!

“I believe I know just the person for the job. But I will need some help contacting him. I cannot approach him directly, due to my current status, of being, er, retired.”

“But of course! Who is this special person?” A slight tinge of excitement colored Moreno’s mellifluous voice.

“His name is Ronald Segallus. He lives in Sydney. You can find him at the Families’ Religious Liberty Association. He is

~ 98 ~ in charge of their black-ops division. I have found him to be most resourceful, and most effective.”

“How shall we set up a meeting for you?” Joao wondered.

“Your Brazilian consular staff in Sydney could contact him, ostensively seeking his expertise in media relations with regards to religious affairs. He’ll take that bait,” Tony began.

“Once you’ve arranged to meet with him, tell him an old friend that shared his interest in a certain member of parliament, Tommy More, needs his advice for a new war.”

“War?” Joao asked skeptically.

“Ron always said that conducting media relations was really just war with different weapons. I think Segallus is a distant relative of the ancient Chinese warrior-scholar, Sun Tzu.”

“Where will you meet?”

“Tell Ron the following, exactly: ‘We will meet next Thursday at 8:30 p.m. headed to the Main Island.’ He’ll understand. And will probably laugh.”

New Zealanders were hopelessly locked in an endless debate over which of the two largest islands—North Island or South Island—was their “main island.” Each island had dozens of cogent reasons to support their position. To the outside world, it was really “six of one, half-dozen of the other,” but not to the Kiwis. Ron and Tony had spoken often of this amusing inter-island rivalry.

Each night, at exactly 8:30 p.m., a large passenger ferry crossed the choppy Cook Straight on the three-and-one-half-

~ 99 ~ hour journey from the capital Wellington at the southern tip of the North Island to the small town of Picton, at the northern tip of the South Island. The northbound ferry sailed at a different time.

Ron would know where and when to meet, and who requested the meeting from that short, esoteric message.

That is, if he were still alive. Ron had made many enemies.

~ 100 ~

CHAPTER THIRTEEN ,

“THAT BEARD REALLY SUITS YOU!” A friendly, somnolent voice purred behind Tony’s shoulder as he stared out over the railing at the ferry’s wake, with the port of Wellington receding into the evening’s twilight.

He turned to see the smirking face of The Seagull. The man had aged considerably. The curl of his lower lip was more pronounced. His thick hair was nearly white. Instead of the customary crew cut, he sported a long, flowing mane. His gait was stooped somewhat. His eyes were still sharp as ever—dark and piercing. He looked like a semi-retired lion.

“Thanks for taking care of that little problem I had in Hong Kong, Ron! I’m Tony Michaels, now, by the way.”

“My Pleasure! I was glad to stick it to that pompous Paula Chan! She should have known better than to mess with you. It has served you well to conduct yourself in an understated manner. It sets your enemies up well for a big fall,” the Seagull mused. “Pleased to meet you, Tony, by the way.” ~ 101 ~

I wonder what chapter of The Art of War he’s misquoting from now! He thought cheerfully. Ron had intervened on his behalf when dark forces tried to get him tossed out of Hong Kong. Ron’s dredging up some long-festering dirt on his publishing firm’s office manager, Ms. Chan, had put an abrupt end to that threat.

“Who are we battling this time?” Ron’s appetite for confrontation egged on his curiosity.

“Adam and Evil,” Tony answered.

“Adam and Eve? I thought that snake got them long ago!” Ron chuckled.

“No, Adam and Evil. They are the ringleaders of a pernicious cult. An honorable colleague of mine is beside himself, as it seems his favorite niece has gotten herself caught in their filthy web. She was destined to become a Rhodes Scholar.

“What’s her name?” The Seagull was already at work.

“Windy Cook. She’s a beautiful girl. Smart. Too young to have her life thrown away.

“What sort of cult is this she’s mixed up in? You know, they come in all shades and flavors these days!” Ron pontificated.

“They’ve changed names often, like a chameleon. But it is always the same blend of garbage: holier-than-thou disdain for society, proprietary end-time prophecy, rather loose morals, anti-American rhetoric, a blend of spiritualism, and a limit of two cups of coffee per day,” Tony outlined.

“What’s that about coffee?”

~ 102 ~

“Yes, their lives—while lived on the outer edge of reality— are nevertheless hemmed in with all sorts of strict rules about the most trivial matters. It’s OK to embrace terrorism in the name of God, but it’s not OK to use refined sugar. Crap like that.”

“I know exactly who you are talking about!” The arteries in Segallus’ neck throbbed under his pale skin. Tony had hit a raw nerve. It was obvious that something from Ron’s past was still irking him. “We crossed paths in Melbourne! Lying bastards! But why do you call them ‘Adam and Evil’? Why not use their real names!”

“We don’t know them,” Michaels sighed.

“Nonsense! Anything can be discovered—for the right price!”

“I’m not entirely sure of the extent of my colleague’s budget.” Tony fidgeted with his beard.

“Oh, the price isn’t always money!

“There’s lots more valuable currencies! Revenge comes in very large denominations, for example. Fear is another great motivator. And then there is always dirt—there’s an endless supply of dirt, enough to go around for everyone.” The Seagull was hitting his stride now, a consummate master of the dirty tricks strategy.

I wonder what dirt he has on me! Tony shuddered.

“Anyways, your ‘Adam and Evil’ were originally Brandt Davis and Marie Kelly. They coerced a single mom in Melbourne to give them a copy of her child’s birth certificate and they used

~ 103 ~ that to get new passports for their own child and themselves. So for a while they traveled under the new assumed names of Brenda and Gary Fulsome.

“When those names got too hot, due to an Interpol warrant, they poked around in a graveyard in Oporto, Portugal, and became the resurrected Carlos and Ana de Silva. Today they are plain Sue and Tom Johnson.” Ron paused for breath.

“Do you know where they are?” Michaels prodded.

“Yes.”

“Well? Where, Ron?”

“In a working-class suburb twenty or so miles southeast of Vancouver.”

“Have a personal beef with this outfit, Ron?”

These cult folks were apparently clearly in Ron’s sights for some serious reason.

“Twelve years ago, I got shafted by some of their folks. Not ‘Adam and Evil’ themselves, but some of their underlings. This mob has branches all over the world. Their regional director, Phillip Randalls, approached our organization for a recommendation of their fundraising efforts in Melbourne, Australia. Turns out they were just running a big scam.

“When the authorities closed in on them, they folded up shop as quickly as a cheap umbrella in a cyclone and this Randalls chap hightailed it to Singapore with his mistress and his cronies.

~ 104 ~

“When the Royal Fraud Unit couldn’t catch any of those jokers, they started looking into their references. We spent a big pile of money on lawyers’ fees and court costs to defend our good name. I don’t like someone getting away with making a fool out of me.”

The Seagull spit violently into the sea far below as he hammered his fists against the railing of the ship.

“So, you want to recoup your money loss?” Tony suggested.

“No, I’ve upped the ante. With a decade or so to stew about this, the ‘interest’ on their account payable is astronomical. I’m after blood, not money,” Ron confessed.

“Are we talking murder here? I’m not sure this is exactly the type of help my friend Magnus had in mind!”

“Not exactly. But I am planning on the final demise of this sham religion. I’m playing for keeps. I’ve had years to cool down. I’ve since calculated my plan very carefully. I have just been waiting for the exact right opportunity. And you, my dear friend, have just provided it,” Segallus gloated.

“How’s that?” Tony Michaels wasn’t sure exactly what he’d provided.

“I’ve needed to get to the head of the snake. Once I do, all the Phillip Randalls underlings of this world will wither away. I’ve needed a way to get inside the very heart of their operation,” Ron explained. “I think we now have that with your missing person. Did you say her name was Windy Cook? Is that her legal name, or assumed name?”

~ 105 ~

“I’ll assume it’s her legal name.” Tony made a weak attempt at comic relief to break the tension Ron was generating.

“But how does Windy give you an in?” Michaels was still puzzled.

“Oh, that’s simple. These cult leaders always harvest the very cream of the crop for themselves. Of the many thousands of followers, only a handful ever get to meet, let alone live with, the king and queen of sleaze. They’ll scour the earth for the brightest, youngest, most promising staff members. Ron elaborated as Tony listened intently.

“I assume this young lady is very pretty? And her family is rich?” Segallus speculated.

“Right on both accounts,” Tony confirmed grimly. He paced back and forth on the deck of the ship.

“Bingo!” Ron rejoiced. “We’ve got two forms of bait working for us. First, I must warn you these leaders are not exactly monogamous. Windy may already be in the process of being groomed as a lover. If they know her family is rich, they’ll keep her close, in their private compound, hoping for a lion’s share of the inheritance. These types don’t hold down 9-to-5 jobs, you realize. There are no 1040s to follow.”

“So, what’s your plan?” Michaels dreaded the answer.

“How comfortable are you with carrying large amounts of cash, Mitch, er, I mean, Tony?”

A smile crept over Tony Michaels’ face as he recalled an incident from years ago outside the Sanwa Bank, during his posting in Hong Kong. Clandestine operators such as his unit

~ 106 ~ did not exactly receive weekly paychecks in the mail. Nor did their many undercover contacts and informants fill out standard invoices in triplicate for accountants.

Hong Kong had been a great venue for spy work, as it was a city-state in love with cash. It took Tony some time to get used to the fact that ordinary folks carried around huge sums of money in nondescript plastic shopping bags. When the Chinese of Hong Kong were not carting around cash— U.S. dollars, Japanese yen, Swiss francs, German Deutschmarks or whatever—then they were moving gold. Back in the day, the South African one-ounce Krugerrand coin was very popular.

For a short time, their Hong Kong operation was shadowed by two not-so-clever undercover Red Chinese detectives. One day, they made the mistake of following a bit too closely when Mitch was carrying US$300,000 in his brief case. Even spies were not allowed to carry weapons in Hong Kong, so he was always armed with a sturdy, long umbrella with a long, sharp spike at the end.

After taking some evasive steps to confirm they were indeed following him, Hawkins turned abruptly and approached the pair, demanding they leave. When they refused by feigning not to understand him, Mitch Hawkins had yelled at the top of his voice “Help! Police! I’m being robbed!”

Of course, they were not robbing him, but the undercover spooks could not afford the luxury of explaining their predicament to the Royal Hong Kong Police. So, instead they split and were never seen again.

Tony suddenly burst out laughing. ~ 107 ~

“Are you all right?” Tony’s mood swing caught Ron off-guard.

“I’m fine, Ron. I was just recalling the startled look on my tails’ faces when I poked my umbrella into their chest and yelled for all I was worth. I think they feared for their lives. I guess they were suddenly terrified that I had gone stark, raving mad.”

“I’ve entertained a similar thought.”

Tony then explained the entertaining memory he was just reliving.

“So, I take it that the answer is: you are fine carrying cash.”

“Maybe. What’s the cash for?”

“My boy, you are about to become Windy Cook’s dear uncle, who brings her the sad news of her rich grandparents’ death in a car accident. You will also be informing her that she has just inherited $250,000. That should be enough bait to get her evil masters to allow her off the premises.”

“How do you know they will want cash?” Tony countered.

“Care to wager a bet? Say $1?” Ron quipped.

“How do we get word to Windy of this sad news about her grandparents?”

“I’m sure Magnus has contacts in the U.S. Consulate General’s office in Vancouver who could arrange for a telegram or text to be delivered,” Segallus answered. “Of course, first you’ll have to let Carter in on the news that you’re Windy’s uncle.”

~ 108 ~

Tony pondered all this for a moment. He was used to rather convoluted plans from his days running the Noodle Shop— the CIA spy operation in Hong Kong during the Chinese takeover of the British colony. But this all seemed even a bit too bizarre.

“Has William Shanahan got any of his recycled agents ready for action yet?”

“How on earth did you know about that?” Tony suppressed a gasp.

“Oh, we have our eyes and ears everywhere. We have made a real science out of our religion, Tony. And we have been most helpful to various intelligence agencies around the globe. In return, sometimes they throw us a crumb or two that they feel might be helpful to our mission.”

“I’ll check.” Tony rolled his eyes and shook his head.

Their conversation was interrupted when the ship’s foghorn pierced the dense night air. Time was slipping away.

“Let’s eat! My treat!” Ron offered as they strolled in from the back deck to the dining room.

“Lamb chops with mint sauce, please,” Tony requested.

~ 109 ~

After dinner, Tony made a call to Magnus Carter on the ship’s satellite phone. “He should be awake by now in Vienna, ready for his morning stroll down The Graben.”

Carter’s favorite café was on that famous walking street, just around the corner on Stephansplatz from the imposing Stephansdom Cathedral, the stately mother church of the very-Catholic Austrians. The Viennese did coffee and tortes very seriously, and when in Rome, Magnus always did as the Romans. Soon Carter’s phone was ringing on the seat beside him.

“Gruss Gott!” A piece of cake fell out of his mouth as he answered.

“And good morning to you as well, Magnus! I think we may be able to help with your niece.”

Tony wasted no time on pleasantries. He could visualize Carter at the other end, fork poised ready to spear another mouthful of Sachertorte, the most supreme form of all chocolate cakes. “I believe we know where she is!”

“Don’t contact her at that address, though! That will tip off those crooks that the gig is up! She always receives her mail at a PO Box address. I’ll send it to you after I finish my torte.”

Tony smiled as he hung up the phone, visualizing Magnus devouring his breakfast dessert. Before long, the ferry docked at the small port town of Picton, and Tony Michaels and Ron Segallus headed down to the vehicle deck below and climbed into Ron’s parked silver BMW.

Later on, they received Windy’s address. It was indeed a PO Box in Bellingham, Washington. ~ 110 ~

In the meantime, Tony had made inquiries about Shanahan’s training program. When Billy’s handlers got back to him, they said that Professor Blackwater’s first batch of graduates was indeed ready and eager for action.

The operation would be an ideal test for the recycled agents. The folks in Adam and Evil’s cult were slippery and without scruples, but they also rabidly did not believe in guns. They could be taken down with butterfly nets, if need be.

“So, I guess we just have to wait till Windy goes to the PO Box to pick up her mail.” Tony despised waiting.

“You have much to learn about these folks, my good man. She won’t ever go near that post office. The cult compound’s head security officer will collect the mail. Most likely he’s a Canadian national. He’ll be wearing a disguise. I’ll wager you another dollar on that, or better yet, a Canadian Loonie. And he won’t return directly to their hive. I know how these animals operate,” Ron said.

Based on Ron’s conjecture, four teams were set in place to spring the trap. One team watched the mailbox section of the Bellingham Post Office. Another pursuit team waited nearby. The third team was poised just north of the border, while the final team was in the cult’s neighborhood, riding around in a plumbing company’s battered van.

~ 111 ~

Just as surely as heartburn follows a greasy burger, Monday at noon a James Sherwood arrived at the post office. The pair of dark sunglasses he wore on that totally overcast day was the first flag. The wig that did not match his natural skin coloring was the second. The third flag was that he glanced around at least three times before entering the post office.

“This guy thinks he’s James Bond III,” Spotter One in Alpha team observed wryly.

“Yeah, but watch him, he probably knows a back exit from the post office. He may be arrogant, but not entirely stupid,” Spotter Two replied into his radio.

“Roger that!” Spotter Three confirmed. “He just got into a gray Corolla, headed north on Cornwall Avenue. He’s not a blonde anymore. Wig’s off. He has short, dark hair now. Pretty smooth operator for an amateur.”

