Power and Empire

Coronet had two choices. He could disappear and let Dazid be arrested, or he could act as the wanted man’s countersurveillance. He looked at his watch and realized he truly had only one choice. There was no time to develop another asset. Groaning within himself, he got to his feet. He grabbed a paring knife from the stall next to him while the owner was busy fanning away the smoke. It was a small blade, not quite four inches long, but he’d watched the man cut chicken and knew it to be razor-sharp, perfect for his purposes.

Coronet dropped the knife into the pocket of his jacket for the moment and fell in behind the policeman. He remained hidden in the crowd, closing the distance slowly so as not to arouse suspicion. As he walked, he took a slender canvas bag from his other pocket. Veering off the path slightly so he was along the edge of the canal, he scooped up a handful of gravel, which he poured into the mouth of the canvas tube. He repeated this procedure three times on the move, filling the tube until he had a makeshift cosh, or bludgeon, weighing a little over a pound. An American would have called it a sock full of rocks; it would make a formidable stunning weapon in the hands of someone who knew how to apply it.

Closing the distance now, Coronet held the cosh in his left hand and the blade in his right. Bludgeoning was a gross motor skill. The bladework needed to be more precise, ensuring he could evade the inevitable spray of blood.

Unfortunately for the hapless policeman, Coronet already knew where he was going. Dazid’s destination was the Talk and Text café down the street. It was the location of the next NFC tag. He’d guessed correctly that the policeman would want to keep his distance and would likely remain across the street near the canal while he summoned backup. Considering the army of law enforcement at the night market, it would not take long for help to arrive. Coronet would have to act without hesitation. Which was fine. He’d done this before and knew the entire process would not take long.

Coronet moved quickly, hopping the guardrail that ran adjacent to the canal and moving into the shadow of the trees at the same moment the policeman stepped over the rail, still focused on Dazid Ishmael.

Padding up quickly but quietly, he struck as the policeman raised the mobile, utilizing the canvas bludgeon in the same manner OSS commandos employed brass knuckles to stun opponents in advance of a dagger attack during World War Two. The canvas-and-gravel cosh impacted the man’s left temple with a sickening thud, causing him to drop his phone and stumble forward a half-step. This put one leg slightly in front of the other, opening a gap for Coronet. His blade flicked back and forth quickly inside the man’s legs just above the knees, slicing at least one, and probably both, of his femoral arteries. Coronet struck him again before his stunned brain could work out what had happened. The policeman stumbled sideways, weakening quickly. Coronet gave him a solid shove, careful not to soil himself with the man’s blood, pushing him into the canal. The canvas cosh and the paring knife followed him in.

Coronet cried for help at the same moment the man splashed, pointing into the shadows as bystanders rushed to help. Instead of moving closer with the crowd, he melted backward, letting the press of people swallow him up and hide his movements until he was across the street in front of the Talk and Text, where passersby were just realizing something was going on at the canal.

Taking one of the NFC stickers out of his pocket, he held it up by way of identification as he approached Dazid Ishmael.

The terrorist looked up at him, confused. Then his hand dropped into the pocket of his shorts.

Coronet raised both hands. “You had company,” he whispered. “Off-duty PNP.”

“Okay,” Dazid said, still suspicious. “Did you bring the money?”

Coronet nodded at the NFC tag between his fingers. “Half the account number is right here. My associate has the remainder of the number.”

“Wise.”

Dazid glanced toward the back of the café.

Coronet shook his head. “There was only one policeman and he did not make a call. We should go out the front as if nothing is wrong.”

And with that, Coronet made contact with one of the most dangerous terrorists in the Philippines.

The provocateur glanced at the date on his Rolex. He would not read about the Abu Sayyaf operation for several days, but his previous assignment would be in the papers by tomorrow morning.

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