Perpetual: Assassins

By Brian Huey

Pitted against the status quo, government, money, power—and pure evil, our hero, Matthew, and his enchanting and determined sidekick, Maria, fight to reclaim control over their future. On the morning of 9/11, the FBI director interrogates Matthew’s enigmatic mentor, aka, Zebo. Our All-American savant is dead-set on finding the truth about people and events that have pursued him these past years, perhaps since birth. Every step proves to be more dangerous than the last. eace in the Maine North Woods is precious to Matthew and Maria as they prepare for a big move. Trouble converges on their haven in Cambridge. Can Matthew trust his highly-decorated Marine hero brother? Can he believe a fellow MIT genius with a dangerous secret of his own? Can Matthew avoid a stalker only known as Black Cap? Can he trust his friends? Can he trust anyone?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian Huey dba Huey Media
• Release date: Oct 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9781949379051

Brian Huey

Born in Westlake, Ohio. Brian received a BS in economics and a BA in public policy from the University of North Carolina. He competed as a swimmer and springboard diver at Connecticut and UNC. His experience ranges from an assistant to the NC Attorney General to CEO of corporations in various industries. Brian's writing voice developed over the years while climbing the corporate ladder and then diving off into a wilderness of many entrepreneurial ventures. Since those early years, he has owned businesses in advertising, manufacturing, and finance, taken a company public and a sat on the board of national and international associations. All the while Brian continued to write short stories, screenplays, TV pilots and manuscripts, including the Perpetual series. He says he has experienced firsthand that reality truly is stranger than fiction. Brian competes in triathlons and master swimming. When asked about Cracker Jack, he replied, "Stay tuned. Tomorrow is another day." He lives near Charlotte, North Carolina, USA where he has turned the page to start another Perpetual chapter.

Book preview

HUEY

Copyright © 2008, 2018 by Brian Huey, Huey Media.

Interior Image Credit: Benjamin Hutchens

Author Photo by Carolyn Souther

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-9493-7903-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9493-7904-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9493-7905-1 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

This book contains an excerpt of the forthcoming title Perpetual Abducted by Brian Huey. The excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content in the forthcoming book.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 10/03/2018

6x9JacketB2CoverBW1.jpg

A PERPETUAL SERIES NOVEL

Second in the Series

Praise for PERPETUAL

69175.png

Perpetual delivers. From the intricate opening sequence to the cleverly crafted details, the reader is taken on a delicious journey … enough twists to keep even the most ardent reader of high-octane fiction entertained.

—Dr. Michael G. Meacher, COO, Front Sight Firearms Training Institute, Las Vegas, NV

A great story … could not put it down … riveting. Filled with action, suspense and complex relationships. Perpetual is a terrific book.

—Linda Kesler/Author and Speaker/ Palm Beach, FL

You are drawn into this book without realizing it … captivating …

—Roz Morton/CEO/Media Mark/ Rock Hill, SC

A thrilling ride across the Eastern Seaboard of the USA. I could not put it down!

—Robin Banks/ Proprietor/ Coruisk House/ Elgol, Scotland, UK

The new Robert Ludlam. Perpetual is a plot-twisting, time-shifting, fascinating read. Detailed … and treats you as a sophisticated reader.

—Linda Franco/CFO/Lakeside Education North Wales, PA

Filled with interesting characters and plot twists … will have you thinking about the future of energy and our natural resources, and the difference one person with a vision can make …

—Jerry McGuire/Charlotte NC

Perpetual is a fast paced intricate, suspenseful, intelligent read—all wrapped around a love story born in the North Woods of Maine. As Brian says, Enjoy the ride.

—Shirley Reading/ Literary Agent/ The Scotland Agency, retired/ Charlotte, NC

"Perpetual is well researched with intricate subplots and interesting snippets of information. What bothers me the most is differentiating what is real and what is fiction."

—Dr. Steven Jaynes

Perpetual … speaks to the last cell in the who done it cortex of your brain … exceptional mind teasing plots and possibilities … with more gut wrenching adventures and convoluted plots than the last presidential election.