The pursuit team picked up his trail. “Tracker One, Beta team, reporting in. Subject just pulled into the City Gate apartments on East Holly.” It was a modest, three-story affair, with a red brick veneer on the ground floor. Sherwood went into apartment 213.

Ron Segallus removed his headset. “If I’m not mistaken, he is now removing all the mail from their outer envelopes. He’ll shred any evidence of that PO Box number, and then bag up all the contents. Watch for him to toss a bag into the trash dumpster when he leaves for the border crossing.”

Almost as if on cue, cult officer Sherwood emerged from the building, casually tossing a black plastic garbage bag into the green dumpster in the parking lot. He was now sporting a

~ 112 ~

Vancouver Grizzlies cap pulled down over his forehead. He quickly drove off from his safe house.

Alpha team collected the bag from the dumpster. They then broke into apartment 213 and photographed the contents. Bank statements and phone records found there would prove useful in tracking down the other top-secret units around the globe. Partially completed passport applications and driver license applications yielded the identities of others living in the ultra-secret cult headquarters.

Amongst the mail Sherwood took back to their Canadian hideout was a letter from Windy Cook’s Uncle Tony, telling her of her grandparents’ passing. Could he meet up with her in Seattle next week when he was there on business? He was the executor of their estate and would be facilitating her inheritance. He provided a phone number, so she could make arrangements for their rendezvous.

James Sherwood read the letter before Windy got it. He took special note of the $250,000 mentioned therein. He would promptly make a report directly to Adam’s Evil about that. It was time to be sugary-sweet to Windy, and bring her into the inner circle. Once they had her loyalty, heart and soul, the money would follow. It was time to introduce her to some of the most top-secret teachings of the cult, reserved only for those “most worthy.”

“You look sad, Windy! Did you get some bad news in the mail today?” Paul Stephens asked sympathetically at dinner. Every word of his conversation had been pre-scripted by his

~ 113 ~ leaders. Don’t pry, just try to lead the conversation so she volunteers about the money, he had been instructed.

A special videotaped sermon had been prepared for that evening’s class. It centered on the evils of riches, and the joys of giving generously to God’s work, for which there were eternal rewards awaiting the faithful.

The following morning, after the evening class, and her exclusive, private session that night, Windy asked to speak to Darryl Toms, the head finance deacon. She wanted to donate her inheritance to help their mission operations in India. Could he assist with the details? She wasn’t very good at handling money.

Members of the cult were free to designate wherever they wanted their money to be used. Afterwards, the leaders felt quite entitled to spend it however they saw fit, regardless of the gift’s original designation.

The mission operations in India would most likely remain needy. It was time to buy new laptops for the cult’s senior national leaders around the world, in advance of next month’s annual convocation in San Antonio.

And with this self-serving, unethical decision, the cult had just begun weaving its own final web in which it would be inextricably caught.

~ 114 ~

CHAPTER FOURTEEN ,

THE NIGHTMARES WOULDN’T STOP. One night, their vivid intensity drove Billy Shanahan from his bed and out into the crisp night air of Los Alamos. When he did not show up for class the following morning, a search party was formed. Shortly after noon, searchers found Shanahan wandering about the 7,000-foot elevations of the Pajarito Plateau, muttering incoherently to himself.

The professor’s courses had been a great success, and those idled agents who participated in them had been greatly helped in recovering from their PTSD demons. Now it seemed to have become a case of “physician, heal thyself”!

Billy’s handlers were quite concerned. This was not his first walkabout. They were desperate for a solution, perhaps even desperate enough to attempt something dangerously radical.

Professor Shanahan, once the ruthless leader of a splinter CIA hit squad that had morphed from the Yin spy branch, had become tortured by guilt over the assassination of his ~ 115 ~ childhood friend. Mitch Hawkins had been deemed by some of the neo-cons within the agency as an enemy and traitor, and thus a justifiable target. At the last moment, Billy had second thoughts and had tried to thwart the plan, but was apparently unsuccessful.

Official word was that Hawkins had perished in the fire that was deliberately set on the hillsides surrounding his remote safe house in the mountainous island of Lantau, Hong Kong.

Mitch’s sister, June Hawkins, had settled back into her frenetic work routine after the colorful detour to Manila to visit with Mitch’s family. She had brought his purported cremains back to West Bush in a beautiful gold-embellished royal blue urn provided by the U.S. Consulate in Hong Kong.

She had carefully tended to her parents’ welfare throughout the painful private memorial service conducted at the local, tree-shrouded Blooming Lane Cemetery. Mitch and his childhood buddies had once rode their bikes up and down the narrow driveways between rows of ancient moss- encrusted gravestones.

June had passed on the coded message to her mom, as instructed.

The months flew by and another especially cold, long northeast winter was finally behind the Hawkins of West Bush. ~ 116 ~

“No! YOU call her!” Tin Man yelled at Good Spook. “She hates me!” The two burly agents argued over which one of them would have the unenviable task of contacting June Hawkins.

Folks back at Langley were very worried about Shanahan spinning out of control. The bean counters would be upset if all that gray money went down the drain should this experimental rehabilitation project in Los Alamos fail. Could Billy be stabilized?

“Hi, June! How’re things with you? Ever been to New Mexico this time of year? I hear it’s nice.” Tin Man exhaled after his opening attempt at a low-key conversation starter.

“Who the hell is this?” The voice yelling on the other end of the line distorted the connection.

“Real smooth!” Good Spook guffawed. He left the room, holding his side with laughter.

“We met in Xi’an last year.” The hapless agent plowed ahead, as if marching to his doom.

“Oh, it’s YOU! I was sure you’d be unemployed by now!” June barked into the receiver. “You have another dead relative for me, or some other equally good news?

“Not exactly . . .” was all he could muster in reply.

~ 117 ~

“Not exactly dead, or not exactly good?” June was having way too much fun to be too exasperated.

“Well, neither, really, actually . . .” Tin Man’s voice trailed off as he realized that he was just digging the hole deeper for himself. Summoning courage, he forged ahead. “It’s Billy Shanahan.”

“Is he dead? I hope so!” June’s anger burned white-hot to think of what he had attempted to do to her brother and his family.

“No worse: he’s discouraged.” Tin Man hoped his paraphrase of a line from the classic Capra movie, It’s a Wonderful Life might lighten the mood. It didn’t.

“You better let me talk to your buddy. I know he probably won the bet, and made you talk to me, but I’ll hang up now unless he takes over.” She snickered as she visualized the scene of the two hapless agents.

After a few moments, a more composed and plaintive voice came on the phone. “June, it’s Good Spook here. William Shanahan is a much different person now. But he’s beside himself with guilt over what he thinks happened to your brother.

“He’s in charge of a recovery/rehabilitation program for broken-down former spies. He’s making a big difference in these agents’ lives. But we’re afraid he’s about to go under, and drag the whole program down with him.”

“What’s that to me?” June did not see how that news was any of her concern.

~ 118 ~

“Shanahan’s supervisors feel we have no other choice but to let him in on our little secret about Mitch, you know . . .”

“And we feel that news is best delivered in person by someone who knows him on a more personal level.”

After a long pause, June Hawkins replied to Good Spook. “Can I bring a baseball bat with me?”

“What? No! That’s not the kind of message we meant to send Shanahan!” The agent was horrified that he’d just unleashed the blonde death angel.

“Relax, silly! He won’t recognize me now! I was a kid last time we saw each other. My dad had an autographed Louisville Slugger we used in baseball practice. Shanahan will better recognize that bat than he would me. It’s like the Tamarind Seed thing—you remember that lesson, don’t you?”

“Okay! But can you get there this week?” He begged.

“What’s in it for me?” June questioned in a deadpan.

After some hurried discussion in the background, Good Spook came back on the phone. “There will be two round- trip, first-class tickets delivered to your office tomorrow by a pizza delivery guy. And a week’s stay at Four Seasons Resort Rancho Encantado Santa Fe—it’s like a six-star hotel. Meals and drinks included, along with your choice of luxury rental car. Bring a guest.”

“Well, I must say, your expense account is healthier than it was the last time we did business! What kind of pizza do they have at that resort?”

~ 119 ~

“Does that mean ‘yes’?” the two agents chimed, ignoring her question about the menu.

“Only if it’s pepperoni!” June couldn’t help herself.

~ 120 ~

CHAPTER FIFTEEN ,

MANY AGENCIES WERE ANXIOUS TO JOIN in the takedown of the cult. Interpol had a decade-old outstanding warrant for Mr. Brandt Davis on the charge of transporting a minor across national borders for purposes of sexual exploitation. The victim in question had since been found dead in the French Alps, from an apparent suicide. The Swiss authorities were pressing banking fraud charges. The IRS wanted the back taxes owed for the past twenty years. There were unpaid traffic violations in Orange County, California.

Finally, the Great Socialist People's Libyan Arab Jamahiriya wanted payment for the immense hotel bill that Davis and his entourage had accumulated while accepting the hospitality of Colonel Muammar Gaddafi when they sought refuge from the diverse international foes—governmental and otherwise—who were hounding them. Gaddafi’s ego had been tickled by the cults’ anti-capitalist rhetoric, but even socialist utopias needed to pay their bills occasionally.

The initial, simple, missing-persons investigation that Tony Michaels had agreed to undertake had now grown into an international legal storm of epic proportions. So much for

~ 121 ~ semi-retirement, he thought. Old spies never die, they just spy away! He hoped that once all the dust settled, Magnus Carter would indeed be able to see his niece Windy Cook again, safe and sound.

Those coordinating the takedown of the cult who were familiar with Mitch Hawkins’ former Yang team operatives and their contacts decided to approach a Mr. Alexander Stein. Alex was a tech pioneer and seemed able and determined to work wonders with all things electronic.

Stein was tormented by the horrific images from the 1978 mass suicide / murders of the Jonestown cult. Over 900 cult members in a South American jungle town drank cyanide under duress, including 300 children.

Stein had met one of the few survivors while finishing his master’s degree in electrical engineering. The man making the presentation on campus that evening was twelve at the time his mother hid him so that he could later escape into the nearby trees. He was now a reasonably healthy adult, albeit permanently scarred emotionally.

Stein had resolved then and there that if he ever had the opportunity to help take down another cult before similar horrors were repeated, he would do so at all costs. That chance had just arrived!

~ 122 ~

Adam and Evil’s followers were subjected to much of the same virulent anti-American talk and pro-communist preaching as were the Jonestown folks. Like Rev. Jim Jones from Jonestown, these cult leaders mixed self-righteous holiness doctrine with bizarre beliefs and sexual practices.

The architects of the multi-agency task force wanted to know if Alex would help with their new operation, dubbed “Cooked Goose.” When Stein was offered access to all of the latest classified technology and software, he readily agreed. Alex was flown to the Seattle field office to meet with the forward team setting up for the takedown.

A search of phone calls from James Sherwood’s Bellingham apartment revealed that a gathering of all the top cult leadership was planned for the following month. There was a secretive plan being developed to distribute laptops at those meetings to all these senior officers.

The cult’s computers would be equipped with a proprietary version of the PGP encryption algorithm. The goal was to create a secure means of communications of the cult’s most sensitive information that would be impervious to prying by either the rank-and-file members, or the authorities who might be spying on them.

Alex’s task was to place a backdoor into these encryption keys before they were distributed at the San Antonio meetings, so that law enforcement could “hear” everything that was being transmitted in their electronic, coded messages. NSA engineers had just the “worm” Alex needed to burrow inside the cult’s Apples, as it were.

~ 123 ~

The brilliance of the plan was that the more secure these religious frauds considered their communications network to be, the more emboldened they would become to transmit the most damaging of information over it—and right into the awaiting computers of the authorities. The cult would thus unwittingly be composing their very own probable cause affidavits.

Over the years, Windy Cook had met many of Magnus Carter’s associates. He always introduced them as “your Uncle So-and-so” and left it at that. She assumed he had good reasons for bestowing so many uncles upon her. Magnus pampered her whenever he could. She knew he loved her and cared deeply for her.

Windy also knew that his work involved some dangerous assignments in unspoken locales. Better a live “uncle” than a dead agent was how she chose to rationalize Carter’s uncle- bestowing habit. Besides, those uncles were always very respectful towards her, and they were usually so very interesting!

“Uncle” Tony Michaels arrived in Seattle the following week. Windy had been given a special dispensation by her cult leaders to spend an entire weekend enjoying herself in Seattle with her uncle. She could eat whatever she wanted, drink as much coffee as she pleased, and watch whatever TV shows or movies interested her. Bending their strict

~ 124 ~ rules like that for her seemed a small price to pay, in light of the $250,000 she would be bringing back to them.

Windy was accompanied on the short trip from British Columbia, Canada, by the cult’s top security chief, James Sherwood, and their senior accountant, Daryl Toms. They would stay at a cheaper 3-star hotel nearby.

Tony met Miss Cook in the lower lobby of the venerable Fairmont Olympic Hotel. He had discovered the hotel’s “4th Ave.” Espresso Bar and was happily sipping his drink when she arrived. The seventy-year-old elegant hotel, richly styled in Italian Renaissance, held Windy in awe.

“Shall we have lunch?” When she readily agreed, he led her to the posh Georgian restaurant upstairs where he had reserved a table for them.

“Goodness! This looks so expensive!” she gasped.

“Relax! It won’t cost you a cent, Windy! Your Uncle Magnus is treating today!” Michaels said.

Over their meal, Tony chatted with Windy, trying to get a glimpse into her state of mind. She seemed guarded, as if fearful of saying or doing something wrong.

He summoned the waiter. “How about some wine?” he suggested.

“What would you recommend?”

The wine waiter noted that they had an excellent Cabernet Sauvignon that would pair well with their meal, and was from the local Amavi Cellars in nearby Walla Walla Valley.

~ 125 ~

Tony Michaels grinned broadly, and then nodded, “That will be fine. We’ll have two glasses of that, thank you.”

“What is so funny, Uncle Tony?”

Tony welcomed the diversion to help put the young lady at ease. “When I was stationed in Hong Kong, they had dozens of these water taxis plying the harbor. They were called ‘walla wallas.’ I had several people tell me that the name came from the sound the boats’ small engines made.

“But Walla Walla was the name of a native people in this Northwest region. A town in Washington State took the name as its own, long before those boats sailed in Hong Kong’s harbor.

“A clever American entrepreneur from Walla Walla named his fleet of water taxis Walla Walla 1, Walla Walla 2, and so on, when he set up his business in Hong Kong a century ago. But I’ve even had some rubes trying to tell me that walla walla was a Chinese word.”

“You were in Hong Kong?”

I guess irony is an acquired taste. Tony switched back to the business at hand.

“So, I have your money for you here in the hotel safe. Will you need some help getting back home with it?”

~ 126 ~

Later on, agents would photograph and document in great detail those two men accompanying Windy back across the border, thus providing iron-clad evidence of moving large sums of undeclared money across international borders. Such a conspiracy was a felony, and the prison terms could be lengthy. The $100 bills had all been marked, and could be traced around the cult’s cash-only universe.

There was a proposal to leverage that threat of a felony conviction against Messrs. Toms and Sherwood, hoping it would loosen them up to spill the beans about their leaders’ secret whereabouts, in exchange for a lighter sentence.

One faction of the operation wanted to round up those in the leaders’ household as soon as Windy returned with her two male cult companions. They had the elusive Brandt Davis right within their sights!

Infuriatingly, another faction urged patience and restraint. “Follow the money,” they advised. The money would filter down to various top-secret cult units and officers, providing a clear blueprint of the organization’s entire strategic structure.

