Deng nodded and said, “I am embarrassed to admit that we discovered a dozen 10 kiloton devices missing. That might sound like a small matter in these days when glib discussions take place in high places about bombs with a hundred or more kiloton or even megaton force, but we should remember that the bomb dropped on Hiroshima yielded 15 kilotons. Practically speaking, everything within a half mile radius of the detonation of a 10 kiloton device is obliterated.”

  “Thank you for making all this so clear,” remarked Wang. “I’d say that at the next meeting of the CPS, you will be ready to make concessions on behalf of the army to the Party Secretariat.”

  At this, Deng barked mirthlessly. “The commissar will have the advantage on me.”

  Wang paused thoughtfully for a moment then hinted, “Perhaps you could ask your chain of command to REQUEST such oversight from the secretariat BEFORE the CPS meeting. Meanwhile, your office should prepare to cooperate with the police on finding out how much damage has been done and how we can remedy the situation. I believe the intelligence agency will also be involved.”

  “Let’s not leave anyone out,” grumbled Deng.

  “That is why we have those meetings,” said Wang. “A breach of security of the nation’s inventory of weapons of mass destruction qualifies to be discussed with every ministry represented at the CPS. Who knows what might be the diplomatic or financial repercussions?

  “Further,” Wang continued, “permit me to be so bold as to suggest that you and your superiors consider releasing information about the thefts to the newspapers. It will make them happy. It is only a matter of time before knowledge of the failures of your security protocols becomes well-known. When you ask the top brass in the army to call in the Party Secretariat for assistance in tightening those protocols and in monitoring them, think of it as bitter medicine that is best taken quickly.”

  Deng struggled with his thoughts for a while. Finding them depressing, he asked, “Is there any chance you could speak up for me, for us?”

  “What do you think, General?” countered Wang in a soft but steely voice. The general agonized some more with his unpleasant fate then gave up and sighed.

  “And what will you do in the meantime, if I may ask?”

  “Unfortunately,” Wang declared, “weapons are stolen for specific reasons. There are no good reasons that I can think of to steal nuclear devices. The intelligence agency will have to determine where the devices are, who has them and what their intentions are, preferably all three. It is a small comfort to you, I’m sure, to know that you have contributed to a riddle at my agency. Perhaps we can work together to find a solution.”

  After Deng left, the spymaster asked himself how a Filipino rebel, a North Korean arms dealer, a Chinese logistics manager, and an Eastern European pimp could be connected?

  Why?

  What is the threat to China?

  Contents

  CHAPTER 8

  Flashback - a year ago, on an island in South Philippines

  The men gathered quietly at the village mosque, what they called the surau, beyond a grove of banana trees. A half-hearted breeze brought in salty air from the sea to mingle with the heavy whiffs of freshly plowed acres nearby. Brown-skinned men, deeply tanned yet not burnt by life on the fishing boats or in the padi fields, where they eked out a meager living. Hashim joined them, whispering greetings to those he knew in Visayan, the language of the peasants on the land, or in Bajau, the language of those who lived practically their entire lives on boats. He looked as most of them did, with skin well- tanned but he did not have the sleek black hair of most Malayo-Polynesians. His was crinkly and indicated some Austronesian contribution into his bloodline. Though he was as tall as any of them, he did not stand out that way. He was more muscular and better fed, like the visitor from a city that he was, even if he moved comfortably among the villagers. They had lived on this southern island of the Philippines for generations.

  But however much he looked like the others and was accepted as such by them, he was aware that nearly everyone knew, instinctively if not actually, that he was different. His roots may have been in one of their villages and he spoke their languages flawlessly, but he was different. They knew, and he knew that they knew. Any of a dozen factors could be the one that gave him away. He had received better dental care, better nutrition, had even shampooed his hair. A man like him could not escape notice.

  Everyone washed at a tap, one of three in the village, outside by the door of the simple wooden building. It was their ablutions in preparation for Friday prayers. The surau was built out of a dozen or so wooden posts that held up a tin roof. Plain railings, made of roughly hewn tree trunks, that came up to a man’s waist made up the “walls” of the house of prayer. The floor consisted of beaten dirt covered by rush mats.

  Hashim looked casually around before picking a place next to the leader of a rebel group and kneeling beside the slim, sinewy, fortyish man with a wispy beard. Half a dozen of his followers were within leaping range or lingered outside to maintain an extemporized perimeter. Hashim’s presence was acknowledged by a whispered greeting in the Spanish creole that was also spoken in that area. Prayers ended with a ‘sermon’ made up of the usual exhortations to keep the faith against the temptations of modern life. It was not polished but nonetheless heartfelt.

  “Walk with me for a while,” said the rebel leader as the men dispersed. This was exactly what Hashim had expected and desired from his visit to the surau. He did not think that the rebels were religious, although they gathered in the name of Islam.

  For four hundred years, their rebellion had been against the Spanish, then against the Americans who flattered themselves that they had won the hearts and minds of the southern Muslim Filipinos in a way the Spanish before them and the Christian northern Filipinos had failed. They rebelled against the various national regimes that aspired to govern the islands after the war against the Japanese, who patronized them with talk of a ‘Co-prosperity Sphere’ and brutally repressed resistance. In the eyes of the rebels, every one of these regimes had been infidel and corrupt. This history did not interest them. They fought as always for the right to be left alone.