—Rodger Harrison

Guatemalan Consul General (Honorario) to the USA

RodgerHarrisonConsulsealwithsig.jpg

I took this book on vacation and could not put it down … engaging characters and a story with enough plot twists to keep you wanting more.

—Mark Black/ Senior Vice Pres/Corporate Development/ Charlotte Pipe

Explosive beginning maintained throughout this thriller. I’m looking forward to Brian Huey’s next novel.

—Phillip P. Joyce, Mars, Inc. Senior Exec/retired. Chicago, IL

This exciting story is a wild ride but one which could happen. Mixing the U.S. government’s various intelligence agencies, big oil interests and Middle East terrorists, Perpetual leaves you wondering who the good or bad guys really are! Combine all of this with the developing tale of relationships between families and friends on a personal level and you have a narrative with many intriguing characters and very engaging plot twists.

—Lee Jim Fleischer, Ill, retired/Downers Grove, IL

An intensely gripping novel that throws you immediately into the battle of energy development while interesting twists and turns accellerate you towards the climax. Where is book #2?

—Carolyn Souther/Engineer & Photographer/Atlanta, GA

A run-away train … People and places seem familiar at first, then like passing through a dark tunnel, the reader emerges into a brightly lit world of intrigue and suspense.

—John J. Rego/Phunny Pharm Entertainment/ Cincinnati, OH

This is an adventure to read. It is a story that, while extraordinarily entertaining, will stay with you. Every time you see another gas price spike, or open your utility bill, you’ll remember Brian’s wonderful characters, and hope that somewhere, somehow, a real-life Matthew is at work in his research lab.

—Barry Reitman/Author Memory Shock & Public Speaker/NY,NY

Cleverly crafted, Perpetual is an appropriately titled novel that produces a perpetual stream of twists and turns and takes the reader on a memorable journey chock full of historical facts, current topics and engaging characters. Readers will be left wanting to get on the next rollercoaster ride in this engaging series.

—Devin Steele/Steele Media Group/Greenville, S.C.

Dedi

cated to

Law Enforcement

&

Firefighters

Thank you.

Yesterday is not ours to recover,

but tomorrow is ours to win or lose.

—Lyndon B. Johnson

Prologue

September 8, 2001

I thought you were dead, Harrington said.

I was dead, Estebanez thought, and I liked it that way.

Felix Zebo Estebanez was one of the twenty-nine unnamed fallen agents in the Book of Honor encased at the Langley CIA headquarters.¹

Estebanez studied the thick report in front of him and tapped his pen on the North Carolina mahogany slab which dated back to the original Bureau of Investigation (BOI). He imagined Stanley Finch sitting at this head of this table with his inaugural team of agents.

You know what they say, sir— Estebanez said.

Estebanez’s phone buzzed. He looked at the screen; the text was from Matthew: 711. Important but not dead or dying.

No, what do they say?

The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.

The following chuckles quelled under Harrington’s glare. This morning, about 3 a.m., each agent’s phone rang, and the emergency meeting started in the J. Edgar Hoover Building at 5 a.m. The primary topic was an escalated red alert prompted by a high volume of antiterrorism surveillance chatter. The matrix flagged thousands of keywords, such as border, assassinate, explosives, and al-Qaeda. It cross-referenced the keywords with known shorthand codes—like dogged, initiate, and bug out—and then ran an algorithm with multiple phrases that link all variables together. The program spat out top ten, top one hundred, and top one thousand lists of suspect cellphone and computer locations.

The FBI invited the CIA and the NSA to the meeting. The NSA declined to attend, and the CIA director sent Zebo.

Estebanez studied the ineffaceable twisted expression on the face of the FBI Deputy Director over Counterterrorism. James T. Harrington was as qualified to run this meeting as a cartoon tiger was to recommend nutritional breakfasts. He could see why Agent Flannigan struggled with the man. Harrington ignored multiple warnings and removed the FBI detail protecting Dr. Jackson. The sniper’s bullet hit the scientist when he stepped out of his limo onto the front steps leading to the Senate Building.

