“Thank God for that. How far are we from the coast?” Kozlowski whispered.
“About twelve miles. Don’t worry about the guys chasing you. They’re gone.”
The voice came from his right, where nobody was supposed to be. Kozlowski jerked his head around. A figure was sprawled flat on the sand just a couple of feet from him.
“Major Mike Kozlowski?” Kozlowski nodded “Commander Jeff Thomas, United States Navy. We’ve come to take you home.”
Viceregal Palace, New Delhi, India
Sir Eric Haohoa had never seen an official state limousine do a skid-turn stop before. The maneuver caused a cloud of dust to rise around the vehicle but the haze didn’t hide an even more astonishing sight. The Ambassador herself was driving, something he’d never seen before. Before, she’d always been sitting decorously in the back while the car was handled by her official driver. For her to be driving herself was unprecedented. Mind you, he had heard about her driving skills, good but excessively fast would be the official summary. Some reports were more picturesque, they said the Ambassador’s driving was the only thing that made America’s National Security Advisor go white and pray.
She left the car and ran up the steps, scanning the crowd waiting there for somebody she could trust to give an accurate, concise answer. “Sir Eric. I low is he?”
“Grave, I fear Ma’am, very, very grave. It was just after dinner, Sir Martyn got up for brandy and cigars and, just, fell over. The doctors are dreadfully concerned. Sir Martyn has been asking for you. If you would come with me?”
He laid the way through the corridors of the palace. Normally they were bustling with life, with servants, both civil and domestic, going about their business. Even at night, the work of government never stopped but it had stopped now. People were standing, waiting quietly, trying to gather news. Some of the women were crying quietly, others looking towards Sir Martyn’s private apartments. In some, hope surged as they saw Sir Eric and The Ambassador. Perhaps it would be all right now. Surely, those two, together, could fix anything?
They went through the double doors into the private living spaces. Lady Rebecca Sharpe was sitting in the waiting room, crying quietly with two of her friends comforting her. As they came in, a Doctor came out of the bedroom. He quietly called Lady Rebecca, Sir Eric and the Ambassador over.
“It was a very severe heart attack indeed. I am sorry to say this but there is no hope. The damage to his heart is just too great. He is resting quietly now but sometime tonight there will be another attack and that will be the end. Madam Ambassador, Sir Martyn has asked to see you in private, alone for a few minutes.”
The Ambassador caught a look of pure, undiluted, hatred from Lady Rebecca. She understood, it must be very hard for a wife whose husband was in his last hours to see another woman asked in for a private meeting. She followed the Doctor in. Sir Martyn was in bed, she was appalled at how weak and pale he looked. Mentally she flayed herself, she’d known he was sick and she hadn’t done enough to save him. The, as was her practice, she hid her real emotions beneath a false face and sat beside the bed.
“Sir Martyn, how do you feel? Is there anything I can do for you?”
His voice was weak but remarkably steady. “It is all right Ma’am. There is a very real comfort in knowing that one’s time has come. No more doubts or wondering what to do or where the rights and wrongs of things are. You’ve done the best you can and that’s it. When your time comes, you’ll know what I mean.”
The Ambassador smiled, under the smile, she thought that was the problem. If her time came, she’d understand. Sir Martyn was still talking.
“But I must know, Ma’am, how did you deal with Gandhi?”
The Ambassador chuckled. Speaking very quietly so none would overhear, she whispered “It was quite easy really. We stole a car from the Embassy compound. One of the drivers liked to visit low-class women of ill-repute so we kidnapped him after one such visit. Used a rubber hose and funnel to pour whisky down his throat Then, we put him in the driving seat of the car, one of my people sat in the passenger seat with a wooden pole to push the accelerator and brake. Gandhi stepped out in the road, my man just accelerated the car into him. The he used the stick to pound on the driver. Everybody had been looking at Gandhi so they assumed my man had simply been one of the first Indians to attack the car after the “accident”. As soon as the riot was underway, he slipped off. I had a second man in the crowd to push Gandhi in front of the car but he wasn’t needed.”
Sir Martyn laughed, coughed then laughed some more. “You mean the Japanese have been telling the truth for all these years and still nobody believes them? That’s wonderful.”
He settled back on his pillow with a beam of tranquil delight on his face. The Ambassador quietly stood and called for Lady Rebecca. As she entered she saw the peace on Sir Martyn’s face and smiled her thanks to The Ambassador, she couldn’t hold any resentment against somebody who had brought so much grace to her husband’s last hours. As Lady Rebecca sat by the bed, the Ambassador looked out the windows. The square beneath was filling with people, all quietly standing and waiting, looking up as if they could somehow send enough of their own strength to help Sir Martyn through this illness. Even as she watched, more and more people joined the crowd below. Then she turned to leave.
‘‘Please don’t go Madam Ambassador. I know my husband would want you to stay with us. Please, sit with us.”
The Ambassador took the remaining seat by the bed. Lady Rebecca was holding one of Sir Martyn’s hands, she took the other. Sir Martyn was in a light sleep that deepened as the minutes ticked by. Then, one of his hands clenched hard and what little color was left in his face went. The Ambassador had seen more people die than she liked to count and recognized the death-shadow sweeping down over his face. Knowing that hearing was the last sense to go she leaned forward and whispered very softly “You are loved, Sir Martyn. And we will meet again.”
Lady Rebecca was sobbing quietly. The Ambassador went back to the waiting room and told Sir Eric that the wait was over. He followed her back into the room to say farewell to his friend. Outside, word was already spreading through the crowd. The people gathered were crying openly, gently, to themselves. Individually, none were making any great noise but together they were creating a murmuring wave of grief that was far more impressive than any more ostentatious or choreographed displays could possibly have been.
Sir Eric had finished speaking to Lady Rebecca. Together he and the Ambassador left the room as others started filing in to pay their respects. “What will happen now Sir Eric? I assume a successor has been appointed?”
“Indeed so Ma’am. The President has made arrangements so that Lady Sharpe can live here as long as she wishes. It is the least India can do. Sir Martyn had trained several successors, some of whom show great promise. I think the measure of his achievement is how little change will result from his death.”
The Ambassador nodded. “Sir Martyn told me once he had a dream of restoring India’s greatness. I wonder if he knew how well the two of you have succeeded. India is a great power again, one of the leading powers in the world. I understand one of the dignitaries in London has the epitaph on his grave ‘If you seek a monument, look around you.’ That would do well for Sir Martyn I think. He has made the whole of modern India his monument.”
Deep in the Jungle, somewhere in Mindanao
Manuel Onorosa, known to his followers and the press as “Commander Torpedo” was a troubled and unhappy man. After his extortion success in Rosario, he thought he had finally made his mark with the shadowy figures that ran the insurgency. He’d been instructed to meet up with another group and pass a portion of the liberated funds over to them. He’d done that but bad luck seemed to follow the money everywhere it went. They’d met up with the other group as planned, handed over the money as ordered. And, just after they’d split apart after the meeting, not more than an hour or two in time and a few kilometers in space, they’d heard the crackle of rifle fire, the dull thump of the mortars. By the time they’d got there, all the other unit, every man, every one, was dead.