The Spymaster's Daughter Read online

  THERE WAS A RIPPING SOUND…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Ann rolled to the side as bullets stitched the floor.

  Then, bizarrely, the shooting stopped.

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

  It was Ah Beng.

  For Asher, Sigrid and Kathryn With All Our Love

  Copyright © 2013 by Allan Cole And Susan Cole Beck ISBN-13: 978-1492912866

  ISBN-10: 1492912867

  THE SPYMASTER'S DAUGHTER

  By Allan Cole And Susan Cole Beck

  THE LEGEND OF THE PHOENIX

  Twenty five hundred years ago travelers from Asia told the Greek historian, Herodotus, about a fabulous bird called the Phoenix that lived a thousand years, then burst into flame to rejuvenate itself from the ashes. The Chinese said the male and female forms of the bird represented the yin and yang which drives and rejuvenates all life. The Phoenix was quickly adopted as an important symbol in Western spiritual life. But Herodotus always wondered if what the travelers really saw was only a cunning old raven crouched over a smoky fire to rid itself of vermin. CHAPTER ONE

  It was a serene Singapore night when the stretch limousine smoothed its way along the peaceful harbor, fishermen’s lights winking against dark waters, a full moon beckoning from the starry skies overhead. It was nearing the monsoon season and the breeze was fragrant with the scent of faraway spice fields, mixed with the salty air of the sea.

  Up ahead, in the middle of a long, dark street of closed shops, dazzling klieg lights swept the night, hailing the debut of a new Singapore nightspot – CLUB COMIQUE.

  In the limo, an elegant Chinese man in formal Western tux leaned forward when he saw the club. Two tough young Chinese men, also in tuxedos, came alive as he moved. Their eyes were bright, their attitudes eager, as they awaited some sign of their boss's intentions.

  Ah Beng rapped on the glass separating him from the driver. He could have slid it aside with a brush of his hand. But Ah Beng was a modern man who enjoyed modern comforts and modern obeisance to his exalted presence. He’d had pressure sensitive chips embedded in the partition glass that were programmed to react to the imperious rap, rap, rap that the great man preferred.

  So now he rap, rap, rapped - taking great pleasure that everything was so personalized. Delighting even more as he settled back, listening to the little motors whirring in response to his command, sliding the glass aside. The driver’s questioning eyes stared back at him in the rear view mirror.

  In Chinese, Ah Beng said, “Pull over.”

  The driver nodded and turned the wheel. The limo slid effortlessly toward the curb. Two young felons on bicycles were guarding a large space on the crowded street just across from the Club Comique and when they saw the limo they moved aside. Street people gawked, crowding close to see who was inside the car – hoping for a few coins. But Ah Beng’s boys snarled like watch dogs and the beggars scurried away.

  When the limo was parked, Ah Beng said, “I want to hear.”

  Immediately the driver started fussing with special radio equipment embedded in his dashboard. There were squeaks and howls and false alarms, but then a man’s voice boomed out quite clearly from the luxurious speaker system.

  The man was speaking in English and it was obvious that he was a showman – a comedian, as a matter of fact. As the comedian spoke, Ah Beng could hear the favorable reactions from his audience, laughter, applause, and ooh’s and ahh’s of merriment.

  The comedian said, “… Another thing about Singapore, folks, is that we’re all nuts about the martial arts. Karate, Aikido, Kung Fu, Chicken ala King…”

  The crowd burst into laughter and Ah Beng nodded in equal pleasure. He gave the nearest bodyguard a punch of amusement. “Chicken ala king,” he said, laughing. “A joke for the Americans.”

  The bodyguard forced laughter. Yes, this was very funny, boss. He glanced at the other bodyguard, who also laughed. His buddy gave a slight shrug and rolled his eyes. What the hell was Chicken ala King?

  Ah Beng paid them no mind. Smiling, he settled back to listen, lips parted in anticipation of the next joke. *****

  Inside the club, a rather garishly appointed joint in a faux 1920’s speakeasy style, an Asian comedian held forth on the broad stage. Clad in tux and tails, he was bracketed by two pairs of lovely Chinese girls in skin-tight black ninja wear.

  The comedian, whose American-tinged English, was perfect, said, “…Chicken ala king. With that you get a black belt and an egg roll.”

  There was a drum roll from the band and the girls all shouted Ninja-type shouts and kicked hard at the air, to emphasize just how funny the joke was. Much drunken laughter followed. The laughter came from an audience mainly composed of inebriated, pot-bellied Western businessmen, all accompanied by drop-dead gorgeous Asian hostesses, who were nipping at glasses of cold tea while their clients swallowed bourbon and whatever.

  In a booth directly across from the comedian, a middle-aged American seemed to be having as much fun as everyone else even though he was alone. His name was Jack Donovan and he was a handsome man, quite fit, with a thick mane of curly dark hair - just going to gray - and although he laughed and applauded along with everyone else, a close observer might have noticed that he was a bit tense. As if expecting something – or someone.

  There was another roll of drums and karate air kicks from the girls and the comedian said, “Zen monk walks into a pizza parlor. Tells the guy at the counter – “'Dude Make me one with everything!’"