After the dust settled, Flannigan’s partner, Colin Jester, knocked down Harrington with a single punch. Estebanez had met Jester—at the man’s church. He was one of the first African Americans to graduate the FBI Academy in the sixties, lost his pension over the incident, and became a preacher in the roughest part of the capital city.

Bureaucrats should not run direct field operations, Estebanez thought.

While Harrington droned on, Estebanez scanned through the CIA report summary, which indicated a ninety-three percent probability of an imminent domestic threat on US soil. A coefficient over fifty-two deserved the highest level of scrutiny by the major national security agencies. A seventy-nine required POTUS notification in the President’s Daily Briefing, or PDB. A factor of ninety-three, like today’s report, prompted high alert within all security agencies, including TSA, NSA, DIA, CIA, and FBI.

Estebanez marveled at the number of cross points of data. The sheer volume of information has baffled the senior counterterrorism division analysts. Where is the threat origination? Where is their target? What is their target? And when to inform the public. The last question would be up to POTUS.

He looked up to see the acting Deputy Director focused on him. Harrington reminded Estebanez of James Seebert, who led P7, the most influential and dangerous powerbroker lobby in DC.

The Deputy Director frowned and nodded at Estebanez, who then stood with his back to the room and reviewed hundreds of sticky notes, pictures, and data stuck to a mosaic evidence wall. Above the corkboard, a painting of a glaring J. Edgar Hoover. In the corners of the room hung large plasma screens that projected maps of Austria and Yemen.

Estebanez laser-tagged a photo of two men in camouflaged uniform, each armed with an A-4 semiautomatic rifle, a sidearm, and a combat knife; the men looked similar, with dark, handsome faces and jet-black hair. One smiled, and the other scowled.

His phone buzzed. He looked at the screen and frowned. 811. Matthew, again. Not quite the end of the world but call as soon as possible.

Ahmed and Saleh Jobrani Maher grew up in Vienna, Estebanez started. This photo was taken a few city blocks from the OPEC building at Obere Donaustrasse 93 and less than two kilometers from the Parliament building just across the Donaukanal waterway. He pointed the laser over the map of Vienna and then over to a picture of an older man. Their grandfather on their father’s side was Bedouin Sheik, Ali Mohamed Maher. Their father, Momwar Maher, served as Yemeni Ambassador to Austria until his sudden death in 1999. Their mother, Saba Jobrani, is the daughter of an Austrian princess, Elham Jobrani österreichischer who emigrated from Yemen and married the grandson of Austro-Hungarian Monarch, österreichischer Adel. Momwar had refused to take on the German name. But it didn’t matter as they benefit as decedents of the monarchy with diplomatic immunity. Estebanez growled and looked at Flannigan’s partner. Stevens?

Agent Sven Stevens, a head taller than anyone else in the room, took the pointer. The young man was as Alpine as anyone could be, with fair skin and short-cropped blond hair over a long skull. He wore oval wire-rimmed glasses that made his light blue eyes glisten.

Where is Flannigan? Estebanez whispered. He somewhat respected the most senior agent, though the two had battled over very personal issues for years, like who bore the greater blame for letting down the Jackson’s.

Chemo.

How’s that going?

Sven shrugged.

Harrington asked, Something you want to share with the rest of us, Agent Stevens?

Stevens cleared his throat and continued, "As Agent Estebanez was pointing out, these two brothers have been on our FTO for many years.² We attempted to detain them twice, and each time the Austrian government demanded their release—diplomatic immunity. Photos of the brothers walking through an airport appeared. What makes them unique is their ability to cross diplomatic and international borders without reproach."

Stevens went on to explain that like their close cousins, the Jobrani Maher family lived an opulent life full of opportunity with oil investments and ownership in many construction ventures. Ahmed and Saleh had at least a dozen uncles in the bin Taliffan and bin Laden families of Yemen and Saudi Arabia. Their billionaire wealth spread to members of the extended family, including the Jobrani Maher brothers.

