Operation Norfolk (8 page)

Hawker went to her, touching her gently on the arm. “It's okay,” he said. “You don't have to talk about it if you don't want.”

Sha lifted her head, looking carefully into the vigilante's eyes. “I no mind. Am very proud of it. Very proud of how strong I was, just little girl all alone. I escape. Ten year old, and I find secret way off island. I escape, and man who own island don't even care enough to find out I live or die. I come here, live with nuns till I go out on my own. Only place hire me was The Saigon. Now I save money to leave this place. Someday. Leave these bad people of mine. Someday go to United States where things are fair. Get my freedom there.”

“But this bad man who owns Kira-Kira certainly knows that you work at the restaurant. The Vietnamese community here isn't that large.”

“Yes, he know. But he no bother me. No longer interested. No longer a little girl. See, I a woman now. This man not like womens, only girls.”

“Then he is a very bad man indeed,” Hawker said.

“Yes. Oh, yes. Very bad. That why you must not ask questions about pineapples and coconuts. You want grow the fruits, many islands around very good for that. But you ask questions about Kira-Kira, my people get wrong idea. Think you maybe here to bother the bad man on his island. They protect him. They all protect him.”

Hawker thought for a moment. “How much money do you need to save before you think you can leave for America, Sha?”

The woman shrugged. “Don't know exactly. Have saved six hundred dollars on my own. Got it in bank, save a little every day. You are American. How much more you think I need?”

“You'll need a lot more than that, Sha—unless you want to get there and immediately be broke. End up the same way you're living here. I'd say you need several thousand. Enough to stake you for a few months while you find a decent job.” Hawker smiled. “Hey, don't look so discouraged. I think I know a way for you to make all the money you need.”

Sha, looking suspicious, said, “Men in restaurant tell me that, offer me much money. I know what they want.” She touched her knee. “I keep knife to protect myself. I like you, but no try something. I no like men that way.”

“No man at all, Sha?”

“No,” she said in a husky voice.

“Never?”

“Never.” She turned and looked at him. “You are first man I see without clothes. First American man, anyway. When I was little girl, I saw that man owns Kira-Kira. It true what they say. Very true.”

“And what do they say, Sha?”

Her face colored. “American men very big. Very large. Too large. Not enough money to make me do that.”

“And I wouldn't offer you money for that, Sha. But I'd like to hire you to do something else.”

“No drugs,” she said, still distrustful of Hawker. “I no carry drugs. I a decent girl. Say the rosary every day, pray to God to help me get to America. Go to mass, go to confession too.”

Hawker wondered what she had to confess. “I don't want to hire you to carry drugs, Sha. It's something else. You said you found a secret way out of Kira-Kira when you were a little girl. Do you think you could still find it, that secret way? I'd pay you a lot of money to show it to me. Enough money to get you to America and support you there for several months.”

The woman stood, an expression of wonder on her face. “You no hear what I tell you? You no believe what I say? You go Kira-Kira, they kill you! Many men there. Many soldiers, much guns! They see you, big strong American, they not even ask your name, just go boom-boom, good-bye, mister. Why you must grow pineapples on that place? Many other islands to buy. Many better places, not so much jungle—” Then her expression began to change, from outrage to slow understanding as she met the vigilante's cold gray eyes. “Wait a minute …
you
no planter. You say you want grow coconuts, pineapples, but you lying to me. You come here for other reason, no? You come here spy on General Cwong, man who own Kira-Kira. Tell me truth now. That the reason you come.”

Hawker decided to follow his instincts. He felt the story Sha Hainan had told him was true, although he would certainly check out what he could about her later. But if he was to make a deal with her, he would have to make it now, before she had a chance to rethink it, to consider the danger involved. Besides, finding some secret trail through the jungles of Kira-Kira was worth the risk. He said, “I didn't come here to spy on Con Ye Cwong, Sha.”

“Then why you must go that island? If you a planter—”

“I'm not a planter or an investor either. I came to kill Cwong. I came to kill him and destroy as much of his operation as I can. And I would like to pay you to help me.”