The recent discovery of the upcoming leaders’ conference in Texas meant that a wider net could be cast, ensuring that cult operations around the world would be effectively ended. Those leading the conference would be arriving with armloads of cash to help finance the secret meetings, which were designed to strengthen loyalty at the top echelons.

~ 127 ~

A silver-haired recent graduate of Shanahan’s spy retooling school who was in the coordinating team spoke up. “You all know the old joke about the young bull and the old bull?”

“No time for your jokes, old man!” The young, long-haired technician manning the surveillance equipment objected.

His elder carried on, as if the youngster had not spoken.

“Once upon a time, a young bull and an old bull had been roaming the dusty prairie for some time when they came across a herd of cattle in the valley below.

Excitedly, the young bull said let’s run down there and get us one of those cows! The old bull shook his head No!

Why not? The young bull protested, beside himself with impatience, and desire.

Because, said the old bull, we’re going to walk down there and get them all.”

When the groans and laughs subsided, the silver-haired man continued in a now dead-serious tone.

“You understand what we have here, right? We can cut off the head of the snake right now. That would indeed be gratifying. But if we bide our time just a little bit longer, we’ll get that entire snake and its offspring, so that we won’t have to repeat this process later.”

In the end, the command team thus determined to carefully monitor all secret communications between the cult’s senior leadership until they had ascertained a complete list of all attendees to the upcoming conference. A surveillance team would be set in place, matching arrivals against that

~ 128 ~ master list. The raid units would not move in until it was certain that everyone was inside the conference location.

Suddenly, things got better and better, or worse and worse, depending on the perspective. Prior to final confirmation of invitation to the leaders’ summit, each guest was asked to sign a confidentiality agreement, in exchange for promise of a new laptop and free room and board for two weeks of unrestrained pleasure at the meetings.

These various cult leaders from around the globe had to first electronically sign an agreement. They were advised that some controversial policies and new shocking disclosures would be discussed at the San Antonio meeting. They would need to promise not to disclose anything that was mentioned at those meetings to anyone who was not present.

To a man, everyone readily signed. These leaders had big egos, despite their spiritual aspirations. To be “in the know” and possess exclusive information was a feather in their career cap. It was also power. There was not much money in being a mid-level leader in a cult, so information was the most valuable currency available.

The authorities thus would now have prima facie evidence of a conspiracy to obstruct justice. The net was drawing closed, ever so imperceptibly.

~ 129 ~

~ 130 ~

CHAPTER SIXTEEN ,

EIGHT THOUSAND MILES AWAY, NOW BACK IN SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA, ALEXA WAS PONDERING her next move. The kids missed having fun with Auntie June. Alexa missed her company as well. Getting enmeshed in all that coup business in Manila had been exciting, but she was now enjoying the soothing peacefulness of the mild autumn days in Australia.

Maybe she would look up Dr. Jim Cairns?

Alexa Hawkins had been a member of the CIA’s “Koala” spy team. Back in the mid-1970s, the team had been tasked with infiltrating Australia’s left-leaning Whitlam government. She had cozied up to the Deputy Prime Minister Jim Cairns and was very much enamored with his policies.

The U.S. banking interests, however, were not so enamored. Nor was the U.S. military, as Cairns was a leader of the anti- Vietnam-war movement Down Under. A coup of sorts was arranged after Alexa had unknowingly tipped off the ringleaders as to the ideal timing for the overthrow.

After the political debacle that tumbled the Labor Party from power and himself from favor, James Ford Cairns now devoted the remainder of his life to counterculture issues. Eclectic in self-definition and prolific as a writer on social ~ 131 ~ issues, Cairns would remain active self-publishing and self- marketing his dozens of books over the following three decades. He actively supported communal living experiments in the Australian Outback, and spoke at Nambassa—a series of hippie festivals in neighboring New Zealand.

Alexa caught up with Cairns while he was passing through Sydney. He remembered her well despite the decade that had passed since they last met. She told him of their work with the aboriginal people at Kakadu during the uranium mining controversy, and this caught his interest.

She mentioned how her Maori fellow agents, Kenny and Samson, were very much committed to bettering the lives of those people they had come to know and love during that crusade. Social justice was the currency Cairns lived by, and he questioned Alexa extensively about the commitment and intentions of the two New Zealand men.

“How can I help?” he offered before she could ask the same.

“A couple of my Maori friends want to do more to help the Bininj and Mungguy peoples of Kakadu, but they can’t just go waltzing matilda without proper authority. Kenny and Samson bonded with these folks back when we were investigating that uranium mining controversy years ago.”

“The sheer irony boggles the mind!” Cairns opined heartily. “One-third of the world’s uranium lies below that tiny patch of dusty soil where those nomadic tribes have lived for millennia. In our lifetime, Pandora’s Box has been opened and now the transnational corporations are drooling over the prospects. They just can’t see past the dollar signs in their eyes. ~ 132 ~

“Unfortunately, some government officials aren’t much better. Civil servants are not paid that much, so it doesn’t take a huge bribe to move paperwork for permits and such. What do your friends hope to accomplish there?”

“They’re determined to see better living conditions for the indigenous people of the region. They want an end to the risky mining processes that threaten their health and food supply. They want some of those billions of dollars of profit diverted to those native people, so they can at least have access to good health care, clean water and decent living conditions.”

“I see.” He admired her convictions and warmed to her appeal for help.

“It really isn’t much to ask, is it, Jim?” Alexa challenged.

“No.” Dr. Cairns shook his head slowly and then he stared fixedly ahead, as if watching a movie that only he could see.

The controversial 1975 “Dismissal” of the previous Labor government had put an abrupt end to the many forward- thinking social justice programs Cairns and his colleagues had planned. The taste of that defeat was still bitter in his mouth, a decade and a half later.

“I can help,” he continued resolutely.

“I still have many friends—in the media, in local and national government departments, and of course, at the universities. They could perhaps open some doors and facilitate your friends’ endeavors.

~ 133 ~

“I might be able to help with raising funds, through my book sales. Alexa, my dear, if Kenny and Samson can get me inside information worth publishing, I can dedicate a book project on their behalf. Stir things up a bit!” He smiled.

True to his word, Dr. Jim Cairns delivered on logistical support for the two native Kiwis, Kenny and Samson, in their endeavor to assist the indigenous tribes of the Northern Territory of Australia.

The two men had a new white P38A Range Rover at their disposal, which assisted greatly in their travels over the vast and often unforgiving expanses of the continent’s interior. Medical supplies were obtained from various relief organizations.

“Charity begins at home,” Cairns had quipped when he requested some of the humanitarian supplies that were initially destined for far-flung continents to instead be diverted to the needy folks Down Under.

Samson was particularly thrilled with their Nikon 20x56 Monarch binoculars. These will be handy for scanning the distant horizon for first signs of trouble, he considered. Kenny checked out the latest hi-tech field water purifiers, which were essential where drinking water was scarce.

Before long they were meeting with tribal elders to discuss the recent developments on their reserve. The elders grew ~ 134 ~ quite animated when relating to Samson and Kenny all the problems they’d been having with the uranium mining folks. Some days, dust from the nearby mines became thick clouds, choking out the sunlight and fresh air. Many of the children had been getting quite sick of late.

The tribe had heard that the mining company had plans to expand their operation, and was petitioning the government to allow them to encroach closer to the settlements of the Bininj camp. Kenny made note of this development, and would radio Alexa back in Sydney to see if she could check on this situation.

Their briefing was cut short when the gathering heard a loud, sharp SNAP, followed by a small explosion. Turning in the direction of the noise, they saw a bright fire spreading rapidly in the dense underbrush nearby.

“They’re at it again!” One of the tribal elders observed. He motioned to some of the younger men, who picked up some strange objects and sprinted towards the blaze.

“Who’s setting those fires?” Samson wondered.

“You can be sure it’s not the dingoes, mate!” another older man answered. “The mine company is always trying ways to spook us off the land—our land!”

“Spook? Hmmm?” Kenny grinned. “Samson, anything come to mind when you think of spooking folks?”

On their previous visit to the area in the mid-1970s, Kenny had learned about how the older Aboriginal men had used a primitive device—the bullroarer—to intimidate their uninitiated males and outsiders at their ceremonies. ~ 135 ~

The bullroarer is a specially shaped, flat wooden instrument that’s tied to a string and swung overhead. The bizarre, whirring sound thus generated utilizes the same physics principles that a more modern air raid siren uses, albeit without needing electricity.

The cord is given a slight initial twist, and then the roarer is swung in a large circle in a horizontal plane, or in a smaller circle in a vertical plane. The aerodynamics of the roarer will keep it spinning about its axis even after the initial twist has unwound. The cord winds fully first in one direction and then the other, alternating.

It makes a characteristic roaring vibrato sound with notable sound modulations occurring from the rotation of the bullroarer along its longitudinal axis, and the choice of whether a shorter or longer length of cord is used to spin the bullroarer.

By modifying the expansiveness of its circuit and the speed given it, and by changing the plane in which the bullroarer is whirled from horizontal to vertical or vice versa, the modulation of the sound produced can be controlled, making the coding of information possible. The low- frequency component of the sound travels extremely long ~ 136 ~ distances, clearly audible over many miles on a quiet desert night.

Bullroarers have been used in initiation ceremonies and in burials to ward off evil spirits and bad tidings. Women and children are not welcomed at such ceremonies and the roarer’s noise helps to intimidate them from approaching. Bullroarers are considered secret men's business by some Aboriginal tribal groups, and hence forbidden for women, children, non-initiated men, or outsiders to even hear.

Samson understood and replied, “I wonder what a dozen of those things set off at once would do to a Pakeha’s nerves?” He was using a Maori term, euphemistically interpreted as meaning “white man,” as he thought about the Westerners operating the nearby mine.

The young men returned, bringing a singed smell back into the camp with them. The devices they held were still smoldering. The elder saw Samson’s raised eyebrow and answered his unspoken question.

“Those are fire-beaters. As you can see, we do not have an abundance of spare water about us. Those who set the fires thus anticipate we are defenseless. But, we’ve fashioned these as our defense. We take old, weathered wooden poles and fasten strips of leather or heavy cloth to one end. Wielded just so, the fire-beater will smother a fire faster than many gallons of water. Much more portable too! So far, it seems they haven’t caught on to our technique.”

The elder then turned to Kenny and raised his own eyebrow. “Mr. Kenny, what is it you have in mind? A dozen what? And to spook whom?” ~ 137 ~

“Bullroarers.”

The young aboriginal men sucked air in between their teeth. Outsiders were not supposed to know about the device.

“We will talk of this another day.” The elder closed off the discussion.

In the following days, Kenny and Samson dispensed the first aid supplies to those who needed their wounds dressed. Eye drops were applied to the babies whose eyes had been irritated by the foreign debris coming from the mines. Samson made gifts of the sturdy, custom-forged hunting knives he had brought for the elders and the chief hunters. The days passed pleasantly.

The following week, at dawn, excited high-pitched muttering was heard at the edge of camp. Some of the women were quite agitated, and sent word for the elders to come. One of the women lay prone in the red dusty soil, motionless. Greenish-white foam oozed from the corners of her clenched jaw. The medicine man approached her and then halted suddenly.

“Do not touch her! She must be buried immediately. This is the work of poison,” he pronounced solemnly as the crowd that gathered around the corpse took a step backward.

The young woman had gone out early to the water hole and must have drunk some of the water there before returning to camp. In her death, she may have saved many others from a similar fate.

“Now we will hear your ideas, Mr. Kenny and Mr. Samson.” The elder beckoned them back to the council circle. ~ 138 ~

Samson measured his words carefully, sensing his emotions had risen to a dangerous level. He pulled his massive hunting knife from the sheath on his belt and plunged the thick blade into the ground with violence. “I would rather use this to deal with your evil neighbors, but I understand that is not your way. So we must use cunning instead.”

The elder only arched his eyebrow in response, urging the giant man to continue.

“Samson” was the nickname CIA operative Mitch Hawkins had given him upon their first meeting twenty years prior. Mitch was unable to pronounce the man’s proper Maori name. The moniker had stuck ever since. Samson had lived a colorful past, on the other side of the law, and didn’t much mind altering his identity.

In his former days, Samson amused himself by fighting off the attack dogs of rival gangs. Possessing powerful, large hands and immense arms, he lived for the moment when a vicious dog would leap in the air towards him.

Timing his moves expertly, he would grab the canine’s hind legs in his left hand and snare the front legs with his right hand. Then, with a mighty outward and upward sweeping motion of his impressive wingspan, Samson would bellow loudly as he literally tore the dog in two.

To now look at his calm demeanor and compassionate eyes, it was hard to believe this was the same person.

It was the same man, but with a new heart.

~ 139 ~

Samson nodded to the elder in respect and then offered, “I am familiar with the effect of the sound of one bullroarer on the uninitiated and unprepared.

“What would be the effect of a dozen bullroarers, swung in unison at the darkest hour of a new moon night? If the men are spread out, surrounding the perimeter of the mining camp, imagine the effect.”

The next morning, Kenny got word back via their radio from Alexa. She had asked Dr. Cairns if he could use some of his contacts to look into the rumor of the uranium mine’s plan to annex more of the tribal lands. Their water source was in jeopardy.

His ministerial sources were indeed able to confirm the mining conglomerate’s intentions. He was also able to call in a few favors and asked those in the various federal departments that were handling the request to stall the paperwork.

Most importantly, the current Prime Minister—Bob Hawke —was from Jim’s Labor Party. Cairns and Hawke did not see eye-to-eye on all issues. Their lives had taken differing arcs. Bob Hawke had been the head union leader of ACTU— Australian Council of Trade Unions.

Hawke’s rough manners and tough talk at bargaining negotiations gave no clue that he had once been a Rhodes ~ 140 ~

Scholar at Oxford. While in college, he set a new world record for drinking, which perhaps served him well later on, endearing him to Australia’s beer-loving populace. Hawke would be the longest-serving, and one of the most successful Labor Prime Ministers in his country’s history.

The two politicians were both very well-educated, and had shared leadership roles in Australia’s anti-Vietnam-war movement. Both Cairns and Hawke passionately advanced progressive social welfare and social justice issues. Neither was particularly religious. Neither was a big fan of foreign transnational behemoths preying on their continent’s many precious resources.

Most crucially, Hawke still had some patriarchal influence with the unions due to his illustrious career as their former champion. A few calls to the right union officials could still get things moving—or stopped, if need be.

Jim Cairns phoned Hawke early that Sunday morning. Only a few folks would dare do so.

Hawke knocked over the lamp reaching for his bedside phone. “This better be a bloody emergency!”

“Hey Bob, it’s me, Jim. Hope I didn’t interrupt your beauty sleep,” Cairns responded, only half-apologetically.

“Jim 'ol boy! You still flogging those silly books of yours? You know you’ll never earn a decent wage doing that. ‘Can’t read, mate!’ is our unofficial national mantra. Don’t tell me you’re considering dirtying your hands in politics again.” Bob was having fun poking at Cairns’ reputation as a

~ 141 ~ prolific author who had only moderate sales to show for his exhaustive efforts.

“No, Bob, I think you’re doing just fine mucking up the country without my help. I have a lady friend who asked me to call you to see if you could help out with an issue we’re having up at Kakadu.”

“A lady friend! You don’t say! You old devil, you! Tell me all about her.” Hawke wanted juicy details. “I’m sure I can help—provided she’s good looking.”