We have jackets on thirty-seven of the cousins, Estebanez interjected, and deported five due to suspected terrorist network ties.

Al-Qaeda? one agent asked. And is their wealth all from oil?

Yes, Stevens replied, the most obvious is al-Qaeda. And the funds for both families come from four decades of constructing the major cities of the Middle East.

Estebanez noted, Supporters funnel millions into the coffers of Hafiz Islam Bitrūl Saumba Shokran.

Harrington spoke up. I thought they were dead, also.

An attempt at humor? Estebanez wondered. No, sir, their organization is alive and well and more dangerous than any terror group. Hiding behind legitimate enterprises, their membership controls a trillion in oil wealth.

Another agent asked, So, Ahmed and Saleh are associated with this Hafiz group?

"Yes, as I said earlier, their cousins control the cartel. And yes, Ahmed graduated from Princeton University. He was a USIBA boxer. Saleh went to the Saudi Military College, but they released him after one year. It seems that Saleh had organized a pro al-Qaeda club called Tadmir Algharb Almathal, translated, Destroy Western Ideals. When they returned to Austria, they joined the state police department."

You’ve got to be kidding! another agent blurted out.

No, it’s crazy. Right? Agent Stevens said with excitement. He put a fist to his mouth when he saw the look on his boss’ face. He coughed and said, "Saleh also trained in Yemen with his cousin Osama bin Laden. After two years of police and WEGA³ training, the brothers Maher joined the Cobras. Stevens let that settle in. They received honorary positions as officers."

Some in the room laughed.

Estebanez took over. "With the EKO, the brothers traveled the world on diplomatic visas, consulting and training smaller country’s antiterrorist teams. Most famous was their participation in stopping a terrorist hijacking of a Russian plane while in flight.

They are under constant scrutiny by security agencies in France, the UK, and here in the US. As I said earlier, customs detained Ahmed and Saleh, and later, your Boston Special Agent in Charge, Alex Scofield, took them in. Estebanez let that accusation settle. But you released them.

We had no choice; it was the DOS. Harrington said. So, where the hell are they now?⁴

Estebanez glared at the director. You tell me. The FBI has domestic authority. The president asked me to be here, or I would be out looking for them myself.

The AC hummed, and no one moved. No one talked to Harrington like that.

I don’t have to remind the CIA that you have no jurisdiction to investigate domestically. You find them; you call me.

Estebanez fought a picture forming in his mind of the Deputy Director on a rusted metal table. There was a cloth over his face and water poured into his mouth out of a rusty can. Estebanez reserved this image; his own worst nightmare. Until the North Woods, he woke many nights coughing up his guts. Millinocket changed him. Was it Matthew? Was it the air? Was it the woman?

Estebanez said, I thought they would be in Boston. But they arrived in DC two weeks ago and disappeared. Almost speaking to himself, he said, Because of their interest in Matthew Eaton— He was instantly sorry that he’d said Matthew’s name. Though, he mused, Flannigan would have loved to see the expression on Harrington’s face.

Thank you for your time, Agent, Harrington said with a snarl. I will inform Director Freeh. Thank Director Tenet for me.

Estebanez returned to his seat, but Harrington cocked his head to the door, dismissed. His eyes narrowed as he shook the image of the rusty can from his mind.

That was fine with Estebanez since, as far as he was concerned, he had done the president’s bidding. He would prefer his home, a large catamaran moored in the Destin harbor. But that would not happen, as he knew he would join the manhunt.

Estebanez turned and considered the agents; most were in diapers when he began his training at Langley. One last question, Estebanez started. Harrington’s eyebrows scrunched, so he added, When will you recommend that POTUS alert ports of entry, the airports, and the media?

You’ll know when the rest of America knows.

I wouldn’t wait that long.

Do you have additional information you want to add?

It’s a feeling.