The woman sat down again, eyeing him steadily, breathing through her nose. She studied her hands for a moment, then looked up. “You come kill Cwong?”

“Yes, Sha, that's right.”

“Then I help you. Help you any way I can. Only you no need pay me. I help because I want.”

“If you want to think it over for a while—”

“Already thought it over,” she cut in. “Thought it over many times. Thousands times. Cwong killed my father, did bad things to me.” She looked at him then, her dark feline eyes glowing. “For many years I knew you would come. I waited and waited and finally give up.”

“You knew I was coming?” Hawker asked.

“Yes,” the woman said. “Because living with the nuns I ask for you. Many years I ask for you. I pray for man to come help me kill Cwong.…”

ten

Hawker spent three long days in Port Moresby, waiting.

He hated waiting, despised inactivity.

And so he found himself doing calisthenics every morning and taking long runs through the city every day. Sailors looked at him as if he were some crazy tourist, shaking their heads. But he kept it up every day, not wanting the fine physical edge honed at Coronado to wear off.

After exercising, he'd return to the hotel and study the charts, memorizing every last detail.

The CIA didn't expect him to come out alive. Sha didn't expect him to come out alive. Well, he wanted to prove them wrong. He liked surprising people, being an underdog—but one who emerges victorious.

Most of all, though, he wanted to surprise Cwong.

In the past few weeks, a picture of Con Ye Cwong had gathered detail in his mind, like an image on photographic paper coming to life in a tub of chemicals. Dull gray at first, the image soon took on details, shades of light and black, and finally came into sharp focus, to life.

Cwong was alive in Hawker's mind now, a living, breathing creature, a fat spider comfortable in his web.

On one level, Cwong was a zealot motivated by greed and hatred. He liked money, he loved power, he hated Americans. A political animal who thought nothing of murder. On another level, Cwong was one of the twisted ones, one of those brain-damaged predators who feed on the human spirit, who draw strength from destroying those unfortunate enough to fall under their power. If he couldn't kill them, he got them hooked on drugs and destroyed them that way. Or he provided weaponry to other zealots. On a third level, certainly his most personal and repulsive level, Cwong was an abuser. Not of women. Women were strong. Too strong. So he went for children. Girl children, certainly. Maybe boy children too. Cwong took them when they were too weak to fight back.

Hawker had a clear picture of the man, all right. A killer. A destroyer. A rogue animal filled with disease.

This might be his toughest assignment, but he had never come to an assignment with greater resolve.

Hawker wanted this man. He wanted to look him in the eye and tell the bastard why he was being killed before pulling the trigger.

For once Hawker's role wasn't that of a vigilante. He was now an executioner, plain and simple.

And James Hawker had come across few men more deserving of an executioner.

So he waited for three days, itchy as hell, anxious to do what he did best. He had told Sha that they must not meet again, must not see each other or be seen together before it was time to leave. Her people would certainly kill her if they found out she was involved with him in any way.

She had agreed without question, trusting him totally because, after all, he had been sent as an answer to her prayers. When he needed to get in touch with her, she said, he could stop at the convent outside town. The nuns would get in touch with her, give her any message.

Without her knowledge, and with the help of military intelligence at the Port Moresby base, Hawker had found out her bank, her account number, and had deposited five thousand dollars in her name.

Then, in the morning of the fourth day, Hawker went out for his usual long run. He had stopped outside the hotel door, deciding which way to go, when a man leaning against the building in a gray suit said in a low voice, “You're not going to have time to go for your run, Mr. Hawker.”

The vigilante stopped. He looked at the man, then looked away. With all the people passing by, he decided just to listen. The voice said, “At noon you will go to the public docks on Three Britain Street and charter a boat called
The Blue Marlin
. Ask for Captain Watson. Can you hear me?”

Hawker nodded.

