SEAN PATRICK O'CONNEMARA

Chapter 9
Hide Out

Traveling light, Philippe’s single backpack contained one change of clothes, toiletries, a book and tape recorder. His front pocket contained an American passport and wallet with cash, driver’s license and the credit cards all bearing the identity, Paul Elam. The man to whom he owed his life was good at such things. By traveling light passing customs was relatively simple, as was ducking out the main doors, flagging a taxi and disappearing into the menagerie of traffic. Whoever tried following would be quickly lost in the crowds by the unexpected speed of his departure.

Philippe’s caution was to the point of near paranoia, giving a familiar address, the business complex where he had disappeared years ago. There he took an elevator to the third floor retail center, over the bridge to the next tower, down and onto another street where he hired another taxi. This routine was repeated at a shopping center after which he finally felt comfortable. If anyone followed they had been sufficiently duped and lost. He was wrong. Passing through a less favorable part of the city on the way to charter boat services he noticed a dark blue sedan not far behind. How’d they do it?

Traffic suddenly became congested and slowed. He could walk faster. The cabbie muttered something about an accident ahead. Paranoia set in, again. Why was Philippe skeptical of that explanation? The sedan moved to within a half a block. All they had to do was jump out and catch him. He slipped the driver a bill large, enough for the fare and tip, popped the door and bailed.

Ducking into an alley Philippe turned on the speed. Long legs well conditioned to running and an extra burst of adrenalin-fortified speed left any pursuers far behind, but a foot race couldn’t continue forever. Bursting onto the next street he turned left and spotted a vacant building near the corner. Ducking inside Philippe disappeared as four oriental men puffed their way onto the street, two from the alley and two at the corner.

When Tangata helped him elude pursuers before Philippe learned the secret was to keep moving, so continued through scattered debris inside the derelict. Cautiously silent he went upward until gaining the roof to nimbly begin crossing one building after another until finding an open door to a building near the end facing the previous street. Glancing over the parapet he spotted the cab and sedan interfering with traffic. There was no accident ahead. Slipping inside Philippe entered a dark staircase, latched the door closed and worked himself toward the street level.

This was some kind of apartment building judging by the number of doors off a long hallway, but there didn’t seem to be anyone around. Quietly making his way to the first level he crept to the front, cut glass door, parted the lace curtain just enough to look outside. Several loads of suited men were exiting shiny, new cars and fanning out. Turning back into the house he saw double doors leading into a parlor. From behind came the soft sound of romantic music and the voices of several men and women. Unobtrusively peeking through the side crack of the door he gasped silently with surprise and silently stepped back. This was a bordello.

As one of the call girls began to lead a customer to more private quarters Philippe quickly removed his tennis shoes in preparation to heading quietly back upstairs. Just as he slipped the second one off he thought to detect movement at the end of this hallway, but it was dark. Staring for an instant he didn’t see anything, chalking it up to imagination.

Shoes in hand he ascended the wood stairs three at a time. Randomly picking a room near the middle left Philippe pressed an ear to the door and listened intently. From below echoed the voice of a man and woman arguing.

“Look upstairs,” the man ordered with a thunderous tone.

“How dare you barge in here and push us around,” a husky, woman’s voice responded loudly.

“Shut up and get out of the way.”

“Della, call the police.”

“You call no one, bitch.”

The argument continued as heavy footsteps climbed the stairs. Philippe tried the door latch. It yielded. Opening the door he quietly slipped in. The room was an average hotel-size with a bed, sofa and makeup table. More importantly it appeared vacant as he scanned around before completely entering. Closing the door he pressed an ear to wood again listening to other doors being opened. Quickly stepping to the window a peek outside was not encouraging. More men were taking positions along the street. The entire block was being sealed off.

“Well, Uncle’s men are still thorough,” he chided himself.

“You’ll find the scenery inside much more appealing,” a delicate voice said.

Spinning around Philippe was confronted by a girl about his own age attired in a thin, lavender night skirt.

She walked passed the boy and looked out the window.

“They looking for you?”

“Yes.”

“So many. What did you do?”

“It was a while ago.”

“I recognize a couple of them. They frequent this place though I haven’t entertained them personally.”

“My Uncle’s men.”

“Your Uncle?”

“It’s a long story. I better leave. If they find me here it wouldn’t go well for you.”

“I don’t like them. Sounds like they’re out in the hallway, too. You better hide. Come here,” she said walking to a curtain, pushing it aside. A closet.

“That’s the first place they’d look.”

“Yes, but not here,” she said, pulling a cardboard box aside. Bending down she opened a hidden panel in the side wall. “This place used to be raided a lot in the old days. Has all sorts of hiding places.”

Philippe dropped to his knees and crawled inside as the girl closed the door and slid the box back into place just as heard the hall door forced. She let out a slight scream.

Reaching into his backpack Philippe quietly removed what looked like a tape recorder. Opening the battery compartment he removed the power cells and pressed another latch. A small, automatic pistol slid into the palm of his hand. Small, but lethal. A gift from his benefactor during a mysterious side trip one summer . A number of lessons while on the island and practice in the Laramie mountains had helped Philippe become a good marksman. He had never used this pistol other than on stationary and moving targets, but wasn’t about to fall into his Uncle’s hands again. That was certain death.

“Get out of the way,” a man’s voice growled.

There was a small ventilation grill giving a view of the bed. He heard the closet curtain pushed brusquely aside and clothes moved around, then saw a man’s legs stomp past the grill. He looked under the bed and into the bathroom. Apparently satisfied he left, but not without touching the girl’s breast and making a crude remark.

The hunter was gone, but the girl didn’t come to get the boy, instead sat at a vanity to apply makeup. Suddenly the door sprang open again. The girl turned abruptly and threw something at the intruder who slammed the door closed. They were good. If she had come to Philippe that sudden reappearance would have been deadly.

Standing, the girl walked toward the closet as if to get something and whispered, “Stay where you are. It will be a while.” She continued out of sight and into the bathroom.

After a time noise of the search disappeared followed by a light rap on the door. “Christie,” a feminine voice called out as it opened.

“What’s going on Chelsea?” the girl answered, her bare legs and bottom of a towel coming into view from the bathroom.

“They’re looking for a boy,” the new arrival said.

“A boy! In here? Don’t they know to pick them up on the street, not in a place like this?” “Oh, you’re being silly, Christie.”

“What’d he do?”

“I don’t know, but they want him awfully bad. They’ve left, but the street’s full of the brutes.”

Just then came the sound of a chime.

“Customer,” Chelsea announced and hurried out.

When the door closed Christie walked to the dresser to slip on a tight, low-cut dress and high heel shoes.

“Better stay where you’re at for awhile,” she whispered and left.

After a time the girl returned accompanied by a man. Once inside she began to disrobe him as they embraced. Naked, they crawled into bed and began their sexual play. An hour later he dressed and left. She got up, slipped on the near transparent, lavender gown and combed her hair. When the bell sounded again the girl called Christie put on a red dress and left.

Five times the routine was played out as she addressed the needs and desires of men of various ages. Philippe was left to doze occasionally and stare in disbelief at the activity on the bed in front of his portal. Only once before had he seen any such things, then only briefly - on the beach where he had been a child. Now Philippe found himself on the front row of a full-length, live porno flick. When the fifth man left the girl again showered, but this time dressed in a flannel night gown.

“That’s the last one,” she whispered, opening the closet curtain, moving the box and sliding the secret panel open. Philippe crawled out stiffly.

“I’m sorry you had to be in there so long, but they’re not giving up. That last was one of those barbarians, though he was pretty gentle in bed.”

Philippe’s stomach growled.

“When’d you eat last?”

“On the plane,” he cast a quick glance at his watch. “14 hours ago.”

“Oh, you poor dear. We’re locked up for the night, or rather the day. It’s morning. If you’d like to take a shower, I’ll slip down and get something from the kitchen.”

“Will it be safe?”

“Oh, yes. They’re tearing other buildings apart. They won’t be back. Besides, if they do I’ll ring the bell twice. That’s the warning code. You can hide.”

The door latch lock clicked as she left. Another safety precaution. Anyone forcing their way into the room would make a lot of noise and probably break a shoulder. It was a stout door.

Downstairs, the girl made a couple of sandwich plates and started to leave when a heavyset woman in her fifties entered the kitchen.

“You worked up an appetite tonight,” the husky-throated woman remarked.

“Yes.”

“Enough for two.”

The girl flushed.

“I wondered where he went. I saw the boy run upstairs just before those bastards forced their way in. You put him in the hiding place?”

“Yes,” the girl replied weakly.

“It’s alright, dear. He looked to be a growing lad. Let’s take up a little more. I’ll help. Besides, I want to meet this person who is so important.”

Philippe had just stepped from the shower when he heard the door latch snap open. Hastily wrapping a towel around his waist he flipped off the light and palmed the pistol.

The door closed and re-locked.

“It’s me,” the girl’s voice called out softly. “I’ve got food.”

Philippe held the pistol behind his back as he slipped around the door frame. He was surprised to see an older woman at the girl’s side. Both had their hands full of food.

“Well, I see you’ve taken off more than your shoes,” the older woman said with a canvassing smile.

Philippe stood silently.

“I own this place. Name’s Evelien. The boys call me Eve. I saw you earlier when you ran upstairs. Just before they arrived,” she continued, nodding toward the curtained window. “So, what’s your name?”

“Paul. Paul Elam.”

“Elam?” she said while ruminating over the name while setting the food on the vanity. “You look very familiar.”

“I don’t believe we’ve ever met. I’m from America.”

“I never forget a face. We’ve met, I’m sure . . . You look exactly like . . . Oh, my, yes! Charles. Charles Bennét.”

Philippe startled and went totally pale. How could a prostitute know his father so well?

“But, no. Charles is dead, God rest his soul, and you are too young.”

“He was my father,” Philippe said solemnly.