I can’t recommend to the president to issue a critical terrorist alert based on your feelings. You sound like your friend Flannigan.

Estebanez had a retort on the tip of his tongue, something his Cuban father used to say: Cometido errores, ceran culpados, which loosely meant, Errors have been made, others will be blamed. But he left the room and closed the door behind him. An administrator met him in the hallway, introduced herself as Mildred, and handed him a stack of files that she said Flannigan left for him. She told him that Patrick was recovering well from the last chemo session and that, despite the doctor’s orders, he planned to fly to Boston today.

As he walked to the elevator, a foreboding made Estebanez wince. He rubbed his temple just as his cellphone buzzed.

The text message was from Matthew—911.

It was after midnight in the Port of Busan, South Korea. With camo grease on their faces, and heavy laden with stealth gear and body armor, four surly men worked their way through the shipyard. Each had a duffel bag over one shoulder and an AK-47 automatic rifle slung over the other.

One man stood guard as the other three moved to the next cover. When they reached the shore, they climbed a gangplank leading to one of the ocean’s newest mega cargo ships: 18,000 TEU, 1,300 feet in length, 200 feet across the beam, and $200 million to build. ⁵ She was called the Niǎo, the bird, with China Shipping Line printed on the back and sides. The manifest for the cargo ship read that it originated from the Port of Hong Kong. The ship was bound for the Port of Gothenburg, Sweden, with its ultimate destination the Paul J. Conley Container Terminal in South Boston.

The ship’s Captain, Park Yung Bok, met the first man on deck. Colonel Son, he said.

The colonel nodded and handed the captain a large manila envelope. The captain pulled out a stack of colorful South Korean won, seemed satisfied, tipped his head slightly, and turned toward the mass of steel containers.

Ten minutes later and a long climb down a steel ladder, they came to an open container, on the bottom of dozens, stacked like Legos. Two of the captain’s men stood guard and raised automatic rifles. The visitors all pulled their sidearms from their holsters. The captain raised a hand, and the guards lowered their guns. The visiting soldiers did not holster their weapons.

The colonel entered the reefer container to find it outfitted like a Gangnam, Seoul high-end apartment, complete with a refrigerator, portable toilet, and an air conditioning unit. He turned and nodded to the captain who nodded back to him. The colonel pointed his Sig Sauer 9mm toward the container. His men went in, and he followed.

The ship’s captain gestured for his guards to close the doors behind the soldiers.

Chapter One

Desmodontinae

September 10, 2001

DINU CONSTANTIN LAPATTI’S PIANO MUSIC played on vinyl in the corner of a small, dank room. Dr. Lazlo Benbencula leaned over a tiny infected bat. He made surgical cuts and dissected the organs. Benbencula was renowned for his forty-year study of bats. He took a breath; the answer continued to elude him.

Dinu’s fingers skated over Bach’s Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring.⁶

Having recently returned from another research trip to South America, paid by the Transylvania University of Brașov, he was beyond euphoric with the possibilities. In a small corner of the Amazon, he found that the rabies virus did not infect a percentage of vampire-bat-bitten Peruvians. They were immune.

One or two more live test subjects and he would have the antidote.

I must make Sacrifices.

I will avenge her. And then I can rest.

He was so close. Closer than ever. How ironic that one person could cause his downfall. He smiled when he thought of Maria.

The teapot whistled, and Dr. Benbencula set down his scalpel and forceps. He poured his tea into a delicate china teacup that had belonged to his mother. He ran his hands over the smooth surface of his father’s nineteenth century roll top desk. It had a life of its own and traveled from his grandfather’s war-torn home in Satu Mare, to many Benbencula homes around the world, and now here.

He smiled as he looked up at a colorful ceramic urn centered on the top shelf of the desk. He reached up and stroked the urn.

"Aproape acolo, Mama. Aproape acolo." Almost there.

He unfolded the Boston Globe issue and studied the face staring back at him. Beautiful.