“She’s a real beauty, Bob,” Jim admitted.

Their conversation weaved on and off topic for some time, with Hawke eventually concluding the call. “Don’t worry, Jim, I know just who to call. It’ll make you look good with Alexa, too. Send her my regards. Bye.”

Kenny returned to the council circle later in the week and reported Alexa’s news, that the rumors about the mine’s plans to expand were valid.

In reply, the elder observed, “There is a new moon tonight.”

“Time to go into full production of bullroarers,” Samson suggested.

While some of the men carved and fashioned their roarers, others were assigned to scout out prime locations for their ~ 142 ~ deployment later that night. Stealthy paths were mapped out so as to reach the various spots surrounding the mining operation without being observed. By nightfall, all was ready.

At midnight, the warm, still air in the sleeping mining camp was shattered by unearthly, deep moaning sounds, seeming to arise from the earth itself. The loud sounds shook the glass panes of the dormitory windows. The camps’ guard dogs howled pitifully. Lights flickered on as the workers stumbled out of bed, rubbing the sleep from their eyes as they began searching for intruders.

When all the mining workers were awake and running about, the thunderous roaring suddenly stopped, replaced by the unnerving silence of the desert. For thirty minutes, the camp staff was on high alert, searching the buildings and the roadways surrounding the mine. Nothing was discovered to explain the awful sounds everyone had heard.

The foremen gave the all-clear signals to their crews, who then wearily trudged back to their bunks, hoping that their sleep could be restored. At one a.m. just as the men were drifting back into their dreams, weird noises began.

First there was a lone, higher-pitched wail to the west. After a minute or two a reply came from the east, a deep and throbbing sound. These two creepy sounds were joined from the north and south by undulating whoop-whoop sounds that shook the windows once again. Then a cacophony of deafening noises filled the night air from all directions, driving up the pulse rates of the workers trapped within this aural net. ~ 143 ~

Then all went ghostly silent once more.

“What in the blazes!” A foreman yelled angrily. He fired his rifle in the direction the wailing sound had come from. When the crack of the fired round had finished echoing, all was quiet again. But for how long?

None of the workers dared fall asleep again. The shock of being woken by such unearthly noises was a torture they wished to escape. Coffee pots started brewing early. That day, work proceeded at a snail’s pace, as sleep-deprived men struggled to avoid injury on the dangerous work site.

Lights went out early in mining camp that night, as the exhausted laborers craved rest. Back at the tribal campfire, the men gathered to eat the meal the women had prepared. Afterwards, a discussion arose about their next step. It was agreed that they should repeat their performance.

“Make it the same, but different,” the elder said cryptically.

A younger member of the tribe explained the meaning to Kenny and Samson. “These white men crave a routine—the same—as it gives them a sense of security in a hostile land. We will give them almost the same. But different enough so they can’t find a rhythm, and nothing makes sense. It will drive them mad.”

~ 144 ~

That night at the uranium mine, the men tossed and turned in their bunks as midnight approached. But there were no strange sounds to interrupt their sleep as was the case the previous night. Relieved, they rolled over and fell into a deep, welcoming sleep.

The miners’ sleep ended at 2 a.m. when the black night was ripped apart by tortuous bedlam. This time, the noises came from differing directions and in much stranger combinations and permutations. If it were indeed possible, the noises seemed even louder than the night before.

The security guards raced from their guard house and began firing rapidly towards the perimeter, aiming at they knew not what. All went silent, and the guards grinned in satisfaction. But their victory was short-lived, as the sounds returned five minutes later, weirder and more demon-like, as if mocking the guards’ efforts to quell them.

The mine’s director got on his satellite phone and woke up his boss back at corporate headquarters. “Boss! Sorry to wake you. We are under attack here. We need air support!”

“Who is attacking you?” The executive demanded testily.

“Well, it’s more like what, than who.” He tried explaining.

“All right, what is attacking you then?”

“Noises. Really loud noises at night. Things you’ve never ever heard before.” There was a hint of hysteria in the director’s voice.

“Oh, for crying out loud! We pay you all that money—and you tell us you’re afraid of the dark?” The COO slammed the

~ 145 ~ receiver down. He picked up the phone again and dialed his VP of operations.

“Pack! Catch the dawn flight to Darwin. You need to find out what’s gone crazy out at Kakadu.”

The next afternoon, the hot red dust of Kakadu billowed up in thick dark whirlwinds as the corporation vice president arrived from Darwin by charter helicopter. The mines’ local leadership was on edge. A visit from corporate office was usually never good news.

The executive emerged from the craft and smoothed out his slate-gray, custom-tailored suit while descending the steps from the white and aqua-colored chopper. As he surveyed the scene stretching before him, displeasure was etched on his freshly shaven, cologne-splashed face.

Off in the distance, a group of miners were arguing with the foreman. Elsewhere, angry shouts could be heard coming from behind the equipment shed. There were no sounds of normal equipment operations to be heard. A handful of workers stumbled by, seemingly unable to walk normally; and their clothing was badly wrinkled.

“A bit early to be drinking, isn’t it, fellows?” The VP observed in disgust.

~ 146 ~

“The men haven’t been drinking. They just haven’t slept in two days. It’s impossible to function in this heat while sleep-deprived. You’ll see for yourself tonight.” The mine director tried to explain.

“We shall see.” The visiting executive continued scanning his surroundings.

Back at the tribal council circle, news had arrived that a helicopter had landed at the uranium mine earlier that afternoon. Some of the younger men were anxious and asked the elders what this development portended.

“Trouble.” The old man covered in intricate white markings spoke while staring into the fire. “Good Trouble.”

“What is good trouble?” Kenny ventured with a slight grin.

“Bad trouble for them, good trouble for us.” Another elder spoke in reply.

The old man elaborated. “Arrival by sky means big boss is checking up on smaller boss. Bad news for local boss. Now his word is being challenged. We will help.”

Some in the gathering asked what type of “concert” they should perform tonight for the visiting dignitary.

“None.” The elders counseled. “Tonight we are quiet.”

~ 147 ~

It was further determined that at close to midnight—but just before—there would be some noise. One scout team would be sent out, using their bullroarers skillfully to mimic the sound of a pack of dingoes.

As it was nearing midnight, the vice president of global operations was sitting in the office of the mine’s director, looking over production reports. The daily figures were way down. He glanced up at the clock which showed 11:45 p.m. and asked, “What time does the noise start?”

“The first time it was midnight.”

“Won’t be long, then.”

Just then, a wailing sound wafted into the room, followed by three short bursts of harsh guttural sounds. After a minute, the pattern was repeated, slightly louder. Several more minutes passed by, and the wailing sounded once more, fainter, as if from a greater distance.

The VP glared menacingly at the mine director. “I’ve been summoned to this miserable place just because you heard dingoes?”

Fighting off frustration and defeat, the camp director protested, “I’m telling you, it was much louder than that! Really weird, spooky sounds! Please, you have to believe me!”

“I’m going to bed,” the VP straightened his navy-blue silk tie and wiped a speck of dust from his glossy black shoes. “Good night!”

~ 148 ~

That night, no further sounds were heard. The mine director could not find any sleep, however. This will not look good in my personnel file.

In the early morning, the VP used his satellite phone to call his boss back in Sydney. His recommendation was that the mine director be replaced as soon as possible. The search for his successor should begin right away. He would report in more detail upon his return. He summoned his pilot and they took off, without a further word to anyone at the mine.

Word came back to the Kakadu mine by telegram later that day, relieving the director of his position. The shakeup did considerable damage to the morale and discipline of the workers. That night, the noises would start again in earnest.

This time, the onslaught of the bullroarers began early, at 10 p.m., and lasted for what seemed like an eternity, but was actually just an agonizing ten minutes. Then the horrendous noises began again at 2 a.m. and lasted only five minutes this time. A final assault of the miners’ ears took place just before dawn, lasting twenty minutes. The entire uranium crew had grown angry and listless. Their erstwhile director was powerless to restore order.

Production at the mine came to a screeching hold. Valuable equipment that needed to be kept in motion and serviced was abandoned, causing millions of dollars in damages. The paymaster flew in later that week, handing severance checks to the stalled workers.

The huge mining conglomerate advertised in all the major papers and trade journals for skilled mining workers. Great pay was promised. Long vacations, at company expense, to ~ 149 ~ the nearby tropical island of Bali were just some of the fringe benefits.

But the word had gone out from Bob Hawke’s contact to all the local union presidents that a boycott was in place. Not even one person applied for the job. When the company tried bringing in foreign workers, no taxi, bus, truck or train driver would transport them to the mine. Kakadu Uranium was effectively closed indefinitely.

Back in the national reserve, Kenny and Samson were treated to the equivalent of a coronation feast, with wild dancing displays and skillful melodies flowing from the digeridoos under starry skies that were no longer mired with pollution from the nearby mine.

When all the activity died down at dawn, Kenny remained wakeful, reflecting upon his stay at Kakadu.

They play songs thousands of years old, which have been handed down to them. They relate stories that are just as ancient. Their colorful histories and legends are preserved in their hearts—they have no written language to record their heritage in books.

Books can be burned, or stolen, or worse yet, purchased by those who do not believe or appreciate their truths. These ~ 150 ~ people carry their traditions within their spirits, and they roam over these thousands of square miles of open land, like tumbleweeds, carrying the seeds of the future with them.

The two Maoris—Samson and Kenny—remained steadfast in their devotion to improving the conditions of the tribes people throughout their long, colorful lives, until they too one day finally passed away at Kakadu.

As was the local custom, their names were no longer spoken by the Aboriginal people living there, out of respect for their resting spirits . . .

~ 151 ~

~ 152 ~

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN ,

WINTERS IN THE SCENIC TEXAS HILL COUNTRY weren’t ever snowy, but they could be chilly. There was a cozy fire roaring in the big sandstone fireplace of the spacious meeting room on the sprawling ranch that was nestled amongst a mesquite grove where the cult delegates had all gathered.

Senior cult leaders Douglas Peters and Paul Stephens were chatting with the new arrivals. They themselves had arrived several days before, hiding the large sums of cash, the new laptops, and sensitive cult documents in the secret compartments that had been specially built for them by the cult’s in-house craftsmen.

Back in the Vancouver area, agents swarmed the three cult residences where the top leadership and their staff hid out. ~ 153 ~

Two female FBI agents were tasked with finding Magnus Carter’s niece Windy and escorting her comfortably to safety far away from the impending fray. They posed as door-to-door cosmetic sales people.

No guns were drawn. This cult was very unlike the heavily- armed Branch Davidians in Axtell, Texas, near the city of Waco. These cultists had weird and loose concepts of sexual morality and the extended family unit, but their bans on weapons and more than two cups of coffee per day were ironclad.

“You could capture these clowns with a butterfly net.” The local director briefing the two agents had quipped earlier that day. “They might have baseball bats though, so be prepared to duck.”

A butterfly net of sorts had been constructed. Dozens of agents and local police ringed the perimeters of the three properties to prevent anyone escaping.

“Cindy” and “Jennifer” had free eyeliner samples ready to demonstrate. When Windy answered the front door herself, the two plainclothes agents breathed a sigh of relief, their task now made that much easier.

“Windy, your uncle Magnus is very ill. He’s sent us to inform you. We have a first-class plane ticket to Vienna for you, so you can go to him. If you have any problems getting permission to leave, we can help you. Do you want us to come in and help you pack?” The twin agents offered.

~ 154 ~

“No! Let’s go! Right now!” Windy whispered while glancing over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching them. She stepped outside and quietly closed the door behind her.

Their eyebrows raised, the two agents asked her if she was all right.

“I’ll be fine! But we must move quickly before they discover I’m gone. They’ll come after me to try to shame or blackmail me into staying.” Windy’s face flushed with apprehension.

Once they were all seated in the awaiting dark blue sedan, Jennifer turned to face Windy who was crouched down in the back seat, while Cindy navigated the narrow country roads of the British Columbian forests.

“Windy, we’re not cosmetic sales reps,” Jennifer began.

“I gathered that much! “Don’t take offense, but you two don’t really look like the types who are heavily into eyeliner—or lashes.”

Windy explained that she didn’t really care what they were selling, just so long as someone could offer her a means of escape. Adam and Evil had been a bit too friendly with her last night while they were in the midst of wooing the $250,000 from her and trying to convince Windy to donate all of her inheritance to the “greater good.”

Once they crossed the border into the continental U.S., the agents pulled over to a roadside diner. “Hungry?” Cindy asked.

“I am now! Starving! I want a huge, greasy cheeseburger, and a vanilla shake—and a cup of coffee!” Windy replied.

~ 155 ~

“More good news for you,” Jennifer offered as they slid into the diner’s red upholstered retro-style booth. “First of all, proper introductions: I’m Special Agent Jen Stroud. This is Special Agent Cynthia Powers.”

“And I’m Cinderella.”

Agent Powers tried plowing ahead seriously, stifling her grin. “Your uncle Magnus is fine. He was just worried about you, but his health is great. I’m sorry about the lie. We were tasked with getting you out of the house anyway we could, before the others were arrested.”

“You could have just said we were going out for burgers.”

“Huh?”

“I am done with that Crazy Town. Too bad about that quarter million though,” Windy thought of all the ways she could have used that money.

“What do you mean?” Agent Stroud prodded.

“I’m sure the money from my inheritance is scattered to the four winds by now. Daryl Toms and James Sherwood have already squirrelled away a bunch for reserves in hiding spots for the big leader Brandt Davis. The rest of my money went with major domos Douglas Peters and Paul Stephens to their summit in San Antonio.

“They are planning on distributing it to the various leaders to take back to their various continental HQs after the summit meeting. The idea was to decentralize the loot. ‘Don’t put all the eggs in one basket’ Davis was always

~ 156 ~ preaching.” The two FBI agents were busily scribbling notes as Windy Cook vented.

“How do you know all this, Windy?”

“There was a fellow there, Mike, who wanted out like I did. He was privy to all the top financial decisions and clued me in later.”

As the server brought their food, a male voice purred in Agent Powers’ right ear. “Package safe?”

Powers touched the tiny headset and then replied, “Yes.”

“Roundup underway. Standby for updates,” the voice advised.

While the three women devoured their burgers, Operation Cooked Goose swung into high gear. As anticipated, Toms and Sherwood readily gave up their superiors in hopes of facing lesser charges. The $50,000 that had been stashed away in the Vancouver safe houses was recovered. Toms confided that the two top leaders, Peters and Stephens, had taken the balance, $200,000 with them to Texas.

“You know, Toms, you would not have gotten far with this money anyways. It’s all marked,” the arresting Interpol Agent gloated.

“But how? I checked those bills carefully. I didn’t see any signs they had been marked. How did you mark them?” The cult accountant couldn’t accept he’d been outwitted.

“Well, that’s our little secret technology. Let’s just say it’s your ‘tax dollars at work.’ Well, probably none of your tax

~ 157 ~ dollars, I guess. I understand how you people operate. Or rather, how you used to operate!”

Two thousand miles away, near San Antonio, the mobile command unit for the joint task force was buzzing with activity. Alexander Stein was at the main computer station. This field HQ vehicle was receiving regular updates from the agents watching the site of the cult’s global leadership meeting.

Each agent had a file of the names and headshots of each leader who was due to attend. As each arriving attendee was reported, the checklist at Alex’s HQ was marked off accordingly. The number of unchecked squares was rapidly dwindling.

“All accounted for!” Alex announced just minutes before twilight.