“Of course! Little Philippe!” Eve threw her arms around Philippe in a crushing hug. “Oh, my dear boy, I am so sorry,” she moaned in his ear before holding him at arm’s length. “Your mother was a close friend. We grew up and attended school together. I was her bride’s maid on their wedding day. She was so pretty, so very, very pretty. I visited their island paradise many times. They had wonderful parties. The last time I saw you . . . You look so like your father, but there is a lot of your mother there, too.”

Philippe thought age had offered change, but hadn’t considered how much he might resemble his father. One seldom stands before a mirror to compare. His father was a well-known businessman in this part of the world. No wonder recognition was so quick. Sliding the pistol’s safety on Philippe slipped it in the waistband of his towel.

“Here, sit down and eat. My, but you are so much like your father,” the older woman continued to croon, her painted, brown eyes watering.
“I’m sorry, madam. I don’t remember you.”

“Probably not. You were young and so full of energy, constantly running here and there, always the delight of your dear momma and papa and the guests. I’m sure the parties were a bore.”

“Yes. But momma and papa loved them. Wait a minute. I remember an elegant lady in bright dresses who came often. I called her Aunty. She was always so kind. Would bring me presents. Once she came in a particularly striking blue dress. Gave me a lava-lava of the same material. I love blue. I wore it for years even when it became frayed. I was wearing it the day my parents . . .”

“I still have that dress, yes, though it doesn’t fit quite as well any more. Age has a tendency to change one’s figure here and there.”

Unbridled, Philippe threw his arms around the woman and hugged her close as he had whenever she came to the island resort. She still wore the same perfume. Some time passed as they clung to one another until slowly, reluctantly separating.

“Well, that does explain why they want you so badly. You really have caused a lot of trouble for your Uncle. He just got out of jail, on a technicality,” she said sourly. “He wants your popa’s, well, it’s yours - he wants your property very badly. It is worth millions and the only way for him to gain control is for you to be dead. Although there might be more to it.”

“He killed my parents. I’m not done with him, either. The day will come when he will be broken, completely broken and no technicality will come to his aid,” Philippe spat bitterly.

“To accomplish your end and not his you’ll have to stay here a while longer. They don’t give up easily. They know you’re in one of the buildings on this block. You’re safest right here. If they show up I’ll ring the bell twice. In the meantime, I couldn’t think of a better person to tend to your needs than Christie.”

The heavy set woman took Philippe by both hands and kissed his cheek, just as she had so many years ago, then spinning gracefully about, left. Finishing his meal Philippe looked around the room.

“If you have a blanket I’ll lay on the sofa.”

You’ll do no such thing,” Christie replied while stripping the bed and spreading fresh linen. “You will sleep right here.”

“But ... where will you ...?”

“Next to you, of course.”

Stiffening he didn't move.

“How old are you?” Christie asked while tucking the sheet corners.

“Twenty-two.”

“You’ve never been naked in the presence of a woman before?”

Philippe gulped, “Yes. My parents owned a nudist resort, but never like this.”

“You’re a virgin?”

Philippe stammered feeling the heat rise to his face before admitting, “Yes, but . . .?”

“If it’s not your wish, don’t worry. I am quite tired as you must be. We’ll have a sheet between us,” she said lightly, a sincerity in her soft, green eyes.

They lay upon the bed, he beneath the sheet, she on top, the comforter over both. Philippe had no idea how he would be able to sleep, but it was late afternoon when a movement brought him awake.

“Hello,” Christie said softly, looking at him through the vanity mirror while combing her hair.

“Hi,” Philippe replied sleepily.

“Eve brought up food,” she said, pointing to a tray near the window.

Philippe stood, took up a piece of toast and peeked around the edge of the blackout shade. There were men still roaming the street.

“Cute underwear,” she teased, referring to his silk cartoon boxers.

The boy laughed softly. “A joke. I never wore clothes growing up except a lava-lava when working in the dinning room. During parties or going off island I had to wear more formal stuff. I never wore underwear after leaving diapers. When I went to America that changed. My foster father buys these as a joke.”

“And you wear them?”

“I love him as if he were my real father. It may sound strange, but like this necklace and watch remind me of my real parents, these silly things remind me of him.”

“It may be a few days before you can safely leave.”

“If at all,” Philippe said dismally. “They’re like vultures waiting for something to die. I was foolish for coming.”

“Well, I for one am not sorry you came.”

The little bell sounded. Philippe flashed a panicked look at the girl.

“That’s only one. It means a customer has arrived, asking for me. Take the tray,” she said while opening the hidden door.

Philippe slipped in. The space was large enough to sit while eating as Christie entertained a customer. So the night proceeded, a seemingly endless procession of lusting men. There was a lull around midnight when the two shared a meal, then her work resumed until early morning when he could come out, shower and sleep, a bit more restlessly this time.

There were fewer of his uncle’s men, but like a cat with a cornered mouse some still lurked about the street, patiently watching. Eve said she was working on a plan that would be in place by the next day. Philippe wasn’t sure he could take another night. After the first he didn’t watch, but it was hard as the sounds crept through the vent, circled his head and burrowed through burning ears into his mind.

“This is my night off,” Christie said, then replied to his concern, “We could sleep beneath the same cover.”

Philippe did not reply.

“You can have private time, if you like.”

“No,” he almost snapped, then calmed. “I don’t do that.” Subconsciously he still blamed himself for having done that once and that cost the life of his parents and a friend. Intellectually Philippe understood such was not the reason, but the prohibitions against such acts had been so burned into his young mind by the priests it was impossible to overcome.

Christie looked at him with longing, truly wanting to help.

“Oh,” she suddenly said. “You are gay?”

“Huh?” Philippe replied, shaken by the question, then understood how she might come by that impression from his responses. “No. Men don’t hold any sensual appeal,” he thought then to tried to explain. “I was raised in a very free environment. My parents’ resort was very first class. I understand it still is. I own it, but have no interest in its operation. My foster father has arranged for others do that. Guests do not wear clothes unless they desire to. Growing up I seldom did. I was accustomed to living among people who were naked.

“Papa was very strict. If guests wanted to have intercourse it must be in the privacy of their cabins. Never in public. Such things are a very private matter. Occasionally a guest, male guest, would become aroused. At such times they were expected to cover themselves until gaining control. Actually, that happened very infrequently.

“To me the naked body is a thing of beauty. Growing up it was natural to see it and not be aroused. That is not say I don’t have natural urges. Seeing and listening to your employment has been exceedingly difficult, but somewhere in my past the seeds of celibacy were sown. I received an injury to my head when my boat was thrown upon a reef during a violent storm. There are still things I do not remember. If there are other reasons why I shun sexual activity that apparently is one of those lost memories. It is a feeling very difficult to overcome.”

“Do you think you will ever marry?”

“I think so. I hope it will happen, then perhaps I shall feel free,” Philippe said, then paused a moment before continuing with a smile, “and make up for lost time.” They both giggled.

With the shades drawn the room was quite dark permitting sleep, but it did not come to Philippe as he tossed repeatedly. With death lingering on the street below waiting for its victim to appear, being physically excited by the environment, and knowing a woman lay a sheet’s breadth away, sleep was impossible.

Rolling onto his side Philippe felt Christie get up. He was sorry for having disturbed her rest. She went to the lavatory then returned. He determined not to move so much. She returned to the bed. He felt her move about, settling back in. Then her hand crossed over his shoulder, resting on his chest, as she snuggled close, beneath the sheet.

Philippe opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling, blinking. Turning his head to the right he looked into Christie’s face.

“Rest well?” she asked as the hands of the clock approached six p.m.

“Yes,” he answered with a sigh.

“Upset?”

“No.”

“Well, you two, it’s time to rise,” Eve said, bounding into the room and opening the curtains to flood the room with light. “It’s all set. You’ll be able to leave in a hour. Go shower. I took the liberty to launder your clothes.”

“Thank you, Aunty Eve,” Philippe said, sliding his feet to the floor and sitting on the edge of the bed a moment before walking to the bath.

Eve sighed, picking up cartoon boxers from the floor and laying them on the bed. “My, my, my. Little Philippe’s all grown up.”

“He certainly has,” Christie said, still laying beneath the sheet.

Chapter 9
Hide Out

Traveling light, Philippe’s single backpack contained one change of clothes, toiletries, a book and tape recorder. His front pocket contained an American passport and wallet with cash, driver’s license and the credit cards all bearing the identity, Paul Elam. The man to whom he owed his life was good at such things. By traveling light passing customs was relatively simple, as was ducking out the main doors, flagging a taxi and disappearing into the menagerie of traffic. Whoever tried following would be quickly lost in the crowds by the unexpected speed of his departure.

Philippe’s caution was to the point of near paranoia, giving a familiar address, the business complex where he had disappeared years ago. There he took an elevator to the third floor retail center, over the bridge to the next tower, down and onto another street where he hired another taxi. This routine was repeated at a shopping center after which he finally felt comfortable. If anyone followed they had been sufficiently duped and lost. He was wrong. Passing through a less favorable part of the city on the way to charter boat services he noticed a dark blue sedan not far behind. How’d they do it?

Traffic suddenly became congested and slowed. He could walk faster. The cabbie muttered something about an accident ahead. Paranoia set in, again. Why was Philippe skeptical of that explanation? The sedan moved to within a half a block. All they had to do was jump out and catch him. He slipped the driver a bill large, enough for the fare and tip, popped the door and bailed.

Ducking into an alley Philippe turned on the speed. Long legs well conditioned to running and an extra burst of adrenalin-fortified speed left any pursuers far behind, but a foot race couldn’t continue forever. Bursting onto the next street he turned left and spotted a vacant building near the corner. Ducking inside Philippe disappeared as four oriental men puffed their way onto the street, two from the alley and two at the corner.

When Tangata helped him elude pursuers before Philippe learned the secret was to keep moving, so continued through scattered debris inside the derelict. Cautiously silent he went upward until gaining the roof to nimbly begin crossing one building after another until finding an open door to a building near the end facing the previous street. Glancing over the parapet he spotted the cab and sedan interfering with traffic. There was no accident ahead. Slipping inside Philippe entered a dark staircase, latched the door closed and worked himself toward the street level.