The story featured Chief Medical Examiner Sarah Porter, MD. He smirked. The Janitor, they called her. During her first year, she turned around a morgue in chaos overflowing with bodies, unsolved cases, and a few lost bags of bones.

It was the girl next to Dr. Porter that held his attention. The caption under the photograph read: Intern, Maria Valdeorras helps solve the Maggie Faro murder. The journalist wrote that Maria was a forensic criminology intern with what Dr. Porter described as a gift for the trade. He touched the picture of Maria’s face and cut out the article. At an ancient armoire, he used a skeleton key to open the tall doors revealing a collage of newspaper articles and photographs.

Time was running out. This morning he’d received yet another call from a persistent Boston detective, a profiler. Benjamin Morris. Lazlo could not avoid him much longer.

He taped the article into the center—and touched Maria’s face.

"Dumnezeul meu." My God, he breathed.

ACT 1 – THE BIG PICTURE

PART I

CULTURE & CONSEQUENCE

71158.png

Chapter Two

Songshan

Summer 1871 – China

FOTUO III, THE GRANDMASTER and abbot of the monastery, Sifu to his students, looked over the valley toward southern Henan and the Hubei Province. Smoke from plundered villages and farms billowed like dark storm clouds across the otherwise blue sky. Hours earlier, he had awakened from a troubling dream. He had learned to trust his dreams.

The grandmaster directed a dozen monks to move the most precious artifacts of their order to the sacred caves. He wondered how his heart endured these last decades? The people of China, his people, had suffered, and though the end was in sight, the killing had now reached his mountain, Songshan, the heart of China.

It was August 1871. An estimated twenty million dead. He received a letter from Sir Winston Cuthbertson, a British historian who previously studied at the monastery, urging the monks to flee. Cuthbertson said the death toll would rise to thirty million.

The Taiping Rebellion began in 1850, far south of the Temple. For fifteen hundred years, through many wars and two separate decimations of the temple, the Shaolin had survived in the Henan Province. By 1860, the rebellion had reached central China. A general of the Qing army wrote to his British and French consultants: All will be lost if the uprising reaches the cradle of the Chinese civilization.⁷ Situated along the Yangtze River, atop the centermost Songshan Mountain, the Shaolin monastery was a natural fortress with an abundance of food and spring water.

Four bloody years later, fortune answered. Hong Xiuquan died of food poisoning, and most of the armies disbursed.⁸ Unfortunately, more than one hundred thousand warriors, who knew nothing but battle and bloodlust, pressed northward with unrelenting savagery.⁹

Villagers, who fled to the safety of the monastery, confirmed that the smoke was the work of the remaining rebel army. These soldiers were the most brutal and experienced of the rebellion.

The Shaolin abbot walked to the terrace where he stood looking south. He also knew the rebel advance on his mountain had nothing to do with the rebellion’s failure. Mongol-Chinese warlord, Kublai Xi, pronounced shee, had a separate purpose in targeting Songshan. Fotuo III knew the Xi family wanted one thing even more than the death and extinction of the Shaolin Order. Xi believed he was on a mission for his ancestors to retrieve from the monastery certain holy books, scrolls, and the last existing imperial jade seal from the Qin Dynasty. These artifacts would supposedly empower him to rally the masses behind him and restore Mongolian rule to Asia.

A messenger from the Manchu Qing ruler alerted the abbot that Shi Dakai, the last Han Taiping rebel army led by General Li Fuzhong, would cross into the Henan Province within days. The Qing Dynasty troops were a three-day march north. The abbot had no doubt the Qing Dynasty would destroy the Shi Dakai army.¹⁰

But when the Dynasty’s army arrived, would a single Shaolin priest live?

He had sent Guam Chiu, He Who Buddha Had Chosen, and three of the Shaolin’s most capable warriors on a fishing expedition. His most gifted student must survive.

Absorbed into a wakeful dream as he once again saw apparitions of the future; his vision blurred. The fog cleared, and the old master smiled.