“Alpha team, secure the immediate perimeter! Bravo team, prepare to enter on my command!” The commander’s voice sounded in each headset.

Nearby, two helo units were readied and prepared to take off, should aerial reconnaissance be needed.

Teams of three officers advanced towards each of the buildings’ five doorways. Additional teams of two officers

~ 158 ~ each were assigned to every window. Reserve teams of spotters watched the roof, and the two driveways.

“Enter!” came the command, as fifteen well-trained agents entered the facility simultaneously, abruptly ending the evening meal.

Leaders were separated from the staff and held in the big dining room. The staff members were ushered into the nearby den. Cult-busting experts had informed the task force that staff members were not privy to the same information as were the leaders. Thus, they’d not signed the confidentiality agreement that the leaders had, and were not liable to charges of conspiracy to obstruct justice.

This distinction would be used as leverage.

“Which of you built the hiding spaces?” Agent Howard demanded.

When silence prevailed, he explained further.

“What is hidden in those spaces is subject to an ongoing criminal investigation. Not having pre-knowledge of that fact renders you immune from the same prosecution facing the leaders of this gathering. However, if you fail to cooperate now with our questioning, you will be charged with obstruction of justice, just as your leaders.”

~ 159 ~

The mute gathering stirred, but no one spoke yet. There was a simmering but suppressed resentment of the second- class treatment that non-leaders received. Since secret cult information was the preferred currency of reward in such circles, leaders lorded their superiority by what they knew more than by what they possessed.

“What do you want from us?” Ben Stiles asked. Stiles was the lead contractor on-site, responsible for designing all the additions and alterations to the structure.

Special Agent Howard declared loudly for all to hear, “Your leaders have stashed away $200,000 in cash somewhere in this building. That money was taken across international borders undeclared and is subject to seizure. Additionally, there is computer equipment and documents designed for use in a conspiracy to obstruct justice.

“We are not leaving here without all of it! If you cooperate, those of you in this room will be free to leave. If you fail to cooperate, then we will include you with those that we arrest tonight. The choice is up to you. You are under no legal obligation to cover for your bosses. You know that they would throw any one of you under the bus to protect their own necks. So, how about it, folks?”

“I can show you where those two jefes have their rooms.” Rosa Contreras, the cook, volunteered.

Stiles motioned to his three handymen. “Show the police the hidey-holes, men.”

The agents followed the three workers. Cleverly designed recesses in the walls and furniture were accessed by

~ 160 ~ pushing or pulling nearly invisible buttons that looked just like screws or nail heads. Once deployed, the spaces opened and yielded up their treasure troves.

The property officers gathered and cataloged the cash and laptops against their checklists. Once it was ascertained that all had been recovered, they reported back to HQ.

“All inventory accounted for” was the message they sent.

“Debrief the staff and issue their instructions,” came the reply.

Each of the staff members was given a set of instructions as to where and when they should report in, should their testimony be required. Once a copy was made of each one’s ID, they were allowed to pack their bags to leave. An unmarked dark blue bus was waiting to take them into town, to the hotel accommodations which had been arranged for this purpose.

Back in the dining room, the lead interrogator sat at the table, staring at the documents in front of him. After he received word through his earpiece that all of the staff members had been safely escorted off the property, he then cleared his throat.

“Your staff has all departed. We have recovered all the cash and laptops and other documents that your top leaders had ~ 161 ~ hidden in secret compartments here. Since we confiscated the money before the plan was set in motion for you to transport the funds back to your various secret locations around the globe, most of you will be spared the felony charge of illegally moving undeclared cash across international borders. Your leaders had planned on asking you to commit that crime. So, thank God for small favors.

“However, we have electronic documentation that each of you signed, promising to keep information of a possible criminal nature confidential so as to protect your big leader, Brandt Davis. This felony you will be charged with, unless you choose to fully cooperate with us.”

Bedlam broke out as soon as the Special Agent finished these words. Accusations against Douglas Peters and Paul Stephens flew back and forth across the room like mortar fire, while the two accused senior cult leaders cringed, ashen-faced and disheartened by the sudden mass desertion of loyalty.

Some of the middle-level leaders sensed that perhaps their situation was still not quite secure, and thus they set about ratting on each other’s indiscretions to which they had been privy. Confessions had been a regular feature used to keep loyalty and order within the ranks. Now the weapon backfired.

When all the shouting and screaming stopped, the officer in charge spoke again.

“Before we consider waiving charges against any of you, you must do two things: first you must sign a written statement, attesting to what you’ve just been yelling about. ~ 162 ~

Secondly, you must give us the address of your secret office location back home. Once we have determined that the information you give us is correct, we will proceed to decide your fate.”

Interpol had contacted law enforcement authorities in each of the cities where the task force had already determined that the leaders resided. Teams around the globe were on standby, waiting from word from central command.

One-by-one, the national cult leaders gave up the address of their local office. This information was relayed from the meeting house to the mobile command unit stationed nearby. The San Antonio field office then relayed the intel to the relevant national authorities, who gave their readied teams the instructions.

Teams of tech experts, accountants, security whizzes and behavioral specialists descended on each center, much as had just been done in the Texan Hill Country. Once each location had been located, searched and secured, word was relayed back to central joint command that the regional cult center had been rendered inoperative.

Once all seven regional cult centers had been neutralized, the senior leaders booked on felony charges, and the long- sought-after Adam and Evil were in custody and pending trial for very serious charges, the long-haired technician turned to his silver-haired CIA superior and quipped, “Looks like the old bull got them all, after all!”

Tony Michaels wandered into the e-room crammed with computers, radio and other electronic gadgetry and looked

~ 163 ~ for Stein. Alexander was in a corner recess, staring at a computer screen showing the results of the mission.

“Hey Alex, long time, no see!” Tony chirped merrily. He had not seen Stein since their days in Hong Kong. Then they had ventured across the newly reopened Chinese border into the sleepy village of Shenzhen, which had since burgeoned into one of the world’s leading industrial centers.

“Mitch! Is that you?” Stein replied cautiously. A decade of hectic travels and Tony’s thick black beard stood between Alex’s memory and the person he was now talking to. Tony detected a small tear in the corner of his old friend’s sharp eyes.

“Yes, guilty as charged. How are you, Alex? You all right?”

Alex nodded. “Yes. Just a bit overwhelmed right now. I felt that for so long I was hoping against hope that Cooked Goose was going to be the success we planned for. Now that it has come to pass, the relief is stunning.

“I’m thinking of the thousands of folks who are discovering new-found freedoms today since we dismantled this cult’s leadership. No more drinking the Kool-Aid. No more . . .”

Stein’s voice caught when he mentioned “Kool-Aid” because it brought back the horrid images of the hundreds of dead in the wake of the Jonestown cult mass suicide decades ago—a tragedy he had vowed to prevent from reoccurring, if he was ever given the chance.

Regaining his composure, Alex continued, “These good folks are now free to operate according to their own convictions, believe what they know to be true deep within ~ 164 ~ their hearts, and raise their own families with all the love and skill they can possibly provide. They can choose whatever careers or endeavors they see fit. They can pursue their own happiness.”

~ 165 ~

~ 166 ~

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN ,

MID-JULY WAS WINTER IN THE SOUTHERN HEMISPHERE. In Sydney, Australia, a damp chill greeted Alexa as she awoke. The night before, she had read the report of the success of her friends’ intervention on behalf of the native peoples of the Northern Territories. Jim Cairns’ help had been instrumental in Kenny and Samson’s crusade to save the tribe at Kakadu from being poisoned by the encroaching uranium mines.

Alexa smiled as she thought once more about that happy news from half a continent away. As she sipped at her steaming mug of coffee, she tightened her plush olive-green bathrobe about her. The robe’s color served well to bring out the beautiful hues dancing across her bright pupils, now reflecting from the surface of her morning brew. Alexa stared down into her coffee mug, as if expecting to see a vision.

And there it was. She was back in St. Mary’s Cathedral, on her wedding day, enveloped with the beauty and pageantry of the special event and surrounded by loving friends and family members. Today was their 15th anniversary. Mitch had been gone for nearly three years now.

~ 167 ~

Her reverie was interrupted by the doorbell. She frowned. Who would be calling this early? Reluctantly, she pulled herself from the comfortable armchair and crossed the tiled living room floor. When she opened the door, she was rewarded for her efforts with fifteen beautiful long- stemmed red roses. Peering around the bouquet to see who was bearing them, Alexa was pleasantly surprised to see the welcome face of a dear old friend. It was Father Ed.

“May I come in?” The priest shivered in the unseasonably cold morning air. “It’s fifteen years today, right?”

Alexa nodded as she opened the door wide, and gestured for her visitor to join her in the cozy living room. Father Ed had presided over Mitch and Alexa Hawkins’ marriage ceremony in the stately cathedral. Her eyes welled up with tears at the thought of this man’s ever-present kindness, and at the remembrance of those happier days. It was a few moments before she speak.

“You know, Mitch used to give me long-stemmed roses each year,” the words finally coming to her again.

“I know. I’m just filling in for Mitch until he can do it again himself.” Ed acknowledged as he looked about the room.

“Well, I’ll be an old lady by then, and no longer able to count the roses. Some coffee, perhaps?” she offered, somewhat regaining her composure.

“Maybe not,” he countered.

“No coffee? Why not? I’m pretty good at making coffee at least!” Alexa pretended to be offended.

~ 168 ~

“I mean, maybe you won’t be that old,” the priest explained cryptically.

“You know something I don’t?” the widow challenged.

“We all know something that others don’t know.”

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Father Ed stirred the conversation with a new topic. “I’m here to talk about Marc’s project.”

Father Ed had met Marc when Alexa’s family had first arrived in Australia from the Philippines. At that time, Marc was still helping her with her two children. He had since moved to Tamworth, about 250 miles to the north.

A cardinal at the Vatican, who had CIA connections, had asked the Sydney priest to look in on Mrs. Hawkins as she adjusted to her altered situation as a widow. The Holy See remained indebted to Mitch’s former Yang spy team who had forwarded crucial info to the Polish church authorities, thus helping thwart an assassination attempt on the Pontiff.

After Marc had helped Alexa and the kids get settled into their Killara home upon their return from Manila, he headed home to Tamworth. On that train ride, he met Annie, a divorcee doing her best to parent her two young, energetic sons.

For the longest time, Marc did not notice the pretty, freckled-faced, sandy-blonde woman seated across from him. His mind was lost in nostalgic ruminations over his young buddy, Jimmy, who had just bid him a sad goodbye for the second time.

~ 169 ~

Annie’s younger son broke the ice, climbing up next to Marc on the big, dark-green upholstered leather train seat and announcing boldly, “Let’s play a game!”

Annie’s son brought Marc back into the present time. They played I Spy and 20 Questions for hours. Satisfied, the boy curled up and took a nap. Johnnie was his name.

“Johnnie likes you!” Annie said as her conversation opener.

“He’s a great kid! Where’re you headed?” Marc inquired.

“Tamworth,” was her auspicious reply.

On a Christmas day they married. “Best present I ever had,” they both would profess, whenever others would ask why on earth they got married on Christmas, of all days.

They would remain partners for life. Marc coached Annie’s two boys, who grew up to become fine, handsome athletes, both excelling in track and swimming meets.

Marc also ran a summer camp for amputees, and later he fielded a rugby team which dubbed themselves “Bits and Pieces.” More bits and pieces would be coming his way soon . . .

~ 170 ~

Back in the hills of Los Alamos, New Mexico, Shanahan’s off- the-books mission to rehabilitate and recycle broken down ex-agents was going quite well. June’s visit had done the trick. Billy immediately recognized the old baseball bat, and received the cryptic message that Mitch Hawkins was alive. And now, as Professor Blackwater, he was once again very focused and energetically pursuing his mission.

But despite making good progress recovering mentally and emotionally, some of these ex-agents he worked with were rather beat up physically as well. They needed more than what Billy could give them in a classroom setting.

They needed special facilities and the right personnel who would understand where they were coming from, in order to help care for them.

Billy Shanahan knew about Marc resettling in Tamworth, Australia. Would he be interested in helping rehabilitate old spies? He called his superiors to run the idea by them.

“We’ll run this by Alexa first. She’ll know best how Marc would handle this idea,” was their guarded reply.

Alexa thought the project might be good for Marc. He still had some anger issues he needed to work through. But his farm was not the place for an odd assortment of recycled spooks. Annie had her own kids to raise, after all.

Father Ed had come to tell Alexa that a local diocese had some unused, secluded rural property in the Tamworth region that had been willed to the local church by a rich parishioner. It could be ideal for what Shanahan’s folks needed.

~ 171 ~

“Can you ask Marc if he’s interested? I can’t be on record officially offering to give away church property, you know.” He laughed. Father Ed already had his superiors worried enough over his rather radical views. Giving over church property to the CIA might be the last straw.

“Thanks, Ed. I’ll call Marc and Annie later on today. Leave me the details and location, so they can check it out. I’ll let you know tomorrow. And thanks again for the roses!” She saw him to the door, and then poured herself a fresh cup of coffee.

It all comes out in the wash, doesn’t it?

“How dare they think I would want to help him!” The phone nearly broke in two from the violent way Marc slammed down the receiver. His face was crimson. He kicked at Johnny’s soccer ball angrily, knocking over an antique lamp and then stormed from the living room and out onto the broad front porch. The screen door rattled behind him.

Annie took a deep breath. This wasn’t the time to fuss about the loss of her grandmother’s favorite lamp. Her husband hardly ever lost his temper. He was obviously hurting bad inside. Could she draw him out of his shell? “Who is this guy who’s gotten under his skin?” She followed Marc outside.

“What’s up?” She mustered as much calmness as she could.

~ 172 ~

“Shanahan! The monster tried to kill us, I’m pretty sure.” In Marc’s mind he was once again back in that horrible hill fire on Lantau Island, Hong Kong, racing down the path to safety with Alexa and the two Hawkins kids.

“Maybe he’s changed,” she offered hopefully.

“Changed! Ha! Nobody changes that much!” he yelled.

“You did,” Annie observed softly, glancing at the stump that was once Marc’s left arm.

Late last November, when they were dating, and it became obvious that things between them were taking a more serious turn, Marc had confided to Annie about his past. He felt it was only fair that she knew who it was she was considering for her future husband.

Marc told her about his wild past, running with the Sydney chapter of Hells Angels bikers. He’d lost his arm in a horrid motorcycle wreck which was the culmination of a weekend of drug-and-alcohol-fueled fighting and bike racing.

His heavy motorcycle had flipped, and caught fire. His left arm was pinned inside the drive chain. Knowing he only had seconds before his bike exploded and incinerated him, Marc took the only viable option left to him: he used his big fighting knife to cut off the arm that was caught in the motorbike, and rolled away, just in time. ~ 173 ~

Marc Thomas awoke from his coma in a hospital three weeks later, a changed person. His life had been spared. He couldn’t envision himself returning to his former life of recklessness and mindless violence. A cloud temporarily obscured his sunny mood as he took inventory and noticed that he was missing an arm.

Annie had listened intently, silently, throughout Marc’s confession, peering deep into his soft, gentle brown eyes. When he finished, he hung his head, anticipating the worst. Rejection.

Annie had then gently lifted Marc’s chin with her two outstretched hands and pronounced, “When you cut off that arm, you also cut off all that was bad and destructive in your life.” Her big smile told him that she loved him unconditionally. They married the following month.