  More drum rolls and kicks and the audience groaned and applauded.

  Jack clapped politely with the others. Then, as he sipped his drink a cocktail waitress approached. She was bearing a tray with a single drink on it. Next to the drink was a serving dish covered with a large napkin.

  Meanwhile, the comedian was getting into the main part of his act. He said, “Couple of kickboxers I know – Master Foo and Master Kho – are always getting it on…”

  As he spoke, a deadly-looking Asian man – dressed in a tux to blend in with the audience - slipped through tables and booths and came up behind Jack. He was a big, hawkfaced man, one of Ah Beng’s best enforcers.

  The comedian said, “One day Master Foo challenged Master Kho to a duel. ‘My reflexes are unmatched by any man in Singapore,’ Master Foo boasted…"

  Jack didn’t seem to notice the tuxedoed
threat coming up behind him, but he did smile when the pretty waitress showed up. She offered him the drink, but Jack shook his head, pointing at the full glass before him. He mouthed the words, “No thanks.”

  The comedian said, “… And to prove it, Master Foo whipped out his sword and slashed at a passing horsefly. Snip! And the fly fell to the floor in two pieces!”

  The audience gasped.

  At Jack’s table, the waitress smiled prettily, then lifted the napkin away, exposing a small gun bearing a sophisticated silencer. The waitress raised the gun, pointing it at Jack. He sighed. This was not good.

  And the comedian said, “Master Kho was not impressed. ‘That’s nothing,’ he snarled. And Master Kho whipped his sword and sliced at another passing horsefly…”

  While Jack was thinking about disarming the waitress, the hawk-faced man came close up behind him and leaned in, as if to whisper something private. At the same time he jammed a second silenced pistol into the back of Jack’s neck.

  Jack shrugged, okay, you got me. He didn’t seem that upset.

  The comedian went on, “… But this horsefly kept going. Buzzing along, here and there, like nothing had happened…”

  Jack rose from his table, encouraged by two wellconcealed guns – and waved apologetically at the comedian. The girl and Ah Beng’s enforcer pushed him down the aisle toward the “Exit” sign. It was a credit to the act on stage that no one noticed his plight.

  The comedian said, “… Master Foo laughed at Master Kho… ‘What did you do?’ he mocked. ‘That insect is still alive… Still flying around…'”

  Jack paused at the door, as if wanting to hear the rest. But his two companions pushed him toward the alley

  Before they were all the way through, Jack heard the punchline: “‘Ah, yes,'" said Master Kho. "But the fly will never have children.’”

  The drums rolled, the ninja girls kicked and punched the air vigorously, the audience roared and Jack and his kidnappers stepped out into the Singapore night, the padded door shutting behind them, cutting off all sound.

  Jack said, “Where to?”

  The big Asian punched his shoulder, sending him staggering forward. At the same time the limo’s lights burst on and Jack was forced to hold up a hand to shield his eyes from the sudden glare.

  The limo slid forward, stopping in front of him.

  Another tuxedoed thug exited, motioning for him to get in. Jack turned to the comeliest of his two kidnappers.

  “I hope you’re not expecting a tip,” he told the girl.

  The Asian snarled something in Mandarin, causing Jack to shrug. “My compliments to the management,” he said. “The food was bad, but the jokes were so-so.”

  He climbed into the limo a split second ahead of another hard push.

  A moment before the slammed the door behind him, the pretty cocktail waitress came forward. Ah Beng leaned out, smiling at her.

  “What about me?” she asked, pouting.

  Ah Beng patted her cheek, then motioned to the hawk-faced man beside her. “Take care of her, won’t you?”

  Then the door was firmly shut and the limo moved away down the dark alley.

  The girl smiled at her companion in greedy anticipation. Then the smile turned to pure horror as instead of reaching into his pockets for her reward, the enforcer jerked the weapon from her hand.

  She started to scream, but he fired once, silencing her. And as she lay on the ground, writhing, he stepped in quickly and shot her again.

  Then he trotted after the limo. A door came open, he jumped in, the door shut and the limo accelerated into the night.

  Behind them, the two young felons on bicycles pedaled up to dispose of the girl’s body.

  Jack and his captors drove quietly for a time, cruising along the rim of the harbor, soft music playing on the limo’s stereo, ships' lights blurring across the windows, harbor horns hooting faintly in the distance.

  Jack and Ah Beng sat across from each other, sipping champagne, behaving as if they were absorbed by the chamber music and their own thoughts.

  Finally, Ah Beng said, “You liked the comedian?”

  “He was good,” Jack said.

  “I chose him myself,” Ah Beng said.

  “I figured,” Jack said. “It had your mark.”

  Ah Beng made an expansive gesture. “Well, I bought him for you, Jack,” he said. “A penultimate joke for an old and dear friend.”

  Jack frowned, pretending puzzlement. “Penultimate?” he said. “Is your English getting cloudy in your old age, Ah Beng? Penultimate means the next to the last thing… I wasn’t aware that last things were on the menu.”