This was some kind of apartment building judging by the number of doors off a long hallway, but there didn’t seem to be anyone around. Quietly making his way to the first level he crept to the front, cut glass door, parted the lace curtain just enough to look outside. Several loads of suited men were exiting shiny, new cars and fanning out. Turning back into the house he saw double doors leading into a parlor. From behind came the soft sound of romantic music and the voices of several men and women. Unobtrusively peeking through the side crack of the door he gasped silently with surprise and silently stepped back. This was a bordello.

As one of the call girls began to lead a customer to more private quarters Philippe quickly removed his tennis shoes in preparation to heading quietly back upstairs. Just as he slipped the second one off he thought to detect movement at the end of this hallway, but it was dark. Staring for an instant he didn’t see anything, chalking it up to imagination.

Shoes in hand he ascended the wood stairs three at a time. Randomly picking a room near the middle left Philippe pressed an ear to the door and listened intently. From below echoed the voice of a man and woman arguing.

“Look upstairs,” the man ordered with a thunderous tone.

“How dare you barge in here and push us around,” a husky, woman’s voice responded loudly.

“Shut up and get out of the way.”

“Della, call the police.”

“You call no one, bitch.”

The argument continued as heavy footsteps climbed the stairs. Philippe tried the door latch. It yielded. Opening the door he quietly slipped in. The room was an average hotel-size with a bed, sofa and makeup table. More importantly it appeared vacant as he scanned around before completely entering. Closing the door he pressed an ear to wood again listening to other doors being opened. Quickly stepping to the window a peek outside was not encouraging. More men were taking positions along the street. The entire block was being sealed off.

“Well, Uncle’s men are still thorough,” he chided himself.

“You’ll find the scenery inside much more appealing,” a delicate voice said.

Spinning around Philippe was confronted by a girl about his own age attired in a thin, lavender night skirt.

She walked passed the boy and looked out the window.

“They looking for you?”

“Yes.”

“So many. What did you do?”

“It was a while ago.”

“I recognize a couple of them. They frequent this place though I haven’t entertained them personally.”

“My Uncle’s men.”

“Your Uncle?”

“It’s a long story. I better leave. If they find me here it wouldn’t go well for you.”

“I don’t like them. Sounds like they’re out in the hallway, too. You better hide. Come here,” she said walking to a curtain, pushing it aside. A closet.

“That’s the first place they’d look.”

“Yes, but not here,” she said, pulling a cardboard box aside. Bending down she opened a hidden panel in the side wall. “This place used to be raided a lot in the old days. Has all sorts of hiding places.”

Philippe dropped to his knees and crawled inside as the girl closed the door and slid the box back into place just as heard the hall door forced. She let out a slight scream.

Reaching into his backpack Philippe quietly removed what looked like a tape recorder. Opening the battery compartment he removed the power cells and pressed another latch. A small, automatic pistol slid into the palm of his hand. Small, but lethal. A gift from his benefactor during a mysterious side trip one summer . A number of lessons while on the island and practice in the Laramie mountains had helped Philippe become a good marksman. He had never used this pistol other than on stationary and moving targets, but wasn’t about to fall into his Uncle’s hands again. That was certain death.

“Get out of the way,” a man’s voice growled.

There was a small ventilation grill giving a view of the bed. He heard the closet curtain pushed brusquely aside and clothes moved around, then saw a man’s legs stomp past the grill. He looked under the bed and into the bathroom. Apparently satisfied he left, but not without touching the girl’s breast and making a crude remark.

The hunter was gone, but the girl didn’t come to get the boy, instead sat at a vanity to apply makeup. Suddenly the door sprang open again. The girl turned abruptly and threw something at the intruder who slammed the door closed. They were good. If she had come to Philippe that sudden reappearance would have been deadly.

Standing, the girl walked toward the closet as if to get something and whispered, “Stay where you are. It will be a while.” She continued out of sight and into the bathroom.

After a time noise of the search disappeared followed by a light rap on the door. “Christie,” a feminine voice called out as it opened.

“What’s going on Chelsea?” the girl answered, her bare legs and bottom of a towel coming into view from the bathroom.

“They’re looking for a boy,” the new arrival said.

“A boy! In here? Don’t they know to pick them up on the street, not in a place like this?” “Oh, you’re being silly, Christie.”

“What’d he do?”

“I don’t know, but they want him awfully bad. They’ve left, but the street’s full of the brutes.”

Just then came the sound of a chime.

“Customer,” Chelsea announced and hurried out.

When the door closed Christie walked to the dresser to slip on a tight, low-cut dress and high heel shoes.

“Better stay where you’re at for awhile,” she whispered and left.

After a time the girl returned accompanied by a man. Once inside she began to disrobe him as they embraced. Naked, they crawled into bed and began their sexual play. An hour later he dressed and left. She got up, slipped on the near transparent, lavender gown and combed her hair. When the bell sounded again the girl called Christie put on a red dress and left.

Five times the routine was played out as she addressed the needs and desires of men of various ages. Philippe was left to doze occasionally and stare in disbelief at the activity on the bed in front of his portal. Only once before had he seen any such things, then only briefly - on the beach where he had been a child. Now Philippe found himself on the front row of a full-length, live porno flick. When the fifth man left the girl again showered, but this time dressed in a flannel night gown.

“That’s the last one,” she whispered, opening the closet curtain, moving the box and sliding the secret panel open. Philippe crawled out stiffly.

“I’m sorry you had to be in there so long, but they’re not giving up. That last was one of those barbarians, though he was pretty gentle in bed.”

Philippe’s stomach growled.

“When’d you eat last?”

“On the plane,” he cast a quick glance at his watch. “14 hours ago.”

“Oh, you poor dear. We’re locked up for the night, or rather the day. It’s morning. If you’d like to take a shower, I’ll slip down and get something from the kitchen.”

“Will it be safe?”

“Oh, yes. They’re tearing other buildings apart. They won’t be back. Besides, if they do I’ll ring the bell twice. That’s the warning code. You can hide.”

The door latch lock clicked as she left. Another safety precaution. Anyone forcing their way into the room would make a lot of noise and probably break a shoulder. It was a stout door.

Downstairs, the girl made a couple of sandwich plates and started to leave when a heavyset woman in her fifties entered the kitchen.

“You worked up an appetite tonight,” the husky-throated woman remarked.

“Yes.”

“Enough for two.”

The girl flushed.

“I wondered where he went. I saw the boy run upstairs just before those bastards forced their way in. You put him in the hiding place?”

“Yes,” the girl replied weakly.

“It’s alright, dear. He looked to be a growing lad. Let’s take up a little more. I’ll help. Besides, I want to meet this person who is so important.”

Philippe had just stepped from the shower when he heard the door latch snap open. Hastily wrapping a towel around his waist he flipped off the light and palmed the pistol.

The door closed and re-locked.

“It’s me,” the girl’s voice called out softly. “I’ve got food.”

Philippe held the pistol behind his back as he slipped around the door frame. He was surprised to see an older woman at the girl’s side. Both had their hands full of food.

“Well, I see you’ve taken off more than your shoes,” the older woman said with a canvassing smile.

Philippe stood silently.

“I own this place. Name’s Evelien. The boys call me Eve. I saw you earlier when you ran upstairs. Just before they arrived,” she continued, nodding toward the curtained window. “So, what’s your name?”

“Paul. Paul Elam.”

“Elam?” she said while ruminating over the name while setting the food on the vanity. “You look very familiar.”

“I don’t believe we’ve ever met. I’m from America.”

“I never forget a face. We’ve met, I’m sure . . . You look exactly like . . . Oh, my, yes! Charles. Charles Bennét.”

Philippe startled and went totally pale. How could a prostitute know his father so well?

“But, no. Charles is dead, God rest his soul, and you are too young.”

“He was my father,” Philippe said solemnly.

“Of course! Little Philippe!” Eve threw her arms around Philippe in a crushing hug. “Oh, my dear boy, I am so sorry,” she moaned in his ear before holding him at arm’s length. “Your mother was a close friend. We grew up and attended school together. I was her bride’s maid on their wedding day. She was so pretty, so very, very pretty. I visited their island paradise many times. They had wonderful parties. The last time I saw you . . . You look so like your father, but there is a lot of your mother there, too.”

Philippe thought age had offered change, but hadn’t considered how much he might resemble his father. One seldom stands before a mirror to compare. His father was a well-known businessman in this part of the world. No wonder recognition was so quick. Sliding the pistol’s safety on Philippe slipped it in the waistband of his towel.

“Here, sit down and eat. My, but you are so much like your father,” the older woman continued to croon, her painted, brown eyes watering.
“I’m sorry, madam. I don’t remember you.”

“Probably not. You were young and so full of energy, constantly running here and there, always the delight of your dear momma and papa and the guests. I’m sure the parties were a bore.”

“Yes. But momma and papa loved them. Wait a minute. I remember an elegant lady in bright dresses who came often. I called her Aunty. She was always so kind. Would bring me presents. Once she came in a particularly striking blue dress. Gave me a lava-lava of the same material. I love blue. I wore it for years even when it became frayed. I was wearing it the day my parents . . .”

“I still have that dress, yes, though it doesn’t fit quite as well any more. Age has a tendency to change one’s figure here and there.”

Unbridled, Philippe threw his arms around the woman and hugged her close as he had whenever she came to the island resort. She still wore the same perfume. Some time passed as they clung to one another until slowly, reluctantly separating.

“Well, that does explain why they want you so badly. You really have caused a lot of trouble for your Uncle. He just got out of jail, on a technicality,” she said sourly. “He wants your popa’s, well, it’s yours - he wants your property very badly. It is worth millions and the only way for him to gain control is for you to be dead. Although there might be more to it.”

