Power and Empire

After hours of movement and a generous cooling-off period from the time of the PNP officer’s death, Amanda, one of the female members of his team, made contact via mobile phone and reported that neither she, nor any of the others, had seen anything remotely resembling a tail. The Abu Sayyaf countersurveillance team, such as it was, reported the same. Both Dazid and Chen deemed the situation as safe as possible — though it was never completely so — and met at a small beachside café in Panabo, northeast of Davao City, for a breakfast of coffee, dried milkfish, and pandesal, the small bread rolls Chen found to be one of the best things about the Philippines.

Dazid was remarkably forthcoming for a wanted man.

“This operation you suggest,” the Abu Sayyaf commander said, chewing an unsightly mouthful of bread and salted fish. “It will require zealots.”

“This is true,” Chen said. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin in an effort to get the other man to do the same. It didn’t work and he gave up. “I did not suppose that would be a problem.”

Dazid grinned, showing a severe lack of dental care. “My men possess plenty of zeal. But they would prefer to escape any action with their lives intact.”

“I see,” Chen said. “Perhaps I have wasted your time, then.”

“Not at all,” Dazid said. “There is no shortage of religious martyrs in Malaysia — so long as their families are well compensated.”

“And you would see to it that they receive the compensation?”

Dazid grinned again, nearly losing a mouthful of fish. He ate and spoke with gusto. “Such would be my great honor.”

Chen considered the man for a long moment. He knew the man’s honor was tied to the large sum of cash coming his way. More mercenary than religious extremist, Dazid Ishmael was, however, exactly what Chen needed. A zealot might veer off and attack a more attractive target for his cause. A mercenary would complete the task he’d been paid for — so as to make himself employable in the future.

Finally, Chen said, “Excellent. Then we may move forward?”

“By all means,” Dazid said. “You are paying me well. I will provide the weapons, transport, and the men…” He paused, sitting back as if to chew his cud while staring at the sea.

Chen let him think, prodding only after he’d washed down a last bite of pandesal with the dregs of his coffee. “There is something else, my friend?”

Dazid snapped out of his trance and turned to look directly at Chen. “As I told you, the martyrs will be no problem. They are intelligent enough, and they are, no doubt, willing to die. I must admit, though, that I have serious doubts about their ability to get close enough to an American warship to do any damage.”

Chen gave the man a soft smile, a smile that said he was absolutely sure of himself — and of his plan. “My group will be in close communication,” he said. “If your men do what my people say, exactly when they say it, I assure you that will not be an issue. The American Navy will come to them.”

20

I’m… I’m not even supposed to be here,” Eddie Feng stammered, his back against the cinder-block wall of Dallas County’s Lew Sterrett jail. Individual cells ran around the edge of the open dayroom and down the corridors that radiated out like the spokes of a wheel. Time for lights-out was fast approaching, but for now, the prisoners in this pod sat in small knots of congruent color and race around the open bay. Some watched a small television in a cage on the wall. Some played cards. Some, Feng imagined, plotted to kill him. There was a control room at the far end, staffed by two DSOs who faced in opposite directions, dividing their time between a set of far too many monitors and the dayroom of a different pod. Feng doubted they would see a triple homicide if it went down right in front of them. The place smelled like farts and Lysol, but it didn’t matter, he was so scared he could hardly breathe anyway. The African American detention services officer standing beside him was nice enough. She was about the same size as Feng, with hair buzzed as short as humanly possible but that could still be called hair, and an oval face that said she would have been attractive out of the formless green uniform. The tag on her chest identified her as Officer Lincoln. Feng thought she’d smiled at him once while he was standing on the red line at the book-in counter, but the more he talked to her now, the more he thought maybe she just had indigestion.

“I’m not kidding,” Feng yammered on. “I really should be in solitary. I’m helping out the FBI on some high-level stuff.”

The DSO rolled her eyes, then scanned the crowded dayroom full of inmates. She kept her voice low, just loud enough for him to hear. “Why don’t you speak up a little bit? I’m sure there are a lot of nice citizens in here who never met a real live rat before.”

Feng gulped, pulling his arms, turtle-like, inside the top of his orange jail scrubs in an effort to chase away the chill. For some reason, they kept this place like a damned refrigerator.