Marc noticed Annie looking at the stump of his left arm, and glanced down at it himself, and then blushed. “Well, maybe you’re right. I could use a fresh challenge.”

“Let’s call Alexa! Maybe she and the kids can come for a visit!” Marc quickly brightened up at Annie’s suggestion.

Alexa was only too happy to hear from Marc and Annie. Her son Jimmy could not get her packed up quickly enough. “Hurry, Mom, we’ll be late for the express train!” he kept urging impatiently. “Come on, turtle!” he yelled at Sally. ~ 174 ~

At the end of their week-long visit Jimmy did not want to leave Marc’s farm. He loved the wide open spaces of the countryside around Tamworth. And he loved Marc. His time on the farm reminded him of how much he missed his dad. It had been bittersweet for Alexa watching the two of them frolic about on the farm.

Prying Jimmy away from Marc, Alexa grabbed Marc’s right arm. She leaned in to kiss him on the cheek and whispered “thank you!” through her tears.

Marc and Annie saw them off at the Tamworth train station for the 3:17 p.m. express to Sydney Central. The late night chats they had with Alexa over the past few days convinced them that it was indeed a worthy project.

On her return to Sydney, Alexa called Father Ed and asked him to proceed with transferring the property title.

~ 175 ~

~ 176 ~

CHAPTER NINETEEN ,

OVER THE NEXT EIGHT WEEKS, BATCHES OF EX-AGENTS arrived at Tamworth in small groups. Travel had been by jet, by yachts, by train, by car, and finally by helicopter. Marc had stipulated that the arrivals were blindfolded for the final leg of the journey. He did not want any trouble returning to find his family, once all these visitors finished their training.

Bobby Murphy’s silver Sikorsky helicopter was kept busy, ferrying the trainees to Marc and Annie’s property. They all grumbled and cursed at the obligatory blindfolds, but in the end, each one acquiesced.

“I know for sure I wouldn’t invite any one of you onto my property!” one of the former CIA agents quipped to his peers, indicating that he fully appreciated Marc’s situation.

Their sour mood quickly dissipated upon arrival. Marc’s effervescent attitude was contagious. The barbecue feast that his Annie had prepared and waiting helped too. Teams of three or four men were assigned to various bunkhouses scattered around the perimeter of the clearing. Once all the guests were glutted with hot food and cold beers, they

~ 177 ~ meandered off in small groups, recounting former glory days or venting their suspicions over their futures.

Marc had decades of experience—some might wryly call it “first hand”—in coping with life minus a major body part. His strategy was never to concede to: “I can’t do this because,” but instead to focus determinedly on: “how in blazes am I going to do this?”

He always did.

Now his big challenge would be to convince this ragtag assortment of ex-warriors and spies to consider themselves fully functional, regardless of the absent arm or leg or eye they might have lost in service to their country, or through some other foolhardy escapade.

Some trainees on Marc’s make-shift range with only one functioning eye claimed their sniper skills had actually improved. Some boasted close groupings on the two-mile targets after a few days practice. “We don’t squint, ha!”

The obstacle courses were like none the ex-agents had ever seen before. They were not tidy, well-arranged structures. Instead, they resembled some nightmarish explosion of bits and pieces, held together by whim and crossed fingers. Near to the various structures everywhere was detritus— scattered bits of discarded rope, wire and various lengths of metal poles and wooden beams and so forth.

“Life is seldom tidy!” Coach Marc opined regularly when one of his students complained about the mess. Eventually the trainees discovered that like the broken pieces of their

~ 178 ~ lives, the random debris offered opportunities to improvise and solve problems difficult to do under “ideal” conditions.

“ ‘Bits and pieces!’—That’s all you need—that, and a good imagination.” Marc loved that '60s Dave Clark Five tune and often hummed it as he dispensed his wisdom around camp.

Six weeks into the course, a celebration was in progress, replete with a full array of Annie’s grilled treats. They had reached a milestone in their training. Earlier that day, all firearms had been locked down while the competitions for hand-to-hand combat were in full sway. The weapons were all still in the lockers.

A battered, black, maniacally-driven Range Rover furiously approached the property, emerging from the cover of the rapidly moving dust storm it generated.

The vehicle careened out of control, and then suddenly it straightened as it headed directly towards the locked front gate. The shattered bits of fencing showered down on the gathering. As the vehicle was still screeching to a violent stop, a man seemingly possessed jumped through driver’s side window, brandishing two black M1911 pistols, .45 rounds bouncing off the picnic tables.

“Who wants to die first, you bunch of sick traitors?” The challenge thundered from the madman’s foaming lips.

One of the camp trainees named Rob stepped clear of the rest of the gathered agents and faced their assailant. His specialty was the boomerang. He was deadly accurate within 300 yards. There was no trusty boomerang at his

~ 179 ~ disposal this time, however—only the roast turkey leg he had been happily gnawing on until this current disruption.

“You can start with me,” Rob said steadily in a voice just above a whisper that still managed to convey a threat of violent confidence.

The intruder sniggered. “Let’s survey this pathetic hero of yours who stepped forward. From that black patch, I’ll assume he’s missing an eye. That’s bad for stereo vision. Next, it seems he’s missing an arm. What is this? The Special Olympics of the Outback?

“You bunch know why I’m here? Right? You all sold out! You all got the shaft from your beloved government, and yet here you are, signing up for more duty with what’s left of your pathetic bodies. I’m the death angel, here to put you all out of your misery!” The gunman laughed heartily at his own joke.

“No misery here, stranger! That is, except for you,” Annie challenged.

At that moment, the gunman’s crazed confidence overrode his training, and he allowed his focus to be altered at the sound of the angry woman’s voice. Rob seized upon that split-second of opportunity and launched his half-eaten turkey leg across the gap between him and his would-be assassin. The bone found its mark and pierced the death angel’s eye and entered the brain cavity, sending the intruder to his knees from the excruciating pain.

Rob’s training buddy, Tyrone Powers, had been watching intently. The moment Rob’s turkey leg went airborne,

~ 180 ~

Powers rushed forward, uncoupling his titanium prosthetic left arm. He deftly spun it around, and grasped the wrist end with his good hand. In two lightning strikes, he brought his unbreakable device down squarely on the gunman’s wrists, breaking them both.

Rob kicked one of the two big pistols away from the fallen man while Tyrone quickly did the same with the other. While the guns were still midair, “Willy” was unwinding the long red cloth he always kept wrapped around his head. As the two large handguns thudded to the ground, he was upon the stricken man, tying his arms tightly behind him. The crisis was all over in just a heartbeat.

Staring down at their moaning captive, Willy asked Rob, “Want your turkey leg back?” He motioned as if to pluck it from the man’s skull.

“I thought you always wore that silly red bandana thing cuz you had ugly hair!” Rob said.

“No, it’s in honor of Willy Nelson. Love that guy’s music!”

“Oh, that explains everything, I guess, but no thanks, I think I’ll get a fresh one. That one’s likely to be cold by now.”

“Find out this mutt’s name,” Marc ordered. By this time, three of the camp’s best snipers had retrieved their weapons. They had the party crasher surrounded. They put their guns back on safety before long, though. Within a few minutes, the intruder’s body was just as cold as Rob’s old turkey leg.

“Oh, and good job, guys! Everyone remember this day—a turkey leg, a false arm and a sweaty old headband beat two ~ 181 ~ loaded M1911s in combat. Bits and Pieces!” He hummed happily to himself, contented that his work was nearly complete with this current group of trainees.

“Who gets the creep’s 1911s?” Rob wanted to know.

“I do!” Annie claimed. “After all, it was my cooking that killed the bastard.”

A team was quickly assembled to do the forensics. The dead trespasser carried no ID. There were no papers in the Range Rover. The VIN numbers were missing from the dashboard and doorway. The number on the engine block had been filed off. Ditto for the serial numbers on the two classic pistols.

“Do we have a back channel we can use for DNA testing?” One of the investigators asked.

The top-secret training facility did have a shadowy, distant handler. Communication was necessarily circuitous so as to be secure. After some weeks, the answer came back to the team still at Tamworth.

As it turns out, this attack had been a very long time in the planning.

Billy Shanahan had two other rogue dark ops agents with him the night they had set fire to the hillside surrounding

~ 182 ~ the Yang team’s Noodle Shop safe house nestled in the hills of Lantau Island, near Hong Kong. One of those two agents grew suspicious of the delay Billy had taken in leading their team’s attack. Billy’s back was broken in their operation that night and he was whisked off to receive emergency treatment and identity cover before his subordinate could challenge him.

Captain Omar Kellogg would have to bide his time, and watch carefully. From a bribed tip-off, Kellogg discovered that Shanahan had been secreted away to the Virgin Islands for recovery. The captain pulled some strings and got himself assigned to Billy’s security detail. The captain’s file was exemplary and there was no reason to suspect him of any malfeasance.

When Shanahan recovered and began his debriefing, Omar then learned of his former commander’s plan to see that all rogue agents were rounded up and decommissioned. He would need to hide in open sight to avoid a court-martial.

When William Shanahan finally re-emerged as Professor Blackwater of the Los Alamos retraining center, Captain Omar Kellogg was one of the first former black operations agents to sign up for the rehabilitation program’s pioneer class. There he bided his time, hoping “Blackwater” would slip up and provide a clue as to what had happened on that midnight mission half a world away.

Omar got his answer when June Hawkins showed up one day with a baseball bat and entered the professor’s office. Captain Kellogg hung around outside the office, pretending to have a question about a class assignment. He overheard Blackwater whisper enthusiastically, and a bit too loudly, ~ 183 ~

“so Mitch is OK?!” Upon hearing this, Omar quietly slipped away unnoticed.

To Kellogg’s way of thinking, his former superior, then Billy Shanahan, was clearly admitting to treason. The Fire Department branch of the Yin CIA division had taken it upon themselves to eliminate those fellow agents who they deemed had crossed over the line to the unpatriotic, due to their liberal political leanings. By not completing their mission, Shanahan was equally unpatriotic. He had to pay for his crime.

Kellogg thought long about how he wanted to exact his revenge on Shanahan, who was now masquerading safely as the mild-mannered Professor Blackwater. Perhaps there was something even better than death in the realm of revenge, he pondered. Then it struck him. A rare smile spread across Omar’s face. It was the smile of an assassin whose longed-for quarry just appeared in his rifle scope.

Omar had remained on the very best, most cooperative, and most receptive behavior in order to earn his way into Blackwater’s inner circle of most trusted trainees. When he heard of Blackwater’s cherished new plan to send disabled agents to Marc’s “Bits and Pieces” farm in the Australian Outback, Kellogg knew what he could do to best hurt his former commander. He would not kill Shanahan, but he would kill his dream instead.

Captain Kellogg had no significant physical disability which qualified him for the trip to that experimental retraining program in Tamworth. But he was able to learn of its secret location when he helped with the logistics as the team members made their travel preparations. ~ 184 ~

Then he had a very long, six-week wait. During that time, he passed the hours lovingly cleaning and oiling the vintage .45 sidearms he’d inherited from his grandfather, readying them for their one glorious final mission. On those traitors’ graduation day.

“Have Marc and Annie feed him to the dingoes!” That was the suggestion Shanahan made upon hearing of the foiled treachery of his former spy partner Kellogg.

Those wild dogs of the Australian Outback were that lucky continent’s alpha predators in the absence of anything bigger or meaner. One feral dog to another.

~ 185 ~

~ 186 ~

CHAPTER TWENTY,

SALLY HAWKINS WAS TURNING EIGHTEEN SOON. Her mom, Alexa, wanted to do something very special for their “baby.” Jimmy had already begun his studies in an exclusive degree program in specialized electrical engineering.

Alex Stein had sent a glowing recommendation letter to his Cal Tech alumni contacts on the admissions board, which was instrumental in the young Hawkins garnering a coveted scholarship.

Sally wanted to pursue a career in pediatric medicine. Grandma Shelly in faraway West Bush was so proud of her son’s kids. The neighbors heard about them all the time.

“What would you like for your birthday, Sally?”

“How about a pony, Mom?” she quipped.

“No, honey, be serious!”

“OK! World peace would be nice,” Sally mused.

“Sally! Focus!”

“OK Mom, just teasing! I know what I really, really want!”

~ 187 ~

“And that is?”

“A big reunion!”

“What kind of reunion?” Her mom was perplexed. Sally was not the type to collect multitudes of friends.

“Dad’s old gang. From when we were little. You know, the spies!” Sally was just a little girl when her dad’s team of CIA operatives, the “Yang” roamed the globe for two decades of undercover exploits during those times of very tumultuous upheavals in the established order.

“I’m not sure that’s even possible.”

“Mom, you remember what Dad always taught us!”

“Yes: ‘anything is possible if you have the right people.’ ”

“Well? Don’t you think Dad knows the right people?”

Dad was back.

After his three-year absence while he was officially dead, Mitch Hawkins one day suddenly quietly resurfaced in Sydney, very much alive and much to the shocked surprise of his wife and two children. They celebrated their reunion with a year-long vacation, touring around the vast continent of Australia in their RV.

Upon returning to their north Sydney suburban home, Mitch took up writing. In between penning spy novels, he was commissioned to write political analysis papers for Monash University’s Sustainable Development Institute. His first-hand experience working in various strategic centers of change around the globe was highly valued. ~ 188 ~

When asked by those unfamiliar with his extensive, colorful background what exactly he did for a living, he’d often quip, “I’m now an armchair world traveler” or “I’m a stay-at- home spy.”

Sally’s dad did, in fact, still know just the right people. Mitch Hawkins’ former handlers and supervisors had a soft spot in their stony hearts for his family. They felt they owed the family special consideration, after subjecting them to the agony of thinking Mitch was dead for three long years.

“I’ll ask him, Sally, but I’m not sure how he’ll feel about all that.”

“Thanks Mom! That will be the last big present I ever ask for! I promise!”

Alexa rolled over in bed that night and whispered in her husband’s ear. “What do you think of getting the old gang back together?”

Mitch sat up, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “I’m too old for all that action. I’ve retired for good! You really want to go traipsing around the world again?”

“No dear,” Alexa purred. “I was thinking more along the lines of them coming here.”

~ 189 ~

“What on earth for? Those rascals would be no end of trouble!” Mitch protested.

“It’s for Sally. That’s what she requested for her eighteenth birthday present.” Alexa knew she’d touched his soft spot.

“Really? She didn’t ask for the pony?” Mitch referred to his daughter’s annual jest.

“Hmm. That could be fun, or at least definitely interesting. Let me make some calls, honey. But we can’t have them meet here. We’ll need to meet far, far away from our neighbors, or we’ll forever be answering questions we can’t answer. Alexa, why don’t you call your old admirer at the cathedral? See if he knows if Tony is still kicking.”

“You mean that parishioner of Father Ed’s who lent us his fantastic hideaway in Kangaroo Valley for our honeymoon? Oh Mitch, you’re not going all romantic on me, are you?” his wife teased. Besides being an extraordinarily talented intelligence officer, Mitch was a hopeless romantic.

“Not with all those spooks around! They would ruin the mood. No, I’m thinking more of the total isolation of that place. I bet you still can’t get any cell phone signals down there. It would be the perfect getaway for ‘men with a past.’ ”

Mitch was warming to the idea.

~ 190 ~

“Hi, Magnus! Tony here. How’s that favorite niece of mine, Windy, doing?”

With some special help from personnel department at CIA headquarters in Langley, Mitch had been able track down the now-retired diplomat who was living privately in deep seclusion.