“He killed my parents. I’m not done with him, either. The day will come when he will be broken, completely broken and no technicality will come to his aid,” Philippe spat bitterly.

“To accomplish your end and not his you’ll have to stay here a while longer. They don’t give up easily. They know you’re in one of the buildings on this block. You’re safest right here. If they show up I’ll ring the bell twice. In the meantime, I couldn’t think of a better person to tend to your needs than Christie.”

The heavy set woman took Philippe by both hands and kissed his cheek, just as she had so many years ago, then spinning gracefully about, left. Finishing his meal Philippe looked around the room.

“If you have a blanket I’ll lay on the sofa.”

You’ll do no such thing,” Christie replied while stripping the bed and spreading fresh linen. “You will sleep right here.”

“But ... where will you ...?”

“Next to you, of course.”

Stiffening he didn't move.

“How old are you?” Christie asked while tucking the sheet corners.

“Twenty-two.”

“You’ve never been naked in the presence of a woman before?”

Philippe gulped, “Yes. My parents owned a nudist resort, but never like this.”

“You’re a virgin?”

Philippe stammered feeling the heat rise to his face before admitting, “Yes, but . . .?”

“If it’s not your wish, don’t worry. I am quite tired as you must be. We’ll have a sheet between us,” she said lightly, a sincerity in her soft, green eyes.

They lay upon the bed, he beneath the sheet, she on top, the comforter over both. Philippe had no idea how he would be able to sleep, but it was late afternoon when a movement brought him awake.

“Hello,” Christie said softly, looking at him through the vanity mirror while combing her hair.

“Hi,” Philippe replied sleepily.

“Eve brought up food,” she said, pointing to a tray near the window.

Philippe stood, took up a piece of toast and peeked around the edge of the blackout shade. There were men still roaming the street.

“Cute underwear,” she teased, referring to his silk cartoon boxers.

The boy laughed softly. “A joke. I never wore clothes growing up except a lava-lava when working in the dinning room. During parties or going off island I had to wear more formal stuff. I never wore underwear after leaving diapers. When I went to America that changed. My foster father buys these as a joke.”

“And you wear them?”

“I love him as if he were my real father. It may sound strange, but like this necklace and watch remind me of my real parents, these silly things remind me of him.”

“It may be a few days before you can safely leave.”

“If at all,” Philippe said dismally. “They’re like vultures waiting for something to die. I was foolish for coming.”

“Well, I for one am not sorry you came.”

The little bell sounded. Philippe flashed a panicked look at the girl.

“That’s only one. It means a customer has arrived, asking for me. Take the tray,” she said while opening the hidden door.

Philippe slipped in. The space was large enough to sit while eating as Christie entertained a customer. So the night proceeded, a seemingly endless procession of lusting men. There was a lull around midnight when the two shared a meal, then her work resumed until early morning when he could come out, shower and sleep, a bit more restlessly this time.

There were fewer of his uncle’s men, but like a cat with a cornered mouse some still lurked about the street, patiently watching. Eve said she was working on a plan that would be in place by the next day. Philippe wasn’t sure he could take another night. After the first he didn’t watch, but it was hard as the sounds crept through the vent, circled his head and burrowed through burning ears into his mind.

“This is my night off,” Christie said, then replied to his concern, “We could sleep beneath the same cover.”

Philippe did not reply.

“You can have private time, if you like.”

“No,” he almost snapped, then calmed. “I don’t do that.” Subconsciously he still blamed himself for having done that once and that cost the life of his parents and a friend. Intellectually Philippe understood such was not the reason, but the prohibitions against such acts had been so burned into his young mind by the priests it was impossible to overcome.

Christie looked at him with longing, truly wanting to help.

“Oh,” she suddenly said. “You are gay?”

“Huh?” Philippe replied, shaken by the question, then understood how she might come by that impression from his responses. “No. Men don’t hold any sensual appeal,” he thought then to tried to explain. “I was raised in a very free environment. My parents’ resort was very first class. I understand it still is. I own it, but have no interest in its operation. My foster father has arranged for others do that. Guests do not wear clothes unless they desire to. Growing up I seldom did. I was accustomed to living among people who were naked.

“Papa was very strict. If guests wanted to have intercourse it must be in the privacy of their cabins. Never in public. Such things are a very private matter. Occasionally a guest, male guest, would become aroused. At such times they were expected to cover themselves until gaining control. Actually, that happened very infrequently.

“To me the naked body is a thing of beauty. Growing up it was natural to see it and not be aroused. That is not say I don’t have natural urges. Seeing and listening to your employment has been exceedingly difficult, but somewhere in my past the seeds of celibacy were sown. I received an injury to my head when my boat was thrown upon a reef during a violent storm. There are still things I do not remember. If there are other reasons why I shun sexual activity that apparently is one of those lost memories. It is a feeling very difficult to overcome.”

“Do you think you will ever marry?”

“I think so. I hope it will happen, then perhaps I shall feel free,” Philippe said, then paused a moment before continuing with a smile, “and make up for lost time.” They both giggled.

With the shades drawn the room was quite dark permitting sleep, but it did not come to Philippe as he tossed repeatedly. With death lingering on the street below waiting for its victim to appear, being physically excited by the environment, and knowing a woman lay a sheet’s breadth away, sleep was impossible.

Rolling onto his side Philippe felt Christie get up. He was sorry for having disturbed her rest. She went to the lavatory then returned. He determined not to move so much. She returned to the bed. He felt her move about, settling back in. Then her hand crossed over his shoulder, resting on his chest, as she snuggled close, beneath the sheet.

Philippe opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling, blinking. Turning his head to the right he looked into Christie’s face.

“Rest well?” she asked as the hands of the clock approached six p.m.

“Yes,” he answered with a sigh.

“Upset?”

“No.”

“Well, you two, it’s time to rise,” Eve said, bounding into the room and opening the curtains to flood the room with light. “It’s all set. You’ll be able to leave in a hour. Go shower. I took the liberty to launder your clothes.”

“Thank you, Aunty Eve,” Philippe said, sliding his feet to the floor and sitting on the edge of the bed a moment before walking to the bath.

Eve sighed, picking up cartoon boxers from the floor and laying them on the bed. “My, my, my. Little Philippe’s all grown up.”

“He certainly has,” Christie said, still laying beneath the sheet.

Chapter 7
Odyssey


That evening the three men sat on the beach of Little Mailu Island, eating fish Philippe had speared, sharing a bottle of rum and laughing at jokes, mostly about Philippe’s uncle and how they had outwitted the “all powerful” crime lord. This was a side of the man with so many names and faces Philippe had not seen. Rango drank more than anyone and passed out about ten. Philippe took the last swallow from the brown bottle and joined him a bit later. Alone once again Tangata tended the fire.

The next morning Philippe decided Tangata Aiwaiwee could either hold his liquor or didn’t drink near as much as he let on. Certainly Philippe couldn’t, despite having been raised on wine. Unfortunately, it had been watered down and he hadn’t graduated to stronger spirits until this night. He may have only consumed two or three ounces, but the next morning the boy awoke feeling sluggish and dull-minded. The swim back to the boat helped as did a bit of breakfast and several glasses of orange juice before the two captains headed east on their separate boats.

Philippe thought they were returning to the volcano island, but after passing through the Solomons Rango turned south to his hideout as the Adrianne’s bow continued somewhat easterly.

“So where are we headed?” Philippe asked as the Solomons fell behind.

“You need to continue your education without having to look over your shoulder. How does the United States sound?”

“Okay,” Philippe answered slowly, jolted at the prospect of leaving home and venturing to that place that he’d only heard about - a horrible country everyone wanted to live in.

“We don’t have to be in any big hurry, though. Thought we’d kind of work our way through the islands before heading over to Hawaii then on to San Diego, California. We’ll then work our way up the coast and dock in Portland, Oregon. Probably take a couple months. We can get you settled in a school after the New Year.”

“Where will I go to school?”

“Gonzaga College in Spokane, Washington has a good, Catholic prep school. I have some friends there willing to take you in.”

“What about you?”

“Back to peace and quiet and no people,” Tangata said, but the tone of voice would convince no one that solitude was something he was looking forward to.

However, the boy’s education wasn’t taking a hiatus until then. Tangata had brought a large envelope with the American Embassy, Brisbane stamped on the outside.

“School work,” he announced, laying it on the salon table.

That was not a problem for Philippe. School had always been seated at the kitchen table while mama prepared detailed assignments and menus for the staff. Other times he was at his own desk in pappa’s office while Charles Bonnét managed business. Sitting in a classroom was an unknown, and the boy looked forward with some trepidation to the experience. Seated cross-legged on a cushioned bench seat at the salon table Philippe’s pencil flailed at written assignments. Reading and some lessons were via satellite internet connection. Tangata resumed writing. Piloting the boat was a shared chore. Galley duties were not. When anchored the two did their work side by side.

Had they sailed from New Guinea directly to California the trip would have taken five weeks, six tops. Instead the trip became a slow meander, stopping at various islands to lounge on the beach, sit at outdoor cafes and otherwise act like tourists. They approached San Diego harbor almost four months after leaving the volcanic island Philippe now considered home.

After a week of touring the city and surrounding environs they began sailing north along the California coast. Stopping at Long Beach they spent three days visiting Disneyland and other wondrous tourist traps. Reaching the mouth of the Columbia River they headed upstream to Portland, renting a car to check out the country as far as Seattle. All this Philippe absorbed like a sponge, keeping a journal as part of a school assignment.

Finally in Spokane he met the Burke family who agreed to provide shelter during his stay. It was a grand house situated on a pine-studded hill overlooking a broad, green valley with an indoor swimming pool and barn full of horses. The family’s two sons bracketed his age and attended the same prep school Philippe would. In addition were three girls, two older and one younger. He’d never experienced sisters and reveled in the attention as they fussed over the boy.

The day Tangata left was very somber, and when his car disappeared Philippe experienced a great chasm open inside his body as if everything in his world had been lost - again. That feeling took a long time to cover over, but not heal completely.