  Ah Beng finished his wine and motioned for one of the bodyguards to refill the glass. “My English is just fine, Jackie boy,” he said. “The last joke – the ultimate joke – will be experienced by you very soon.”

  Jack gave Ah Beng a look of immeasurable sadness. “I expected you’d pull something like this, my friend,” he said. “One of your very few weaknesses is that you have a slight tendency to over-eagerness when a business opportunity nears its climax.”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps your mistress complains of the same sort of tendency.”

  Ah Beng’s features darkened, but before he could say anything, Jack continued: “But the fact is, my very old and most excellent friend – once again you are much too early. I haven’t even taken delivery yet. Alas, your pleasure must be delayed.”

  Ah Beng made a smile. “I love to talk to Americans,” he said. “It is always such an education. Like an

  anthropologist studying barbarians come to life. You are such a cynical race. Full of sarcasm. Disbelief in your fellow man. Why can’t you just say what you think – you believe that I made mistake, yes?”

  “No,” Jack said, “I don’t believe you made A Mistake.” Ah Beng leaned forward, anticipating an admission. Jack added, “You made two mistakes. Very bad ones, at that, I regret to report.”

  There was shock on Ah Beng’s face. Happy with the look, Jack settled back in his seat. “As it happens, I not only haven’t taken delivery of what you are after – and what I was willing to sell to you – but after your little ploy here, the object of my affection is going elsewhere. To be sold to another special someone. Unless you can manage to get your act together again, my Oriental friend.”

  Ah Beng sipped his champagne, nonplussed. “Oh, but I do have my act together, my rude American friend. I’m quite ready for you.”

  Jack snorted. “Bullshit! You have made the fatal – and quite amateurish- error of double crossing me before I had the goods in hand. Really, Ah Beng. I thought better of you.”

  Ah Beng laughed. “As it happens, Jack, this time I was running a little ahead of you…”

  He snapped his fingers and one of his men proffered a briefcase. It was an expensive briefcase and Ah Beng took elaborate care in how he placed it on his lap. He found the snaps and popped them open.

  Before he could reach inside, Jack butted in, spoiling the moment. “Let me guess… You think that you have cut me out of the deal. That you beat me to the punch – and took delivery first.”

  Ah Beng seemed unmoved. The briefcase was open now and the gangster was withdrawing a small jeweler’s box. He opened the box to reveal a computer chip, gleaming like a rare gem under the limo’s pin spot. The chip was nestled against black velvet.

  Jack nodded, seemingly impressed. “I see you decided to eliminate the middle man.”

  Ah Beng chuckled. “From your lips, Jack. After all these years of dealing with you and your superiors. From your lips to…” He pulled a silenced pistol from his jacket pocket. Aimed it at Jack. “… Well, whose ears do you think might be listening just now, old friend? Hmm?”

  Jack moved slightly in his seat, his hands still in plain sight. He said, “Okay, I’m a dead man. But before you spoil the upholstery of a perfectly nice car, you ought to consider exactly what it is that you are holding.”

  Ah Beng frowned. “What are s
aying?”

  Jack shrugged. “Isn’t it obvious?” he said. “I’m asking if you honestly believe that the chip is real?”

  Ah Beng scoffed. “Of course it is real.”

  Jack said, “Jesus, Ah Beng, you didn’t really think that I’d overlooked the possibility of a double-cross, did you? That I didn’t have every contingency covered?”

  He lifted a finger and slowly moved it toward the chip in Ah Beng’s hand. He flipped it over to reveal the other side.

  “You call that real?” Jack sounded sarcastic. “Christ, you’re either getting careless or nearsighted.”

  Shocked, Ah Beng quickly leaned forward to get a closer look at the chip.

  “Or, maybe it’s both,” Jack said. “Hmm?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Jeep strained against the crest of the rutted hill, then blasted a thick black cloud so loud and so odiferous that Ann said, “God, Mark, it smells like you filled the tank from an old buffalo wallow.”

  Mark Corey, a very large man with strength and grace to spare, artfully jounced the jeep from one enormous mud rut to another – saving the oil pan from being scraped off – and when things settled down he looked casually at Ann.

  “That’s not far from the truth, Dr. Donovan,” he said, double shifting to clear another mud hump. “We’re flat out of gas at the camp and it’s rumored that the local stuff is spiked with fermented water buffalo dung.”

  As if on cue, the muffler let loose another blast of odiferous fumes. “And that was my bottom line comment on the situation,” Mark added. “With the emphasis on bottom.”

  The Jeep was making its way along a rutted highway through the Cambodian backlands. The highway cut past dusty farms and muddy rice paddies and there were any number of farmers with conical hats laboring under the hot sun. Water buffalo raised their heads to gaze impassively at the vehicle as it rumbled by. In the distance, forested hills climbed into the mountains that divided Cambodia from Thailand.

  Ann ignored Mark’s jibe, stretching her long, shapely, jeans-clad legs and settling back to enjoy her surroundings, breathing in the exotic Asian smells. Soaking up the fabulous images that she would remember for the rest of her life. Although she was only in her early thirties, Ann had seen more of the world than most people twice her age. Even so, she never grew tired of living in foreign lands.