All things have a purpose.¹¹

Miles southwest of the temple, Guam Chiu, Feng Chaogui, and Tong Dakai laughed at Zuo Yunshan. When they were not laughing, they were singing, and if not singing they were spending time in prayer and meditation. They sang to distract from the pain of the bamboo cutting into their shoulders as they carried their big catch on seven-foot staffs. They journeyed from the Yangtze, a half-day walk from the base of the western side of Songshan.

As they climbed the trail up the mountain, Guam touched the Xiamen tiger claw that hung around his neck and the long scar on his neck where the tiger had taken a near-fatal swipe. The other boys called him Mèngxiǎng dúzhě, the dream reader, but it was his own dreams that often perplexed him. He had visions of a giant creature with antlers as large as its body, a man-eagle on top of a stormy mountain. People rushing around rectangular buildings carrying books, packs on their backs, small boxes held to their ears. Carts moving without the aid of horses, and steel birds hanging in the sky. There was a place much like the sacred Shaolin sanctuary with strange drawings on the walls. A Gweilo and another young man who looked like he could be related to the Chiu family labored over leather-bound manuscripts. The dream reminded him of his visits into Damo’s cave, studying with Sifu, the grandmaster. ¹²

Guam was not sure why he was Buddha’s Chosen One. But he did love that he was privy to volumes of ancient works that most in China did not know existed. Sifu gave Guam the responsibility of what the British called engineering. His latest project was developing an irrigation system for their gardens. In recent months, he had begun building a waterwheel, like the ones he had seen in pictures of Holland.

The recurring dreams left him more baffled and confused than ever.

One day it will be revealed, the abbot advised.

Guam put up a hand. They stopped to listen. The jungle’s mood has changed, he said. There is darkness and fear. He had felt the change when they were packing up their catch hours before, and he should have trusted his instincts. Sifu often told him to listen to that still small voice inside his head. If you cannot hear it then you are not listening.

An hour later, they heard muffled gunshots, a rare sound on the holy mountain.¹³

To reach the Shaolin temple, it was an arduous hike up a steep grade from where they now stood. Six hundred years earlier, during the Ming Dynasty, there were as many as one thousand trained Shaolin monk warriors on the mountain. Now there were less than a hundred.

They slipped the pangolin and rainbow trout off the ends of their bamboo staffs, dropped their burlap bags of freshwater shrimp, and started running up the mountain.

The four student soldiers arrived on the martial arts training ground behind the smoldering temple. Pain seared through Guam’s heart as he watched a sea of burning pagodas. Monks and enemy soldiers lay nearby in pools of blood. Survivors passed wooden buckets toward the escalating fire from the spring-fed pools.

In the flames, he saw the Gweilo from his dreams. He was in a science lab like those Guam had seen in books. The Gweilo pointed toward the cave and then he was gone. Instead of joining the water line, he rushed toward the sacred cave.

Chapter Three

Bear

1987 — Russia

THE KGB AGENT could not sleep and went to the basement. He had been here for a year, and now his job was in jeopardy. The end had begun.

While stationed for the last two years in Dresden, East Germany, the agent’s specialty in Germany was monitoring the movement of foreigners—other country’s agents, politicians, and persons of interest from the US and the UK.

The name on his identification is Leonid Alexander Pankiv.

Ten days ago, Leonid had read a transcript of a speech and could not get it out of his head. The end had begun.

Leonid looked at the time on one wall and went to the corner of his private gym, a ten-by-ten windowless basement room. He turned on the television, but there was nothing about President Reagan’s speech at the Berlin Wall. To make the two-hundred and thirty-nine kilometer drive to the Gate, he needed to leave Dresden by 9 a.m. He had called his superior, Ivan Mikhailovich, perhaps the most feared agent of the Cold War. He said to stand down, Chairman Gorbachev’s orders. President Reagan was off limits. That’s the problem, the agent thought. That’s the problem.