  “What do you hear in the towns?”

  “That the army is going to attack your group.”

  “That is not news.”

  “They will send soldiers who have been trained by the Americans.”

  “Ours have been trained by years of hardship. Who do you think will prevail?”

  Hashim and the rebels he knew had discussed this again and again over the years. What the rebels needed was more and better weapons. They needed to unite with others like them. “Just be careful, brother,” said Hashim as the group got ready to separate.

  “Wait,” hissed one of the rebels. “Why do we trust him? Perhaps he is leading the army to attack us.”

  Hashim laughed but turned to face the rebel who had spoken. His accuser had drawn a knife, as had a few others. They rushed at Hashim who side-stepped the attacker closest to him and kicked at the next one in the groin. Two others slashed at him but missed as he cart-wheeled around them then blocked their forearms with jarring blows that forced them to drop their knives. Two other men with knives hesitated as Hashim took up a silat posture, signifying his willingness and readiness to continue even if they came at him with sticks and knives. The rebel leader clapped his hands sharply and said,

  “Is that what the Americans teach?”

  “You know I studied with Tok Mat.”

  “He has died, in a village far away.”

  Hashim nodded and said,

  “I was younger than most of his students but he took pity on a shrimp like me.”

  “Did his daughter have anything to do with that?” asked the leader slyly.

  Hashim shrugged. He did not feel obliged to share his history or feelings with this group of men.

  “You come and go and nobody knows what you really do!” cried the man who had been the first to draw a knife on him.

  “Do you even know why you fight?” challenged Hashim in reply as he turned his back on the rebels and walked away. The leader stepped in front of him.

  “You know why we fight. Nobody in Manila has ever taken us seriously. Not the Spanish who wanted our taxes and our conversion, not the Americans or the Japanese. Not even the ruling families and clans who only care for themselves! What will you have us do?”

  Hashim sighed. “What do you mean ‘take us seriously’? What do you want? What do you realistically expect? We have talked over this. Sometimes you need to vote and sometimes you need to fight. But it is senseless to do either without making sure your chances of success are good. That may mean finding others to join, making compromises to increase your numbers.”

  “Do we join you, Hashim? What is your group?”

  “I am trying to get groups together. It is difficult,” admitted Hashim.

  “Meanwhile, what do we do?”

  “Find a way to stay alive! Join another group or retreat into the jungles. Do you want me to draw a picture for you?”

  “What is your big plan, Hashim?” asked the one who first pulled a knife on him. “Do you know where you yourself are going?”

  “I want to see us united and fighting for more than the Bangsamoro,” cried Hashim. “I want us to find a way to fight for all who are oppressed.”

  “Well, Hashim, we don’t want your advice,” interjected the leader. “Your talk makes our heads spin. Maybe we are too simple, but we have to walk the path most comfortable for us even if it kills us.” With that, the rebels left.

  A week later, that group of rebels was ambushed by a large army patrol as it returned to its home base. The army men had somehow obtained information about their camp and were well hidden. More importantly, they were well armed. The rebels fought back bravely. Seeing that their position was hopeless, they nonetheless charged directly to where the army had deployed most of their men. Breaking through a hail of bullets, the rebels fell on the soldiers with their knives and bayonets. They took a few of their attackers down. But they faced overwhelming fire-power, against which their ancient weapons, some dating back to the war against the Japanese, were inadequate.

  News of this battle reached several other rebel groups that Hashim had also warned. Some of them had joined with similar groups and fortified their encampments. Others simply disappeared. But he hoped they had also absorbed another lesson, to think seriously about what he had told them.

  ***

  A year after the above events, upon his return from Macau, Carlos reverted to Hashim as he landed in Manila. The next day, he opened his door to a knock and hugged his friends Emilio and Mariam.

  “You look well rested,” said the young woman, Emilio’s special friend as she and Emilio entered the modest suburban bungalow Hashim rented.

  “It was not a long journey. Only two hours each way. That does not count the time in lines waiting to get through security, immigration and customs, of course.”

  “Was it a successful trip?”

  “Too early to tell,” replied Hashim with a wink. “I have to go visit an old friend in the south and would be glad to have some company.”

  Emilio understood that this meant him but not his girlfriend who pouted.

  “Mariam,” explained Hashim gently, “you would not want to meet these people again.”

  “You mean those people?”

  “Yes, the ones that Emilio rescued you from.”

  “Why do you have to see them?”

  “You know why. They are in the same struggle that we are. There are many of us in several groups that don’t work together.” Mariam grunted and trembled. Emilio knew she was still agitated every time the memory resurfaced of being attacked by a group of overzealous Muslims who considered her an infidel, not only Chinese but also a Christian.

  “I have not heard the whole story. Why did your family go to live among the Bangsamoro anyway?” asked Hashim.