Upon arriving in America life definitely changed. For one, he had to wear “clothes” and shoes, including for the first time a coat, a heavy coat against the cold and snowy East Washington weather. That inconvenience was mediated by being allowed to go barefoot in the house. The lava-lava was gone, too. At least for now the total freedom of childhood days was gone.

Acclimating to School was the biggest challenge. Because his education was much different Philippe had to undergo a battery of tests to “see where to place you,” Sister Stewart, the principal, said. The boy’s command of English was respectable and the ensuing months of immersion helped tremendously to Americanize it. The French language teacher was delighted having someone to converse with, even making Philippe a lab assistant. School administrators were obviously skeptical about his home schooling, however Philippe hammered the tests and landed in the senior class, graduating five months later.

During that brief time he enjoyed soccer although not very good, and baseball at which he was quite good thanks to quick feet and hand-eye coordination. The batting coach helped develop a nice swing. The swimming coach was the most enthusiastic. That was something Philippe could do very well. None of this distracted from continuing martial arts training, although he was well ahead of the instructors, it did provide fodder for practice, until a visitor knocked on the Burke's door one mid-February Saturday.

“Good afternoon,” the Oriental man said in impeccable English.

Philippe was seated on the sofa, back to the door, facing the two-story windows facing the now snowy valley while reading a book. Upon hearing the voice his heart jumped into quick time. It was one he recognized, but couldn’t immediately put a face to.

“I was asked to deliver this letter to you,” he said, handing over an envelope to Mr. Burke.

“Come in Mr. ah-h, I didn’t get your name.”

“Yoshida. Michael Yoshida.”

Philippe, fearing the worst had kept out of sight, however upon hearing the name the boy jumped to his feet. Leaping the back of the sofa he flew into the visitor’s arms, then just as suddenly backed up, stiffened, and exchanged formal bows.

“Mr. Burke, this is Master Yoshida, the grandson of my martial arts teacher I told you about,” Philippe explained.

“Let’s go to my office,” Mr. Burke said.

After reading the letter carefully and adjusting his glasses Philippe’s host heaved a sigh.

“It seems your trouble continues. Your uncle has again doubled the reward on your head. You, my boy, are worth a million Euros to anyone ambitious or lucky enough to find you.”

“But why? I thought once the police had the computer disk . . .”

“There has been a problem with that,” Mr. Yoshida began. “You were quite right. There are encrypted files password protected. Our people have not been able to break the code.”

“Our people?” Philippe asked.

“Yes, I am a member of Interpol. It seems that without the proper code any attempt to open the files destroys them. Fortunately, we have the original from which to make copies, but so far all our efforts have been unsuccessful.”

“I’m sorry,” Philippe replied softly.

“When your uncle raised the reward we began to ask why? Such action must be for more than revenge as what we have uncovered has caused him and his syndicate a great deal of problems. It was Tangata Aiwaiwee who proffered the suggestion.”

“And that is . . ?”

“You know the code.”

“But I don’t know any code! I didn’t even know I had that infernal thing!” Then Tomas’ last words before leaving the Island of death came to mind. He did know the password, but what could it be?

“In any event I have been sent here as your personal bodyguard,” Mr. Yoshida said.

“My what?!” Philippe cried out, then looked at Mr. Burke who handed him the letter.

Philippe read it over very carefully. Written in what he knew to be Tangata’s hand it explained everything as just heard. The piece not yet revealed was:

'Philippe, your uncle knows you are in America and has solicited help from organized crime cells throughout the country. Master Michael will be at your side, discretely of course, until I return in time for your graduation. Keep a low profile.'

Philippe slumped as if a great burden had just weighed down upon his shoulders.

“What can we do?” Mr. Burke asked.

“Not to worry. We have leaks, too. A word here, a whisper there, and they spend all their time searching the east coast. So long as you don’t make the six o’clock news life should continue relatively normal. I hate to be a burden upon your family, Mr. Burke, but I will need to stay here.”

“Of course. That’s no problem. We have lots of room. In fact, there’s a bedroom adjacent to Philippe.”

“You will find sufficient funds deposited in your account to cover expenses. In the meantime, is there an area we could set aside for practice?”

Life continued for Philippe alias Paul Elam. Wherever the boy went, Michael shadowed giving him, the sense of what the President’s children must feel with their Secret Service. It was as difficult for Philippe as it was for Michael.

The Bushido teacher was added to the school’s security staff as a foreign visitor studying the American approach to school crime as it was now becoming an issue in Australia. His presence was so discrete to be almost invisible.

There were challenges, of course. Dating girls was one. No one-on-one adventures. Being a new experience Philippe preferred the dates including his American “brothers.” Another activity was Boy Scouts. Neither islander found comfort camping in the snow. The ‘Polar Bear Swim’ had to be the strangest and most physically cruel thing ever. Standing on a lake front, snow and ice lining the shore “Paul” watched as one boy after another ran into the water, ducked under the surface and then sprinted for the heated latrine fifty yards inland.

Standing between his brothers, bundled to the hilt and shivering, it came their turn. Taking a deep breath, off came sweat pants and parkas and boots as the boys made an insane dash for the water, screaming. Minutes later, standing beneath a hot stream of water Philippe looked at his brothers and Michael. He loved it - every shivering, quaking, stinging moment - the games, the food, the comaraderie, going home smelling of wood smoke.

Martial arts training intensified with daily workouts including both his new brothers and sisters, although they gladly sat on the sidelines and marveled when Shodan and Sandan went at each other. Training was not limited to one faction of the martial arts, either. One day it was Kendo, another Judo, another Karate, another Kyudo or archery, another Bo, the staff. The sixth day was given to serious combat using combinations. The girls in particular liked Kyudo and excelled.

Keeping a low profile seemed easy until the last basketball game of the season - a championship game. Philippe remained an enthusiastic spectator until leaving. Gonzaga was a team to be reckoned with and the cross-town opponent not up to it. They lost - badly. As Philippe, Michael and the Burke brothers walked to their car parked near the ball fields they heard girls screaming. In the dim light it was obvious a gang had jumped some Gonzaga students.

Philippe reacted as was his weakness. Becoming involved in what would be a publicized situation was exactly what he was to avoid, but he neither could or would stand aside and let six, football lineman-sized guys randomly abuse obviously younger and less endowed students.

Approaching the nearest he stopped and yelled, “Hey! Leave it go!”

As expected the behemoth turned and swung at Philippe. Perhaps had the lighting been brighter the gathering spectators could have seen, but all they saw was the strapping kid drop to his knees gasping for air. To Philippe it was a simple forearm block of the roundhouse swing followed by a straight knuckle shot to the solar plexus. The coupe de gras was a left fist between the eyes.

When the attacker dropped two others came to his side. Neither fare any better. By this time Michael and the Burkes were involved. Unfortunately, the younger Burke chose to challenge the only slender kid in the gang who obviously had studied Karate. He was knocked to the ground. Michael was about to intervene when Philippe leaped forward. The kid grinned.

“Let’s see what you know, Red Neck,” he challenged and began a flurry of foot attacks.

Philippe easily defended. When the kid moved closer and began a barrage of hand attacks Philippe smiled, blocked them easily then unexpectedly used his left foot to sweep the kid's feet. He had barely hit the hard ground on his back than Philippe swung a fist down. Bone cracked as the kid clutched his chest and groaned loudly while rolling to one side.

The attackers’ defeat was astonishingly quick as bodies flew threw the air, landing in sprawling heaps upon the hard ground. When approaching police sirens sounded Philippe and Michael melt into the shadows just before the cops arrived leaving the Burkes to explain and take credit.

Graduation was the last week of May. Sixteen year old Philippe walked across the stage to receive his diploma, a week after being granted American citizenship. There was also a scholarship to an American university as well. However, the grandest surprise was the appearance of Tangata’s smiling face as he stood at the exiting end of the platform. When the boy saw his surrogate papa there was no holding back emotion as he leapt into the man’s arms.

After a family party the two spent the night in the family room, Tangata in a chair, the boy seated cross-legged on the floor in front of him. There wasn’t much to bring Philippe up to date on about the islands. Not much changed except an occasional volcano erupting or an earthquake. The conversation mostly centered on every minute detail of Philippe’s experiences in America.

That afternoon Philippe, Michael and Jimmy stepped out on the lawn where the two older men challenged the boy in every aspect of Bushido. The Burke’s watched, often covering eyes and mouths as the fighting became intense. Many times when it appeared Philippe would be killed the boy rallied and returned the favors. Then, it was over. Jimmy and Michael knelt side by side with Philippe a meter in front.

After bowing Michael said, “Having been commissioned by my grandfather, Master Yoshida, of the Seven Warriors Bushido-do, and having been tested by two Sandan, we are pleased to bestow upon you the rank of Nidan of the Seven Warriors.”

Philippe was thunderstruck as Master Michael Yoshida handed him a rolled parchment bearing his name and the signature of the two Sandan seated in front of him and the signature of Grand Master Yoshida. Gazing at it he surreptitiously glanced at the signatures hoping to have discovered Tangata’s real name. No such luck. 'James Elam.' Philippe knew that to be the man's pen name. Irregardless, he now held the rank of 2nd degree black belt. Bowing once more the three stood and bowed again at which time Philippe embraced both teachers.

Saying goodbye to the Burkes was difficult, but Philippe’s excitement keen as the three climbed into a spacious, RV bus.

“Thought a road trip would be a nice way to spend the summer,” Tangata had announced.

“Might that increase the chances of being recognized?”

“Not really. It seems the photos of you received here in the States, oh, a terrible mixup, seems they got pictures of some kid that died a few years back.”

“Now, how do you suppose that could happen?” Philippe asked, but seriously wondered how the heck the man managed such things.

“Just can’t trust the mails these days. Always losing or getting things mixed up,” Michael piped in with a broad smile.