The mellifluous voice of Magnus Carter purred in Mitch’s phone. “She’s doing great. She is the new U.S. Ambassador to Hungary now. I’ll never forget what you folks did for her. To think of the career she might have missed. . .”

Magnus continued after regaining his composure. “What can I do for you, my dear friend?”

“I’m thinking of getting the old gang back together. I need help rounding them up, but strictly under the radar. I don’t want all the new young feathers at CIA headquarters in Langley getting ruffled.”

“Why, you old goat, you! You’re planning on another regime change somewhere? What continent haven’t you messed with yet? You know, I hear that things are heating up in Antarctica!” Magnus teased.

“No, Magnus, nothing that exciting. I’m just trying to fulfill my baby daughter’s eighteenth birthday wish. She stopped asking for the usual pony. Now she wants to meet all the old spies her dad ran with when she was little.”

“I’m invited, right?” was Carter’s immediate reaction.

Mitch was touched. His life had always been so busy that he hadn’t often stopped to reflect on the positive impact he’d

~ 191 ~ had on the lives of the many people whose paths he had crossed at one time or another.

Meanwhile, his wife Alexa was able to reach Father Ed at the Cathedral in Sydney, who agreed to assign his secretary to tracking down Tony Walsh, the owner of the splendid ranch property in the Kangaroo Valley. By the end of the next week, Tony and the keys to his country property had been located.

“Tony says to wish you ‘Happy Anniversary!’ ” were the first words Alexa heard on her phone early that Friday morning. “I have the keys here at the rectory. But I won’t relinquish them without first seeing you and giving you all a kiss on the forehead,” Father Ed bargained.

“Jimmy says he’ll come if you let him play that big organ in the cathedral,” Alexa countered.

“We shall see about that. I’ll have to make sure the head organist is out of town. He is very possessive over his baby. It cost millions. Took a lot of collections to pay for it!”

Alexa and the kids caught the train from the nearby Killara station and rode into downtown Sydney, alighting at St. James station. They crossed Hyde Park, walking past the Archibald Fountain. “Look at all those coins in the water!” Jimmy’s keen eyes spotted an opportunity.

~ 192 ~

“It is bad luck to touch any of those coins in the fountain, Jimmy!” his sister Sally replied prissily.

“It’s even worse luck to be poor, too!” Jimmy quipped.

Alexa intervened. “Come on, you two! Father Ed is waiting for us!”

The three of them then crossed busy College Street and climbed the vast stone steps of the main southern entrance to the imposing Gothic-style old structure. Jimmy bounded up the 36 steps two-at-a-time, arriving breathless at the massive entrance doorway. The priest’s broad smile was waiting there to greet him—and moments later his mom and sister when they too had climbed the last step. “Come in, my dear friends!”

As they entered the semi-darkened huge interior of the vast church, Father Ed remarked nonchalantly, “I hear you play the organ, young man.”

Alexa’s son was speechless with delight. He followed the cleric up the stairs to the gallery built around the rose window in the western transept. His host motioned him to be seated at the console. “Play us a tune.”

Jimmy glanced around at the massive collection of pipes. He was intimidated by the highly polished mahogany console, with its rows of keyboards, numerous ivory-knobbed stops, and full set of foot pedals. What if I break it? He lost his nerve to attempt the Pachelbel Canon in D major he had practiced. He decided on playing something simpler.

“Take a bow!” Sally hollered when Jimmy finished his much abbreviated recital. ~ 193 ~

Jimmy turned red when Father Ed laughed heartily, “Well, I don’t think ‘Jingle Bells’ has ever been played on that organ before, Jimmy!”

Seeing Jimmy’s beet-red cheeks, their host quickly changed the subject.

“Now, away with all of us to the rectory for tea, before the guardians of the faith catch us trespassing in here!”

“Family reunion?” He asked Alexa, over tea and scones.

“Of a sort. Mitch’s old buddies from ‘work.’ ”

“How I’d love to be a fly on the wall at that gathering! What a world you people have created with all your secret spy activities! You know, it might not be a bad idea for you to have a priest on hand, just in case someone needs the last rites administered to them. I’ve heard enough of Mitch’s stories to know that it is a rather dangerous profession.”

“Or maybe you’d be handy, in case there is a wedding, or a christening. You never know what can happen with that gang,” Alexa joined in jest before growing silent, serious.

“I’ll ask Mitch. A prayer of blessing might be in order. . .”

“By the way, Tony said to warn you he’s installed a new gate at the entrance to his property. The key is on this ring. He’s put fencing around the property to keep the dingoes ~ 194 ~ out. There’s a nice flock of sheep there now that he wants to fatten for market, and he doesn’t want those wild dogs to get any free samples. He asked me to stress that you keep the gate closed.”

Alexa nodded that she understood the instructions that Father Ed had relayed from their host. She squeezed his hand goodbye.

~ 195 ~

~ 196 ~

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE ,

SHORTLY AFTER DAWN ON SALLY’S BIRTHDAY, a colorful parade of guests began arriving at the gathering spot in the Kangaroo Valley. First to arrive were the pair of Kiwis from across the Tasman Sea, Matt and Simon. Their silver Range Rover came to a screeching halt outside the locked heavy steel gate which was painted a royal blue color. “Beeeep!”

Mitch stumbled sleepily to the gate with the key.

“You got ice here, Mitch?” was Matt’s way of greeting.

“Bit early to start drinking, isn’t it, guys?” he grumbled. The coffee was not even brewed yet.

“The ice is for these fish.” Simon jerked his thumb in the direction of a Styrofoam cooler in the back of the vehicle. Its white sides were emblazoned with bright red crosses on all four sides.

“Rainbow trout, fresh from the cold Eglington River. Compliments of our great South Island of New Zealand.” ~ 197 ~

Matt gestured towards the Red Cross markings on the ice chest. He raised his eyebrows, as a question for Simon, who quickly responded defensively, feigning insult.

“For ‘medicinal purposes,’ of course! That’s how we got it past your bloody customs Gestapos.” While the two former intelligence agents had slowed physically somewhat from all the wear-and-tear of their decades of harsh living conditions, their minds were as sharp as ever.

“Alexa will be glad to see you two,” Mitch said while shaking his head.

“Meaning that you aren’t?”

“Let me help you find a home for your fish,” was all Mitch would say as he opened the gate for them, still shaking his head.

In close pursuit of the silver Range Rover was a vintage black and gold Harley, complete with matching sidecar. The powerful motorcycle roared to a stop outside the closed gate with a big sweeping turn, which almost upended the sidecar. “Rusty!”

Tamara Phillips was letting her husband know she did not appreciate the stunt. “You almost lost all your herbs!” Rusty had just returned from a recent trip to China where he had obtained some rare, costly herbs which he’d brought to help spice up the meals and drinks during the festivities.

When the excitement abated, Alexa and Sally appeared on the veranda, carrying trays of mugs filled with freshly brewed coffee. Jimmy followed with a huge tray heaped with danish pastries. ~ 198 ~

Everyone dug in. Rays from the newly emerged morning sun were reaching the valley, filling it with warm, golden light.

While everyone leisurely sipped their coffee and surveyed the breathtaking surrounding, kookaburras and cockatoos, perched high in the towering eucalyptus trees, announced the next approaching arrival. A sleek black limousine was now winding its way along the dusty road. A white flag bearing the crest of the Vatican fluttered above the front fender.

“This can’t be good! They’ve come to convert us heathen!” Matt quipped.

“Speak for yourself,” Simon replied in a mock self-righteous tone. “I said my confession back in Warsaw, remember?”

“Someone on the guest list you’ve been keeping from us, Mitch?” Tamara teased.

Curiosity stirred the gathering and everyone went to the gate for a closer look at the highly-polished stretch limo. Who could be inside?

“Greetings! I hope I’m not too late!” It was Father Ed. “I pinched the Papal Nuncio’s ride while he’s been called away on urgent business. I’m ever so grateful! He’s become quite insufferable of late!”

“Why?” Jimmy thought Father Ed got along with everyone.

“He just got word from his doctors that he had to give up drinking wine before his spleen gave out. He has the most exquisite ‘communion wine’ from the finest cellars in

~ 199 ~

France.” Motioning towards the back seat, Ed grinned broadly. “It’s yours now. Seemed a shame to let it all go to waste.”

Mitch peered in through the open window and surveyed the cases, letting out a low whistle. “Those vintages were always way above my paygrade. Won’t you get in trouble?”

“Not if you folks help me destroy all the evidence.” Father Ed laughed.

“I think our dear friend here has already started destroying some of the evidence himself,” Matt noted good-naturedly.

The gate swung open and Father Ed and his cargo of fine wines rolled down the driveway and around the back of the house to the kitchen area.

“I think I’ll volunteer to be an altar boy today,” Simon added.

Before long, breakfast was served on the long wooden dining tables that were stationed on the shady veranda which encircled the entire home.

“Excuse yourself, please!” Simon turned to Matt at the sound of a low, guttural moan coming from that direction.

Matt’s mouth was firmly shut, but the moaning continued and only grew louder. By now the sound was vibrating on large columns of air. A couple of the dishes vibrated on the table. Then the moaning sound was replaced by a whirring sound which was not emitted by any of the native fauna. It grew louder and more bizarre. The moaning returned, now

~ 200 ~ louder and deeper, seeming to compete with the whirring sounds for dominance.

“What the . . .” Sally was mystified. She would have been downright frightened if it were not for the protective gathering of highly trained, seasoned agents surrounding her.

Alexa began laughing. She recalled the strategy of the Kakadu mission in the Northern Territories. She grabbed the bullhorn that was hanging on a veranda post and flicked it on.

“Kenny! Samson! Come out now and show yourselves! Or else! Or else we will drink all this fine wine without you!”

The two Maoris emerged, carrying their didgeridoo and a bull-roarer. They were painted head-to-toe in ceremonial indigenous body markings. Their broad smiles revealed their harmless intent. They were here to party with their friends.

As they approached the gathering across the lawn, they scanned the sky for the source of the sound of what seemed to be a huge mosquito flying in from the southwest. The noise grew steadily louder until the sun’s rays caught some metallic surface and revealed the outline of an ultralight plane. At the helm was Alex Stein.

The advanced-design aircraft came to a soft, gentle landing near the western end of the clearing. Alex alighted, carrying a gift-wrapped bundle, and strode towards the house. “This is for you, Sally! Happy Birthday!” Alex leaned in to give her a quick peck on the cheek.

~ 201 ~

“Let me guess!” Sally said excitedly. “It must be something high-tech, right?”

“Probably a digital pencil sharpener,” Jimmy teased.

“High-tech indeed, Sally! This is the most advanced and powerful laptop currently available. I got it custom built, to help you with your college studies.” When he first met Sally fifteen years prior, personal computers were giant, heavy, slow dinosaur affairs.

After lunch, everyone settled in easy chairs and rested up for the evening feast. Their napping was interrupted by the approach of a gray chartered mini-bus, the sturdy type that holds about a dozen passengers for trips into the interior of the continent. Sally was beside herself with anticipation of who could be arriving next. She ran to the gate to unlock it.

Marc Thomas was driving. He’d fashioned a knob onto the steering wheel so he could easily turn it with his one hand. Annie was sitting behind him, with their two now-grown sons.

“Marc!” Jimmy went flying across the driveway to greet his childhood buddy. “Who else have you got in here?”

“Brace yourselves!” he replied.

Oliver Chung, the accountant from the casino in Macau was the next to emerge from the bus. He had brought Sally a gold Chinese bracelet, deemed good joss, as a gift. Holding his hand was Janet Price, who brought a rare, fragrant flowering ginger root plant from the Tung Hang Mei valley.

“Your dad will remember these blooms.” She smiled.

~ 202 ~

Magnus Carter emerged next. He had brought a diplomatic passport for Sally. “You never know when this might come handy for you, if you ever have to rescue your dad or his buddies from one of their adventures.”

With him was the freshly minted U.S. Ambassador to Hungary, his niece, Windy Cook.

“We went via Hong Kong. I rode one of those Walla-Wallas you told me about back in Seattle when you came to rescue me from the cult. I brought Sally an embroidered heirloom dress from Hungary that was given to me as a gift by the head of state upon my arrival in Budapest. I think it will look better on her.”

Next to emerge was a handsome man with Mideastern features, escorting a beautiful Nigerian woman. The man was Mona’s brother. The young woman was now a famous pediatric surgeon in her home country.

“Your father’s buddies here helped rescue me some years ago when I was captured and destined to be sent to the rich Westerners who fancied sex with young black girls.” She nodded towards Simon and Matt.

“I wanted to come and thank them personally. Sally, when you are ready to do your internship, I would be honored if you would work on my staff.” She then ran to hug the two Kiwis.

There were still three profiles that could be seen inside the gray van. It seemed an eternity, but no one else emerged. Some of those gathered around began to shuffle their feet.

~ 203 ~

Matt cleared his throat a few times, as if the effort would help dislodge those stuck in the vehicle.

Mitch tapped his right foot, as he was wont to do when impatience overcame his calm exterior. “What’s keeping them?” Alexa whispered to her husband. Windy glanced over at Sally and smiled. Sally nodded in reply.

A small, brown, round object flew out of the bus and landed at Mitch’s feet. His eyes grew wide. It was a chestnut conker. That could only signal one person—his sister.

“Sally, I believe your Aunt June has come to pay her regards!” Mitch grinned. A cheery voice replied from the van’s doorway.

“Yes, and I brought two extra special gifts with me!” June announced. “Sally, meet your grandma and grandpa!”

Shelly and Jack Hawkins emerged from the bus as Sally ran to greet them, her mouth agape. For once, the effervescent teen was speechless. She stared at her grandparents as if they were ghosts, or aliens.

Shelly softly stroked Sally’s long auburn hair, proudly admiring her lovely granddaughter. “I’ve daydreamed this ~ 204 ~ moment thousands of times. Those dreams pale alongside the real thing, honey! You were worth the wait!”

Mitch’s mom’s heartfelt words triggered a warm flow of tears to run from Sally’s eyes. The sunlight caught one of the clear drops, scattering its ray in a glorious pattern.

“I recognize that sparkle!” Jack Hawkins gently nudged his wife aside so as to claim his spot at his granddaughter’s side. “You’ve got your dad’s smile!”

Eight thousand miles of jet lag collided with Grandpa Hawkins’ emotions. He bit his lip to stop its quivering but the shaking went on down his spine. He leaned heavily on his cane as his wife Shelly gently led him to a nearby lawn chair.

Soon, everyone was gathered in the front yard around long makeshift picnic tables covered with crimson cloths, eager to partake of the feast set before them.

Their attention was diverted by the sound of a distant buzzing, like that of a giant horsefly. The buzzing was soon accompanied by a thump-thump sound, and finally a whirring sound joined in—all three noises growing ever louder and seeming omnipresent. What was it?

Suddenly, over the mountain ridge to the east, a large dark helicopter burst over the horizon and headed towards the gathering. A few of the guests became agitated and dashed to collect their firearms from their parked vehicles.

“Look!” Jimmy pointed at the markings on the sides of the chopper. It was his dad’s unit’s former code symbol.

~ 205 ~

The retired agents put their weapons back on safety.

“Who else knows we’re here? This valley is totally cut off from civilization!” Mitch Hawkins was at once curious and apprehensive.

The yet-unseen pilot of the Sikorsky helicopter made some very precise and skilled maneuvers while negotiating the narrow, steep confines of Kangaroo Valley before setting down the craft very neatly between two rows of jacaranda trees which were laden with their distinctive festoons of purple blossoms.