“Good,” the voice said. “Ask for Captain Watson, and tell him you want to fish for anything that will bite. Got that? Anything that will bite. Carry your personal gear along, everything you might need for a long stay.
The Blue Marlin
will take you to an island about forty miles from here. Just after dusk a chopper will land, then take you to a place near your assignment. The pilot will tell you where to find your boat. You will take that boat to the unnamed island not far from Kira-Kira. The pilot will also tell you where to find your equipment and where the best place to stay on that island is. Our friend on Kira-Kira will be making deliveries two days from today, on Thursday, probably around midnight. Nod if you have it all.”

Hawker said, “I have it all. But tell Captain Watson there will be two of us.”

The voice became strident. “No. No way. Just you—”

“That wasn't a request,” Hawker interrupted. “There will be two of us.” Hawker looked at the man. “Nod if you understand.”

The man in the gray suit looked confused for a moment, then finally nodded.

“Good,” said Hawker. “I'm going for my run.”

Hawker ran past the city limits signs to the convent, old and made of brown rock. He shook the big brass knob until a tiny nun answered, and told her he had an important message for Sha. The nun nodded as if she had been expecting him, then produced paper and pencil from somewhere in her habit.

Hawker wrote a brief note, dated it, folded it, handed it back to the nun, and said, “Sha has to see this within the hour. I can take it if you tell me where she is.”

The nun stuffed the note away. “It will be taken care of.” She backed into the compound, closing the big door.

Hawker turned back for town, running hard, pushing himself, feeling the sweat pour out. He stopped at the hotel's front desk and told the clerk he was going on a fishing trip but wanted to keep his room. Might not be back for a day or two, he explained, but wanted to pay for a week in advance, just to set your minds at rest.

He went up to his room, showered, dressed in fresh cotton slacks and navy-blue shirt, packed his stuff, then drew five hundred from the hotel safe, just in case.

Walking down the street toward the wharf at Three Britain Street, Hawker felt strong, healthy, and alive, ready to take on Cwong.

He could almost smell the man, that's how close he felt. It wasn't a pleasant smell, that much was for sure.

The Blue Marlin
was a forty-two-foot Bertram, dark-blue hull, white superstructure, name in big gold letters across the transom and landing gate. There were outriggers and a flybridge, plus a comfortable cabin with bunks.

Captain Watson was a short, thick man, with big shoulders, big hands, and an equally big British accent. A varnished tan testified to many years spent on these dark-blue waters. Hawker guessed he was a real captain, and probably an occasional employee of the CIA as well. Watson, who was sitting in one of the plush fighting chairs when Hawker came strolling down the dock, looked up at the vigilante sleepily from beneath the bill of a Greek fisherman's cap.

“You open for charter?” Hawker called to him. Other men in nearby boats looked up, listening.

Watson pushed the bill of the cap up with his index finger. “Maybe. What you got in mind? You want to fish for blues?”

Hawker remembered the code phrase. “I want to fish for anything that'll bite.”

Watson stood up, waving. “Come on aboard then. We'll discuss price.”

Hawker carried his gear on board. Watson took him below, showed him where to store his stuff, and gave him a can of iced tea. He said, “I hear you're expecting a friend, Mr. Hawker.”

Hawker nodded. “A woman. She used to live on Kira-Kira. Having a guide might be a big help.”

Watson smiled. “I hope she's beautiful. You're going to end up on a tiny little island that doesn't have a goddamn thing on it but trees and monkeys and beach. Two days there are going to seem like two weeks—unless you have something to entertain you.”

Hawker didn't smile. “It's not that kind of relationship.”

Watson, visibly disappointed, went back to the fighting deck to wait for Sha. The vigilante watched through the oblong portholes, not wanting to spend too much time outside, out in the open.

He saw a nun coming down the pier. Her head was bowed, her hands hidden within her sleeves. She was walking rather fast. Hawker felt a surge of disappointment, knowing the nun was probably coming to tell him Sha had changed her mind about coming. He raced the three steps to the fighting deck and said, “Sister?”

Standing on the pier at the stern of the boat, the nun looked up and smiled.