As the RV traveled east to Washington, D.C. then back through heartland America Tangata was obliged to make some appearances promoting a recent book. Whenever that occurred it was not the man Philippe knew as his appearance changed so to be completely unrecognizable except for the eyes - the dark, studying eyes that seemed to twinkle more now.

Tangata would not respond as to why the need for disguises, and continued refusing to divulge his true name despite many attempts at uncovering the mystery. All Philippe and the world knew him by was, James Elam. However, by this time Philippe didn’t care, remembering what Shakespeare said, ‘What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet.’ All the boy cared about now was that he loved the sometimes irascible and mysterious hermit that pulled him from the clutches of a watery grave and brought back his life. Using seemingly unlimited resources Tangata repeatedly slapped the long-reaching hand of his uncle, helped restore his past and protect his future.

That summer was one of bounding joy and wonder. Then, as those fairy tale days drew to a close the well-traveled RV rolled down Telegraph Canyon into Laramie, Wyoming and the beginning of another life.

Chapter 5
Escape


Once Tomas stepped onto the beach the boys were out of sight. Walking a fine line had been a way of life for him since embarking on a career in crime, but this time that path had become impossibly narrow and very, very slippery. The slightest mistake would not be forgiven. Having the ability to see the truth in a man’s eyes, he knew Philippe had no recollection of the stolen computer disk nor knew of its present location. It had not been lost because some of the financial data had already surfaced. Tomas could only hope Philippe would stay out of sight for a couple years at least. If not . . . life could become difficult for both of them.

Climbing aboard the yacht Rousseau’s right hand was greeted by the captain and two remaining soldiers.

“Get underway,” he said brusquely.

“Where are the others?” the younger of his men asked.

“Dead. Get under way.” It was not time to tell all, not just yet. Tomas the invincible had to think this out very carefully.

⧫ ⧫ ⧫

Rousseau had never seen his chief lieutenant looking so cast down as Tomas walked along the dock from where the yacht docked.

“Did you find the boy?” Rousseau asked anxiously.

“I believe so.”

“And . . .?”

“He is dead.”

“Too bad. I would have liked doing that myself. What about the computer disk? What of that? Did you recover it?”

“No."

“NO?”

“I do not believe he had it. I now believe the boy must have handed it off.”

“Explain,” Philippe’s uncle growled.

“The stories of a creature inhabiting the smaller of the two islands were true. It is an island of death. I lost seven good men. Whatever it was rose from the jungle, an invisible beast that kills with incredible speed.”

“And . . ?”

“Philippe apparently was able to reach the island just ahead of the storm, but judging from what little wreckage we found his boat was thrown upon the reef. I do not know if your nephew was killed outright or later by the creature.”

“How do you know he is dead?”

“I discovered what appeared to be the boy’s body on the beach. I can only surmise it to have been his body. What remained was the same size and wore the same clothes he was last seen in. The head was missing. The boy had not been seen upon the larger island. The hermit is just that, a man who desires to left alone. Even the villagers shun him. And no one goes to the Island of Death.”

“And how do you know he handed the computer disk off?”

“He could not have had it with him. The boy landed upon that island and died. There is no way for the information to have been transmitted from that area. The American living there lost his boat in the storm. It would have been impossible for anyone to have gotten to the nearest computer terminal capable of sending the data by the time it was actually sent.”

⧫ ⧫ ⧫

Remaining just inside the jungle wall Philippe watched his uncle’s lieutenant climb aboard the yacht and set sail. Only then did he begin to relax and reflect upon what had transpired. The gangsters’ quarry had been caught, but the legend that kept the natives away was real. Death had once again reached out with its bony fingers and Philippe somehow managed to slip through. The boy shuddered involuntarily as if that cold, deathly hand still lay upon his chest. He should have felt relief. A poor, deranged creature had given its life that he might live. The only consolation was that his uncle’s chief henchman was gone, having failed an assignment for the first time, beaten by a 15-year-old boy.

“They’ll be back,” the hermit said coldly as they stood side by side watching the retreating yacht.

“I’ve got to leave here.”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” the boy spewed over teeth chattering like the
staccato clatter of a machine gun.

The man wrapped a strong arm around the boy’s quaking shoulders. “If that storm hadn’t tossed you up here you’d be shark droppings by now. Providence brought you here,” the gentle man replied. “Your uncle’s tentacles are long and invasive in this part of the world. You’ll have to go beyond that reach.”

“You know things about me I can’t remember, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

The man had rowed Johnny’s canoe across the lagoon and watched Tomas capture the boys from the jungle’s depths. He was about to intervene when Philippe took charge of his own fate. That was best, to remained hidden. The boy knew he was there when Elli suddenly appeared - dry, but that phenomenon had apparently escaped Tomas’ usual eye for detail. Now, Philippe and Johnny dipped paddles deep into the placid waters of the lagoon. Only Johnny expressed exuberance as a warrior’s victory chant escaped smiling lips.

Early the following morning their native friend left once again. Things would be different upon returning home this time. The islander had performed a feat of bravery not accomplished since the old days prior to the great war. The father of every eligible daughter would fight to stand in line to have him for a son-in-law. Johnny only desired one and if the village chief still protested Johnny was now endowed with some ability and much confidence to stand up to him.

Remaining on the beach Philippe and Tangata watched Johnny’s canoe clear the western reef. As their friend became an indistinguishable dot on the gently rolling swells Tangata picked up a cloth bundle he had brought and unwrapped two long, bamboo sticks.

“Shinai!” Philippe exclaimed with surprise, referring to the swords used in Kendo practice. “Where did you . . .?”

“I have also studied under Master Yoshida. I guess you to be Shodan.”

“Yes,” Philippe answered in gathering awe.

“I am Sandan,” the man answered, referring to the 3rd degree black belt, and handing one of the weapons to Philippe. “It is time to further your education.”

For the next hour the two ranged over the expanse of beach as Elli sat to one side, barking cheers. This was not traditional training as Philippe quickly learned. This was a real duel. Although able to deliver a few blows, the boy found himself primarily in a defensive mode. Tangata was formidable and unrelenting. Unlike those teachers at the Bushido camp he did not hold back. At first Philippe received multiple, stinging blows until letting mind and body flow with the knowledge he possessed. When that happened technique lurched to the forefront. Seldom able to return the favor, at least Tangata’s “sword” rarely made contact.

Both sweat profusely as the battle raged furiously, the clack of the Shinai like a drumbeat to which Elli sang. Philippe was pushed to the limits of his training, pleased with the progress, smiling broadly as confidence increased. The man didn’t smile. There was a particular seriousness in what they were doing.
Suddenly, he stepped back, lowered the bamboo sword and bowed. It was over. A meter apart the two knelt facing one another and bowed. Placing hands on thighs preparatory to meditation, or so Philippe thought.
“The time has come young warrior for your greatest battle,” Tangata said very softly, his voice sounding for the world like Master Yoshida, serious, kind, gentle, agelessly wise.

Philippe closed his eyes and listened as the words flowed over his mind bringing to blossom stifled memories. They were words explaining about his parents, the resort, his life in the before time. Memories as pictures sprang forth. Pictures of his mother, of his father, the special times they shared. Before this the things the boy had been told had been so many words, filling in gaps of memory, but not personal recollection making them sound like another’s life, not his. That life was now returned to him. Philippe began to cry.

In the study, computer web sites provided visual confirmation. Staring at the pictures of his parents, tears again streaked his brown cheeks as those priceless, loving, memories were tarnished by return of the knowledge that those beautiful people were forever gone.

As Philippe looked longingly at all that remained of his parents, pictures and memories, Tangata walked to a bookshelf along the far wall, removed several volumes then reached into the vacated hole. An audible click sounded as that section slide inward to reveal a secret tunnel.

A series of naked bulbs strung on two bare wires tacked to the ceiling scarcely dissipated the blackness of the narrow shaft as the two plunged into the bowels of the mountain until a heavy steel, ships’ hatch barred their way. As the man turned the center wheel there came the soft whisper of grating metal. A push and the oval portal yielded. Their nostrils were immediately assailed with the odor of diesel fuel.
Stepping into a water-filled cavern Philippe was amazement to see a seizable yacht bobbing gently in front of them. Except for a single floodlight centered on the boat nothing else could be seen although Philippe had the impression something lay low in the water some distance to one side. Interestingly, there was no source of light to indicate how the boat got inside the mountain.

Hopping aboard the sleek, white craft Tangata called out, “Release the bow lines and get aboard.” Flipping switches at the helm started the engine’s deep-throated growl as if some prehistoric serpent had awaken.

Philippe barely made the deck as the throttle was opened, and the boat backed away from the dock, turning until the bow pointed toward utter darkness. The whole boat vibrated as it leaped into the blackness filling the cave with a thunderous roar. Somewhere in that void must be a wall at which the bow was directed. Philippe stared ahead then at the pilot silhouetted by green light from the control panel. The single dock light rapidly diminished as disbelief and panic churned through his body.

A high-pitched scream filled the cavern with an cacophony that pierced the ears and gouge at the brain. Suddenly an ever-growing shaft of bright, tropical sun pierced the blackness as a section of wall ahead moved aside. With practiced dexterity the boat passed through the opening its cleaver-like bow effortlessly slicing the swells of open water as they left what had once been a secret, Japanese submarine base.

Philippe had seen many yachts come and go from his parent’s island resort. He’d visited most, being a curious child. This was a top-of-the-line Hunter 49, somewhere around a half mil, considering the modifications he could see. The yacht lay some fifty feet from bow to stern, it’s sleek lines dominated by the mast and boom, currently laid down. That intrigued the boy until the Tangata flipped a switch on the console and it was raised vertical. Once in place the canvas was hoisted aloft by another set of motors. When deployed the two, iridescent, blue sails flopped restlessly in the wind, eager, searching, until a slight turn of the helm brought them into the wind. With a thunderous crack they snapped taunt and the boat leaped forward, vigorously slicing the swells and sending a fine, cooling spray over the length of the boat. The dragon’s growl fell silent.