A former Hollywood actor would star in the farce—and speechwriters had already written the script. It shocked him that his General Secretary of the Communist Party would lay down like a submissive feline, rather than rear up like a great bear. It was a mistake to become friends with Reagan.

The cowboy actor was going to embarrass the General Secretary and all of Russia. The agent would bide his time, and one day, he and like-minded Soviets would have another opportunity. I swear it, he said, pounding both fists against the wall.

He joined his comrades waiting outside. In the black sedan sat another KGB agent, Serg Skripal, and two Stasi agents, East German secret police.

All those years of work, for what? Nothing, Skripal said.

Leonid agreed. He thought of Little Gray neck, the day his father castrated him. From the passenger seat, he watched through the side mirror as a Mercedes pulled in behind as they passed into West Berlin.

An hour later, the five men in the BMW arrived at the old Brandenburg Gate to see the pomp and circumstance. Another Mercedes had joined the parade.

Do you believe this, Vlad?

Pankiv glared at him.

Colonel Pankiv, Skripal corrected. I hope there will be jobs in Moscow.

Conceal your weapons, Leonid ordered. We’re going to be stopped. Their vehicle had compartments under the floor mats to hide the service weapons. A black Mercedes pulled in front of them and the other behind. Leonid was sure they were Bundesnachrichtendienst, the BND, West German secret service. The agent at the driver’s window asked for their papers. After review, the other agent leaned close to Leonid’s face and said, Maybe we should shoot you all now and save the American president the trouble? He looked in the backseat at the Stasi men and added, I would kill the KGB agents with one bullet to the head. But, you—you I will keep in a basement, begging for me to finish you.

Nobody in the car spoke.

There’s a roped-off square on the promenade, farthest from the Brandenburg Gate, for the communist visitors, the agent at the window continued. You’ll have to go through metal detectors, of course. I’m sure you weren’t foolish enough to bring weapons.

Skripal smiled. Of course not, he said.

This was an impromptu visit by the American president on his way to the G-7 Summit Meeting in Venice, Italy. I could have carried a rocket launcher in here, he thought. He took his seat with his comrades in the roped-off promenade, for the communists.

It was 2 p.m., and there was an estimated fifty thousand West Germans attending the speech. The tall, smiling cowboy droned on about democracy.

We welcome change and openness, President Reagan said. We believe that freedom and security work together in the advance of human liberty, and it will strengthen the cause of world peace. There is one sign the Soviets can make that would be unmistakable, that would advance dramatically the cause of freedom and peace.¹⁴

Here it comes, Leonid thought. He did not feel anger. He was resolute.

If you seek prosperity for the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe, if you seek liberalization, come here to this gate. Mr. Gorbachev, open this gate.

The American president paused for effect.

"Mr. Gorbachev …"

He paused again.

Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!

The crowd rose and cheered, roaring for an unbearable length of time.

As I looked out a moment ago from the Reichstag, that embodiment of German unity, the president continued, "I noticed words crudely spray-painted upon the wall, perhaps by a young Berliner, This wall will fall. Beliefs become reality. Yes, across Europe, this wall will fall. For it cannot withstand faith, it cannot withstand truth. The wall cannot withstand freedom."

Leonid had a copy of the speech, and he was not surprised. Reagan called for the US and Soviets to end the arms race by eliminating the production of all new nuclear weapon projects.

When the Chancellor Helmut Kohl took the podium, the KGB agent and his comrades left the promenade.

Leonid remained in Dresden for one more year before the Kremlin called him back to Moscow. On November 9, 1989, the wall began to fall. In 1990, Ronald Reagan returned to take a few hammer swings of his own.

Chancellor Kohl said years later that for him, it was a monumental moment to stand behind President Reagan when he demanded Gorbachev tear down the wall.

Something the KGB agent would never forget.

Chapter Four

Ghosts

October 1998

AS MATTHEW RAN, he thought of last night’s unusual series of dreams, of a fire at a shrine and dark figures surrounding politicians at the Berlin Wall. The medicine man, Bouchard, had appeared holding three dead crows. At least there were no bats—this