“Only one person on earth I know of who can fly like that! He rescued us from that bush fire in Springwood a couple decades ago, remember that?” Rusty smiled at his lovely wife Tamara as he recalled that harrowing escape.

When the engines were cut and the blades’ rotations slowed, the cockpit window slid back and a big grin filled the opening. The pilot gave a thumbs-up and doffed his cap in tribute. The telltale crease across his scalp was clearly visible. It was none other than Bobby Murphy.

“Couldn’t you just rent a car like the rest of us did?” Matt quipped wryly, barely masking his admiration for the much-decorated pilot.

“Couldn’t fit Sally’s present in a car.”

~ 206 ~

Murphy disappeared into the rear cargo hold of his chopper and lowered a ramp from the doorway. Sally watched intently. After some stomping sounds, Bobby emerged from the helicopter, leading a gorgeous tan-and-blonde Shetland pony by a red braided rope.

“Well, you finally got your pony, dear,” her mom noted.

“I can’t take a pony to college with me!” Sally protested.

“Sally! Your manners!” Alexa reminded her.

“Thanks, Uncle Bobby! That sure was quite the present!” Sally regained her poise and ran to give Bobby a big hug.

“I know you’re off to college. So this is only a loaner. It was rescued from a run-down farm. I’m transporting it to a nice haven in Tamworth where it will comfortably live out its life as an emotional support animal. But it’s yours to love for the day!” Murphy hazarded a glance in Marc’s direction.

Annie gave Marc a sharp playful dig in the ribs. “When were you going to tell me we’d have a new mouth to feed?”

She was already stroking the pony’s long blonde mane, so Marc reckoned he was not in serious hot water.

Father Ed turned to Mitch, his face a rosy complexion from the “communion wine” they had all been enjoying, and he proposed one final toast.

“Mitch, you know, you could have been a rich man, living a comfortable lifestyle if you’d stayed the course at MIT those many years ago.

~ 207 ~

“But looking around you now, surrounded by all these incredible individuals who count you as their friend, somehow, I don’t think you regret your decision.

“To paraphrase the angel Clarence from Frank Capra’s It's a Wonderful Life, ‘No man is poor, who has friends.’ ”

The Hawkins were indeed, very rich.

~ 208 ~

EPILOGUE ,

CLICK! THE BIRTHDAY FESTIVITIES HAD LASTED WELL INTO THE EARLY MORNING HOURS. Everyone at the gathering on the Kangaroo Valley Ranch was now finally asleep. The almost-imperceptible sound of the front door lock being stealthily picked was just loud enough to awaken six pairs of well-trained ears.

Other clicks sounded throughout the household, as a half- dozen veteran spies cycled their weapons, readying them for use. Tension plucked on the taut strings of the silent night air.

A second click came from the front door, sending muffled footsteps scurrying towards it. Whoever the intruder was, he or she would not cross this threshold alive. The door swung open with a musty creak. Outside was still pitch black. ~ 209 ~

Six beams of light poked at the figure in the doorway. Six weapons were taken off their safety positions. No one moved. The intruder’s arms were fully extended over his bald head. The left hand held a white handkerchief which swayed ever so slightly in the early morning breeze. A loud, nervous chuckle pierced the silence.

“Why, Ron Segallus!” Mitch Hawkins had instantly recognized that voice in the doorway.

“Light sleepers,” Ron observed as nonchalantly as a person possibly could while facing six gun barrels.

“You weren’t invited!” Mitch protested.

“I never am,” came the wistful reply. “Can I put my arms down now? Arthritis, you know.”

Ron was not on their invitation list, but it didn’t surprise Mitch that the crafty old Segallus had somehow found out about their gathering. Hawkins long ago had resigned himself to the conclusion that Ron was some sort of a self- appointed guardian angel.

Someone switched on the light and the room relaxed a bit.

“How did you know that we were gathering here?” Simon demanded.

“You should ask yourselves that very question. And you’re lucky I’m armed only with this.” Segallus motioned towards the briefcase at his feet.

~ 210 ~

Matt instinctively kicked the case away from the uninvited arrival. The six guns were back on safety now, but still drawn.

Ron smoothed out his ivory-colored safari suit and tucked his handkerchief back in place. He readjusted his hat after patting down his few gray hairs.

“It’s good to see you, Ron,” Mitch admitted stiffly. “But you took an awful chance breaking in like that in the middle of the night.”

“I knew I was dealing with trained professionals, Agent Hawkins. It was the lesser of two risks, in my informed opinion.”

“What was the other risk?” Rusty wanted to know.

“That I be followed here,” the dirty-tricks expert explained as he held their interest. “I brought a birthday gift, of sorts.”

“What sort of gift?” Sally had entered the living room by now and wondered what this strange man had brought her. “Will I like it?”

“No. None of you will like it. But you’ll need it. It’s dirt: a necessary evil. Ask your dad later. He has learned the power of dirt over the years. I saved his neck more than once that way.

“You know, you’ve all done a very splendid job of making enemies all around the world with your various noble crusades. Simon and Matt, you made some powerful people very angry. They miss their little girlfriends. They’ll be after you.

~ 211 ~

“Let 'em come! You know spies never die, Ron.” Simon said.

“They just hide somewhere in a new adventure.” Matt added.

“I’m retired now from all this dirty tricks business. I’m bequeathing this to Sally for safekeeping. Inside you will find a file folder on each of your most dangerous enemies. Should one of them ever decide to cause any of your family some trouble, the antidote you need is in there.” Ron’s hand motioned towards the briefcase.

“We’re all retired,” Simon protested weakly. He became sheepishly silent as he surveyed all the guns drawn.

“Ah, but revenge never retires!” Ron countered.

“Would you join us for morning tea? Alexa’s pleasant tone softened the mood. She had quietly entered the large living room, wrapped in a thick fluffy lavender bathrobe, carrying a trayful of hot drinks. Guns were holstered and mugs of tea and coffee were quickly grabbed up.

After tea, Ron was all business once again. “I mustn’t stay long. It’s all in here. The Hong Kong Shanghai Bank is not happy they lost their cozy perch when the British were out- negotiated away from their prize colony. Losing Hong Kong was a bitter pill to swallow. They’ve enlisted the offices of Prince Charles to snoop into how that fiasco was pulled off.”

“Is anyone else mad at us, besides a global banking power, and the royal family?” Alex Stein spoke for the first time.

“Why yes, quite a number of folks actually. There’s a couple of high mucky-mucks in the U.N. who didn’t like your

~ 212 ~ busting up their profitable young-girl trade.” Ron nodded at the two Kiwis, Matt and Simon.

“Then there is a very angry mining conglomerate that didn’t walk away willingly from all that uranium.” Ron was facing Kenny and Samson.

“And there are others. At last count I think four hit squads are in the early planning stages. Each of these operations has a powerful figure behind the scenes. And each of them has some major dirt in their past. They prefer to keep it that way—in the past. In fact, they would each pay almost any price to keep this stuff from surfacing.

“So, whenever you sense that one of those operations is getting a little too close for comfort, just threaten to release some of what you have. The internet is such a wonderful weapon these days. All the contact information you need is in there.”

“But why are you helping us like this?” Hawkins wanted to know why Segallus would take such a personal risk on his behalf.

“Simple.” Ron smiled.

“What’s simple?”

“I like you, Mitch.”

After nodding to acknowledge his hostess Alexa, Segallus then quickly departed, just as unceremoniously as he’d arrived.

~ 213 ~

“Shall we look inside?” Sally asked anxiously, pointing to the battered briefcase.

“No,” her dad quietly replied. “That’ll be for another time.”

“No need to rush, Sally. There’s always another chapter!” Alexa smiled knowingly.

“OK, then. I think I’ll go ride my pony.”

THE END?

~ 214 ~

HERE’S A SNEAK PEEK FROM THE SCI-FI THRILLER, WALKERS!

--COMING IN 2020--

“LOOK, MOMMY!” BLONDE, BLUE-EYED CINDY LOU Simmons-4756 exclaimed as she curiously peered out the back window of her family’s Personal Transportation Unit, Standard issue. “What’s that? What is that man doing?” Her shrill tone clearly conveyed her sense of agitation, easily drowning out the near-noiseless hum of their smart vehicle as it navigated past the well-manicured lawns of their suburban neighborhood in Great Falls, Montana.

Veronica Lou Simmons-3288 wished her seven-year-old daughter had not seen that. She had hoped to delay explaining such abhorrent, anti-social matters until her Cindy Lou was much older. Why did those people stubbornly insist on such dangerous, illegal activity?

Cindy Lou’s older brother, twelve-year-old Romulus Lee Simmons-7876 could not pass up the opportunity to display his superior knowledge to his younger sibling. “That’s a Walker!” he answered triumphantly. He had learned about Walkers in his civics class.

Now Veronica Lou had to begin her unpleasant duty as a duly-registered parent, to give the standard authorized ~ 215 ~ explanation as to why such unsavory individuals persisted in such a primitive activity that all good citizens had long since come to appreciate was patently anti-social. Veronica would spend the remainder of their journey answering her daughter’s simple, five-word question.

At least they got rid of the panhandlers! Mrs. Simmons thought, trying to calm herself. The State had taken care of that nuisance of street beggars—the variety who had a makeshift cardboard sign, pitifully asking for help with a promise of divine blessing in return.

There were no more homeless folks. Everyone had a state- issued abode, however humble. If they refused to abide in their abode, the State employed other means to keep them off the streets. No one went hungry. For the rare emergency, there were feeding stations at strategic spots where any one could get state-issued food and drink. Therefore, no one begged anymore. Besides, it was illegal to give gifts.

Veronica’s husband said nothing on the drive home. Cascade County Sheriff Simmons was as laconic as his stereotypical counterpart in the Old West. By contrast, his wife was the very embodiment of loquaciousness. If the children wanted a one-word answer, they would ask their dad. If they wanted a full-blown explanation, mom was the parent to question.

All good citizens had forsaken the activity of walking for some decades now. They had many good reasons for doing so. Every citizen in good standing was issued a Personal Transportation Unit (PTU) which accurately reflected their needs and social standing. Sheriff Tommy Lee Simmons- ~ 216 ~

2985 was a mid-level local Rule Keeper with the standard two children, one son and one daughter. Thus, the Simmons family was issued a standard blue family PTU.

PTUs were much evolved from the devices Cindy Lou’s grandparents had once called “cars.” Even the most basic Personal Transportation Unit was fully autonomous and 99.9% non-polluting. PTUs were powered by a variety of renewal energy sources.

The Simmons’ standard-issue family PTU harvested hydrogen from the ambient water vapor, generating and storing in its rear compartment the useful by-product of oxygen, which was exchanged at the local Nutritional Resource Center for Nutrition Credit Units. In a way, you could say they were eating their own exhaust. But it was very healthful exhaust, and beneficial for the greater good. Hunger had become a thing of the past, mentioned only in history classes.

More advanced Personal Transportation Units, issued to higher echelons of citizenry, ran on more advanced energy systems such as static electricity, or the revolutionary new “Quantum Air,” which generated its power from the slight variations in atmospheric pressure.

Once a citizen arrived at her or his destination, their self- propelled Individual Assistant was there to whisk them effortlessly to whatever cubicle they chose, whether it be at home, or while at Production (“work” was no longer used as a word to describe such activity), or during Consumption (formerly known as either “shopping” or “entertainment” in the days of confusion).

~ 217 ~

In addition, on most streets there were moving walkways instead of sidewalks, and escalators where once there were steps to climb. Every precaution had been engineered to make certain that each citizen arrived safely exactly where they were meant to be at exactly the time they were meant to be there. Nearly all randomness had been eliminated.

With all aspects of transportation centrally controlled and micro-managed, there were never bothersome traffic jams. The morning commutes were always exactly the same precise length of time, without any frustrating delays. Commuters knew exactly how much time they had available to read a book, listen to the news, or enjoy their playlist of songs.

There truly was no serious need to walk anywhere. Everything necessary, or desirable, was at one’s fingertips. The Citizens Bureau had conducted an extensive, graduated campaign to help all good citizens arrive at this realization. For a period of some years, walking had been discouraged as being simply inefficient. After that, walking was socially ridiculed as being primitive, dangerous and selfish. Finally, walking was eventually officially declared illegal.

At the crux of this central issue of walking was Individualism—a felony. Biologists and behavioral scientists demonstrated how each individual had a unique gait, pace, and style to their ambulation. Thus, any two citizens were more than likely to bump into one another, causing a delay in production, or worse yet, injuries that would consume vital resources.

Moral Engineers further argued that once curious feet took a citizen where he ought not be, then it was a short and ~ 218 ~ slippery slope to worse crimes, such as to observe things that were clearly labeled: “Do Not Look at This!” The risk to the greater Harmonious Homeostasis was too great to allow such naked, obsolete individualism.

Thus, in the 17th year of World Harmony, all walking ceased. Except for those scattered, renegade Walkers. Since walking had been universally outlawed, the term “Walker” became synonymous with “outlaw.”

This societal absolute explains why Veronica Lou was so distressed over her daughter catching a glimpse of that lone Walker in their district. Most likely, that person was engaging in something more than just a mere indiscretion. Probably something dangerous.

Walkers held a strongly converse view. Society was pernicious, not them. The total control of citizens was the illegality—the organized denial of most personal freedom. Programmed consumption and production was glorified animal existence, in their view.

Their founder, a modern descendant of the Blackfeet Tribe of northwest Montana, had been inspired and much influenced by the twentieth-century writings of the futurist, Robert A. Heinlein. The Walkers’ motto came from an excerpt of dialog between the protagonist, Rico, and his father in Starship Troopers.

“I had to prove to myself that I was a man.

Not just a producing-consuming economic animal

. . . but a man.”

~ 219 ~

~ 220 ~

MICHAEL J. HAWRON

MICHAEL J. HAWRON IS NO STRANGER TO ADVENTURE. Over the course of several decades, this multiple-award winning author savored amazing experiences in thirty- some countries on five different continents.

Michael has been attacked by baboons, survived natural disasters, and met a variety of colorful characters all over the globe. His first book, Entertaining Detours, is an insightful memoir and humorous look at his many unique adventures—and misadventures—along the way.

Hawron and his wife, Annette, live on a small farm in rural Texas, the setting and source of the stories contained in his heartwarming collection, The Little Town with the Big Heart. The final installment in his True Tales Trilogy is

~ 221 ~

Awesome Footsteps, a collection of faith-inspiring stories from his experiences in missionary travels.

Hawron is the father of twelve children and grandfather to fifteen. His award-winning spy thriller, Just Good Clean Fun, was his first published work of historical fiction.

Mike is a member of several author associations. He was a 2018 and a 2019 winner of Best in Texas authors and also the 2018 winner of the Jory Sherman short story contest for “The Device.” In addition to his writing, he contributes to the profession through lectures, workshops, mentoring and networking.

Hawron participates annually to help raise funds for the St. Jude Children’s and Arkansas Children’s Hospitals.

He welcomes comments from his readers and responds to all who write him.

~ 222 ~

Books by Michael Hawron:

Entertaining Detours

The Little Town with the Big Heart

Just Good Clean Fun

Awesome Footsteps

Spies Never Die

Walkers! (2020)

* * * * * * *

Follow Mike Hawron on Facebook/Entertaining Detours or

www.mikehawron.com

Readers’ comments and suggestions are always welcome!

Write to: [email protected]

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~ 224 ~