Tangata’s frequent spells of silence had been unnerving at first, but Philippe learned this only indicted he was in deep thought. That wasn’t all bad. It gave him time to do what inquisitive boys like - explore.
Going below he immediately entered the heart of the boat. To his right a spacious galley. Left was the navigation station. Ahead was the spacious salon, however, this had been modified to provide a smaller dining/lounging area and provide a work space. The head and aft staterooms were standard. The man obviously slept in the smaller, aft room immediately behind the galley. Tangata had told him to use the forward, a large area with its own head and shower.

Rummaging through the galley he discovered it to be well-stocked. After using the aft head Philippe hungrily fixed sandwiches, grabbed a couple sodas and went topside.

“Thanks,” Tangata replied, accepting a china plate laden with slices of smoked ham and pepper-jack cheese on rye, chips and a sliced, Kosher dill. “Take the helm. Maintain a heading of one-nine-five,” he said rather brusquely, and taking the lunch, disappearing below.

Philippe took no offense to the rudeness as he sat at the second wheel. The Hunter was interesting because if provided two stations side by side on the stern. An opening between them exited onto a small platform and very large ocean.

Piloting sailboats was nothing new to the boy, but nothing this large. The sleek craft handled effortlessly and he quickly learned to maintain the prescribed course. Tangata return an hour later to stretch out on a built-in bench next to the hatch. Biting into his meal for the first time Philippe thought to detect the wispy hint of a smile.

“Good sandwich. You can handle the galley. You’re not a bad pilot, either,” he said.
Quickly finishing off the sandwich Philippe’s guardian went below again, lay down and slept until nearly nightfall. Upon reappearing Philippe was sent below to prepare supper.

After eating and another turn at the wheel the boy perched midship to gazed at the twinkling, celestial dance crossing the vaulted sky wondering about the man with no name who expressed such disdain for humanity, yet showed him so much kindness. Was there some connection with this aberrant behavior and a toddler’s portrait below? And what of the boat’s name - Adrianne?

The sun had lifted well above the watery horizon when Philippe was awakened by the whine of the sail motors and return of the boat’s throaty, prehistoric growl. Ahead lay the lee harbor of an island not unlike the one they’d left; narrow, sandy beach shadowed by sheer basalt cliffs cloaked in a multi-hued, green mantle. Within the harbor a grimy, tattered Junk rust at anchor. On the beach stood a man as ragged and unkempt as the bromidic derelict.

This man’s stance was not congenial - bare feet spread apart and dug into the sand, a fist firmly planted on each hip. The only indication of friendliness was a big smile revealing missing teeth creasing a broad, round, weathered, oriental face with a light-colored scar across the right cheek.

Philippe had heard stories of such individuals - pirates. Stories to frighten children much as Europeans told stories of the ‘Boggy Man.’ No one need tell stories of this character. His appearance alone was enough to send chills pulsing through one’s body. The only garment he wore were large, baggy trousers terminating just below the knee and held in place by a piece of rope and wide leather belt to which a pistol and sword were attached. There was a dirty, red piece of cloth covering his head, but did little to contain the shoulder-length locks of curly hair.

“Look who come for visit,” they were greeted.

“How soon can we set out?” Tangata responded, stepping ashore.

“Close deal first. Ten thousand.”

Tangata laughed. “You’re a pirate, Rongo!”

“In old days, yes. Now respectable merchant.”

“You’re half right. One.”

“I got better things to do for such tiny sum.”

“You’ve been out of work for months.”

“You think to know so much. Nine thousand.”

“Competition scared off customers. One-fifty.”

“Maybe not so scared as you think. Eight thousand. Last offer.”

“Is that why people won’t even talk to you?”

“Okay. Seven - American dollars."

The man reached into his front trouser pocket, withdrew a wad of clipped bills and peeled off a number of green notes.

“This some kind of joke, Jimmy? This only three thousand.”

Philippe startled at the sudden revelation of a real name. He had asked. When no answer came forth the boy surreptitiously poked around the man’s study finding nothing to suggest a name - except! The boy now recalled a series of novels about a World War Two intelligence agent - ‘An authorized edition’ penned by another writer to keep the popular series alive. He wondered at the time why the books had never been opened as were others by the same author. Tangata was a writer! He had watched him at work - from a distance. He didn’t like anyone looking over his shoulder.

“Here’s another thousand, to keep quiet,” the man retorted brusquely.

Rongo shrugged with an obviously faked pout. “Who boy?”

“Your competitor’s nephew.”

The pirate glared so hatefully Philippe could almost feel a knife twisting through his ribs.

“The kid’s parents were killed in a plane crash so his uncle took him in. Ungrateful pup up and run off when the . . .” the man called Jimmy checked himself, “his uncle tried to kill him.”

“So! This is the brat they look all over islands for. Offer big reward. Very big reward. Stole lots of money.”

“I stole some money when I ran away,” Philippe confessed, “I’d heard my uncle kept lots of money in a bag in his safe in case he had to leave sudden like. I took that. I didn’t take time to look inside the bag. He’s pretty upset.”

“No joke,” the ruffian laughed. “He want back real bad and you dead for sure, kid. Must been lots of money. Maybe more than four thousand American dollars?”

“You looking to renegotiate, maybe?” Jimmy replied softly.

“No love boy’s uncle. Even if I bring money and brat’s head in bag he still do not so nice things to me. I do this for free,” Rongo laughed while handing the money back.

“Keep it. Think of it as a bonus.”

“Okay,” the pirate replied quickly shoving the wad of bills deep into soiled jeans.

⧫ ⧫ ⧫

“You look terrible, Tomas,” Rousseau said. “Have a drink.”

Tomas helped himself to a shot of whiskey as his boss continued speaking.

“The police are trying to indict me for money laundering based on information they received off that CD. Those blood-sucking lawyers will finally earn their fee. I’ll have a few political associates put pressure on the French and Australian prosecutors, too. It’s also time to call in a few outstanding ‘debts.’ That should make things go away.

“The cops obviously don’t have the disk proper, just the financial record.” Rousseau then called out to another man standing in the shadows. “Georgi, put the word out. The reward is double for that disk and whoever’s got it. And double it for the kid, too. I trust what you say Tomas, but that little bastard’s got more lives than a cat. I think he had help getting away. Someone filed papers blocking me from gaining control of my brother’s resort, as if trying to protect his inheritance.”

“Interesting,” Tomas said, a bit shaken by the new development. “I can understand that, if the boy is alive, but if he’s dead? That might be a legal smoke screen in an attempt to usurp your rights of inheritance. Who’s handling the paper work?”

“Some ambulance chaser by the name of Tuskin.”

“I assumed it was the boy’s body from the clothes. It could be possible whoever planned this elaborate scheme to get the disk may have kept Philippe alive as well and put someone else on the Catherine.”

“If so, he can’t hide forever. If he does show up I want the boy alive. He will provide answers to many questions before he disappears . . . completely and forever, no trace whatsoever, and that goes for anyone who helps him. I want that disk.”

“Yes, sir.”

⧫ ⧫ ⧫

Boarding the old, weather-blackened and water-logged wreck took a great deal of faith and intestinal fortitude. It not only looked as if resurrected from an old bone yard, it smelled like it. Each footstep resounded with creaks and groans with visions of suddenly falling through to the next deck, if not out the bottom. One dare not touch anything. If wood, it was splintered, if metal, it was rusted. A hand could end up looking like a reddish porcupine. However, when the engines roared to life and propelled it through the waves Philippe was astonished. Whatever lay hidden below decks certainly wasn’t a tired, one lung relic associated with dilapidated, inter-island rust buckets like this scrap yard fugitive.
“That’s how the old pirate eludes competition - and the authorities,” Jimmy explained as the wind whistled through their hair.

“Can he be trusted?”

“Rongo’s a scoundrel, but yes.”

“So, you’re name’s Jimmy,” Philippe said after a moment’s silence.

The man said nothing.

“And you wrote those spy books.”

The man still gave no conformation, but turned to the problem at hand. “Listen close. When we make port you need to . . ” he began, outlining a plan.

Philippe sat alone near the bow for most of the remaining trip, his stomach churning like a storm-tossed sea. His uncle’s empire stretched throughout the South Pacific. He had “eyes” everywhere and that, as the man Jimmy explained, was exactly what the plan depended upon.

Approaching Brisbane port the steady rumble of the powerful engines suddenly bowed to the labored chug of a one-lung, oil-spewing wreck as the boat took on its deceptive appearance. Shaken from trance-like thought Philippe looked aft startled by the sudden appearance of a sailor he’d not seen before standing at the pilot’s wheel.

Cautiously walking back it felt as if having been magically transported aboard an entirely different ship. The new pilot had black, wind-tossed hair that hung over sunken eyes reminiscent of an English Sheep Dog. A squared jaw and somewhat large chin sported a grizzled, black beard. Like the opened shirt his body was oil-smudged and in need of a turn at the deep clean cycle. Philippe was about to question the new crewman until noticing something vaguely familiar.

“From now on, lad, don’t show surprise when we meet,” the man growled with a distinctively Australian accent.

“So where’s the pirate?”

“Below and there he’ll stay ‘til this wreck sets sail again. Soon as we dock you be gone exactly like you were told. One step ahead, but only one step. That’s important for this work.”

As the rusty, creaking derelict bumped the dock in an older, seedy section of Brisbane harbor Philippe jumped ashore with the hemp bow line, pulled several, quick figure eights to secure it then headed inland acutely aware of questioning eyes following every move.

“Who was the boy that came in with you, Capt. Capon?” a port officer inquired while scanning the ship’s forged documents. A stocky man in dark glasses looked over the boat skipper’s shoulder.

“Picked ‘im up in the Vanuatu group, myte. Says ‘is boat swamped in the big blow. Bought passage here. Din talk much,” the man lied cordially. “Sure seemed to be in a hurry. Soon as we dock he runs off. Not so much as a ‘go’d dai.’”