  “My grandfather had fought the Japanese together with many of them. After the war, they encouraged him to move down and live with them. My father even took a local bride. But when the older generation died, people forgot what had brought our family into their village and slowly distanced themselves.”

  “My grandparents moved down from Luzon island around the same time, because of the government programs to give them land. There were many of us from the Christian north,” remarked Emilio.

  “But you were not Chinese as well as Christian,” hissed Mariam bitterly. Emilio simply hugged her. Hashim came to them and hugged them both.

  “It is possible that what we go to do will change things, but I must frankly say that we are not going for revenge,” he declared. Mariam simply nodded.

  “You ready, Emilio?”

  Emilio replied by swinging a small cloth bag. Hashim picked up a similar bag and they stepped out together.

  ***

  Later that day, Hashim and Emilio got out of the jeep that had brought them to a hillside village from the airport in Cotabato, a town on a large southern island in the Philippines called Mindanao. They walked towards a wooden house set on the ground. It was larger than the average and looked as if it could accommodate a family with six or more children. They were met at the door with bowls of water to wash the dust off their faces and hands and invited in. Four lean but muscular young men met them as they entered the living room that took up the full width of the house.

  “You have come again to recruit us,” said Moktar, the handsome leader of the group, with a hint of a sneer.

  Hashim sighed inwardly and replied, “I come to persuade you to join with other brothers in a common struggle. We will never succeed if we do not work together.”

  “You think you will lead us, bakla?”

  “That was rude,” declared Emilio in a quiet but firm tone. Hashim merely waved the remark off though his eyes smoldered.

  “I see some reaction from our great unifier.”

  “Why do you wish to pick a fight?” demanded Hashim in a voice oscillating between rage and tact. “Nothing is gained for our cause.”

  “Why are you so noble, bakla? Is it because you have something to prove?” taunted Moktar.

  “What would you prove fighting us four to two?” asked Emilio, confident that Hashim and he were more than a match for the local group.

  “Oh, there are more than four of us,” announced Moktar. Through the open windows and door, they could see a large group gathering. “But there is no honor if twenty of us kick you like dogs. I want to see if the great Hashim can be the Saladin of our people. How about it?”

  “You want to fight me?” asked the incredulous Hashim.

  “I have heard that the great Tok Mat taught you and that he taught you well. I wonder if what he taught you was not taken away from you with your—”

  “Enough!” yelled Hashim. “I did not come to fight you. But it seems you cannot get that out of your head, so let’s fight.”

  “One on one and everybody else stays out of this,” ordered Moktar imperiously. “No matter what happens!”

  “This is insane,” muttered Emilio as he moved to a wall near the door. The rest of the local band grouped against the opposite wall by the windows, around which those outside had gathered to watch.

  “Come,” shouted the host as he sprang into the middle of the room. Hashim strode on and the two men adopted their chosen silat stances. They stepped around each other like praying mantises. Their knees were well bent and directed to their sides, their arms and elbows moved slowly as they circled each other, stepping deliberately for balance and seeking leverage with their feet.

  In the first flurry of punches, jabs, and kicks, Hashim appeared to act purely defensively, swatting aside Moktar’s determined blows with hands and legs, until he found an opening to kick at his opponent’s crotch. He stepped away from the man who had taunted him, now doubled in pain.

  “A lucky strike, bakla,” he finally spat after several minutes of stunned silence and heightened tension among his followers. “Do you think you can do it again?”

  Moktar and Hashim approached each other and almost immediately were locked in energetic jabs, kicks, leg sweeps, and lunges. Hashim noted that Moktar’s blows seemed to be passionate, as if fueled by anger or jealousy and not strategic or disciplined. He easily blocked his opponent’s initial strikes but did not stay on the defensive this time. The praying mantises now engaged in swift and repeated fist strikes, kicks from the knees, straight from the hips or in a sweep from an almost prone position. They grappled repeatedly and each tried to gain enough leverage to throw the other. Hashim hit out at the knees and elbows of his opponent. In retaliation, Moktar spun several times, aiming to throw him off balance, and succeeded in grappling with Hashim for a moment and surprised him by landing a sharp elbow into his solar plexus.

  Hashim appeared to fall to his back but continued rolling in a backward somersault to his feet. As the fight resumed, Moktar called out,

  “Blades?”

  The crowd stirred as someone found their leader’s kris, not the gilt or chrome wavy blades in gift stores but a well-balanced steel blade. Emilio rummaged frantically through Hashim’s bag but found only a wooden stick had been packed as Hashim knew they would be searched by airport security. The wooden stick, however, had been especially hardened and its tip had killed before. Hashim looked at Emilio and shrugged. He believed his fate had been written and he accepted it.

  The fight resumed with more deliberate maneuvers. The combatants seemed to rehearse their respective repertory of classic martial positions and motions. This slow dance sped up until only experts themselves could follow the antagonists or divine their respective intentions. Hashim blocked several of Moktar’s thrusts and slashes before whirling his sharpened stick, disarming his opponent and thrusting the hardened sharp end up into Moktar’s stomach and his heart.

  Everyone inside the house froze as cries came from several men outside.

  “The imam!”

 

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