Following directions to the letter Philippe took a cab from the pier to the O’Sullivan Business Center in the center of town and sat at the outdoor café. While sipping a latte Philippe noticed that the center actually consisted of three high-rise towers. Two had a steady flow of people, the third was still under construction.

An hour passed before four men in shiny business suits and dark glasses exited a black limo and stood by the curb, looking around. Philippe recognized them for what they were instantly. As instructed he walked briskly into the nearest tower. As he entered the elevator he saw them approach at a quick pace. Trapped in the lift he watched them draw closer and closer. Philippe prayed for the door to shut. He wanted to jump to the control panel and push the close button, but was sandwiched to the rear. Then the doors moved. The lead man sprang for the closing door. His outstretched hand slapped the sealed door violently. He’d have made it if it weren’t for some guy he bumped into.

“There’ll be another, mate,” a brokerage-type commented a bit sarcastically, brushing his jacket after being knocked down.

The man glanced at the bispectacled milquetoast while scanning the lobby. Frustrated, his natural reaction was to slug someone, but there were too many people not to mention a couple security cops.
“Chill,” his accomplice whispered then began giving orders to his associates. “You two hang around here. Watch the lifts and stairs,” he continued as a dozen more men joined them. “You two cover out front. The rest of you cover the back and delivery entrances. Lock the place down. I’ll be in the security office. Now move it and don’t let that kid get out or I’ll personally handle your demotion.”
The next lift door opened and the milksop casually boarded, holding a briefcase with both hands in front and head slightly cocked to one side peering over wire-rimmed glasses. Directing a congenial smile at the thug he’d collided with the door closed and he was gone. For a brief instant the thug thought the yuppie looked vaguely familiar.

“Police,” the leader announced, flashing a fake badge at the security officer. “A wanted criminal got aboard lift six a couple minutes ago.”

“That’s an express to the 15th floor and up,” one of the men stuttered.

“You see a kid about fifteen get off on your monitors?”

“Not so far,” another replied, then checking the console said, “That lift’s coming down.”

“Can you identify which floors it stopped on?”

“Yeah. Just a minute.

“Hurry it up. I want you other two to start watching every floor from 15 up.”

Philippe’s elevator had shot to the 18th floor, deposited all its occupants then carried him to the 20th at the top. He was surprised how quickly it happened. Exiting, he hurried down the corridor to the third office door on the left and entered a semi-darkened reception room. As told there would be no one present. Toward the back were two doors. One bore a gold sign, “Mr. Tuskin.” It stood ajar. Following directions Philippe gingerly pushed his way into the empty room.

‘Go in, sit down and wait,’ Tangata had instructed. Philippe sat on the edge of a thickly cushioned chair next to the polished teak desk that looked like the deck of an aircraft carrier. It was totally void of anything except a lamp.

“I see you made it,” a well-attired man with wire-rimmed glasses said as he strode into the office, plopping a briefcase on the desk and pointed at the ceiling. Philippe thought to recognize the man, then realized he was showing surprise. He instantly changed expressions. He also understood the gesture to mean their conversation was not private.

“I’m sorry to just barge in, but ...”

“You did right, Mr. Bonnét,” his disguised benefactor replied in the refined tongue of an English gentleman.

To the boy’s astonishment Mr. Tuskin withdrew a CD from the briefcase and slipped it into Philippe’s jacket pocket.

“I am James Tuskin,” Tangata continued the ruse. “I have been informed that a computer disk in your possession would be highly invaluable to the authorities. Having been retained to represent your interests I would caution you that to withhold criminal evidence could put you in jeopardy of being considered an accomplice to your uncle’s business enterprises.”

“I didn’t know I had it. The plan was to steal some money so I could get away. I just want to be rid of it.”

“Very well, then. Let’s step into the next room.”

Stretching forth a hand he placed it upon Philippe’s shoulder and winked. He was then escorted into an small, adjoining room where a casually-dressed man milled about nervously.

“Mr. Bonnét, this is Inspector Fenster from Interpol. This is the young man with the special information. We may speak freely in this room.”

“Here,” Philippe said, handing him the disk. “Guess I stole it from my uncle’s safe when
I ran off. I don’t know what’s on it, but it must be important. My uncle’s pretty upset. He’s been trying to kill me.”

“That would be a correct assumption,” the young, blond-haired man replied in English. “Pretty seizable reward out for both you and this disk. We will, of course, provide whatever protection you need.”
“That won’t be necessary. Arraignments have been made,” Mr. Tuskin replied.

“I guess you have some of the financial data,” Philippe said. “There may be other files on it. I think they’re hidden and passworded. I was told that I knew what it was, but I can’t think of anything helpful.”
“We have people who specialize in recovering such data. I am certain they will be well amused cracking any codes as we will be with the information. We are grateful, Mr. Bonnét,” the officer responded slipping the diskette into his jacket pocket. “If this is what it is purported to be your uncle will be much too busy worrying about his own affairs to be concerned with you.”

Once the Inspector was gone Philippe said, “My uncle’s men almost caught me on the lift up.”

“Yes, I know,” Mr. Tuskin replied casually. “There are surveillance cameras in the corridors and voice recorders in offices, except for this room. It’s been sanitized. Your friends are in security watching. Once we step into the hall they will know you’re on this floor. It will take them four minutes to come up.” Then glancing at his watch said, “Okay, follow me.”

They exited the suite, locked the door and moved briskly to the glass-walled entry of a vacant office at the end of the hallway. Using another key Tuskin opened the door, carefully locking it behind them before moving on to a private elevator at the rear.

“It will take them a few seconds to realize what’s going on. There’s a sensor in security alerting them to this lift’s movement.”

“They’ll have men covering it. We’ll be trapped.”

“No,” the man said coolly, reaching into the car.

Chapter 3
The Enigma









Nine nervous men sat around a long, mahogany conference table hands folded in prosperous laps. Along the periphery stood nine dour men, sunglassed, hands clasped in front. The austere silence was only marred by one gentleman’s occasional, nervous cough and another’s asthmatic wheezing until the ornately, carved, double doors slammed open with a thunderous explosion.

Each of the seated men rose as a slightly-built man in tennis shorts and polo shirt with the arms of a cardigan loosely tied around his neck stomped into the room.

“Sit down,” he snapped in Islander French. “Everyone of you know that somehow our financial records leaked to the police. My lawyers have them running in circles for now. We can weather this incident like all the others. Have you found Philippe?”

At the far end a middle-sized man, trim, darkly handsome stood.

“We have found no trace of the boy or the boat so far. Of particular interest are two islands northwest of here. We made discrete inquiries at a village on the north end of the main island. They are ignorant of Philippe’s presence. There is a sizeable lagoon at the island’s southern end. Estimating the boat’s speed and the typhoon it would be the furthest haven attainable. If he attempted to steer for the lagoon and safety the boat would have been destroyed on a submerged reef there. We have seen no wreckage. The smaller of the two islands is uninhabited except by wild animals. It is a place the natives fear greatly and do not go near.”

“We can assume the boy is dead, Tomas?”

“I would have said yes until the police received the information he stole.”

“How did the police come to receive the data?”

A wiry, anemic man answered while twiddling a pen, “My contact at police headquarters said it was received from the Interpol office in Brisbane.” Sweat peppered his gaunt face.

“Does this island have computer access?”

“We haven’t seen anything to indicate such equipment,” Tomas replied. “According to the natives there is a man living on the south side of the main island overlooking the lagoon. Police records indicate he arrived here 37 years ago.” Tomas was much more confident and composed than the others. “He had the necessary monies to be allowed to stay. A year later he purchased the southern end of the island for one million franks. He has had little contact with anyone since, even the natives. He lives as a hermit.”

“So how does he eat? He must purchase food supplies.”

“He buys everything through Caledonia Mercantile in Noum a. Radios in an order and when he plans to pick it up. They put the stuff on the dock. He pulls in at night, loads up and leaves. The merchant sends a bill to a bank in New Zealand and they pay it,” Tomas answered.

“Where does the bank get this money?” the man in tennis garb continued, the anger in his voice unmistakable.

A portly man mid-table answered, “Whenever the account falls below 20,000 franks the bank arranges a transfer from the United States in 10,000 frank increments. The funds come from an account listed to South Pacific Enterprises. Our associates in the United States say it is a paper front not unlike some we use, an entirely electronic operation.”

“A very neat dead end!” the balding man spit out, slamming his hand on the table. “What is the nearest place he could have sent those records electronically?”

“Port-Vila, Vanuatu. However, according to the Harbor Master at Noumea the boat this man uses to pick up supplies is a battered, sailboat with a one-lung motor. It would take up to three days to make the trip. Even if he found the document the first day after the storm passed he could not have sailed there considering the time it was received by the police,” Tomas answered.

“The data was already unencrypted when received by the police,” the pale but fit computer geek added. “He would have had to know the coding or have highly sophisticated computers to do that. I think we are wasting our time with this hermit. Philippe must have handed it over to someone before leaving the islands.”

“Perhaps,” the boss said as he slipped into deep thought. “Perhaps.”

“Henri may be right. The only electronics I saw on that island is a shortwave radio in the village. We have flown over the area carefully and detected nothing to support any other form of communication.”

“Do we know how Interpol received it?”

“According to our contact it was received electronically from the address GuardianAngle at southerncross dot com,” Henri replied, patting at beads of sweat on his brow. Everyone was sweating. They were frightened. Like Tomas, Henri was more confident. He made mental note to check the air conditioning. “It’s part of an inter-island network based in Melbourn. Signals arrive via their satellite link. Just point a transmitter at the satellite on the right frequency and you can send or receive messages. The information could have been sent from any of a thousand locations.”

“Their records do not indicate any transmitters located in that part of the Pacific. The next transmitter is in the Solomans. Another three day trip,” Tomas added.

“How large a transmitter dish would be required?”

“Six to eight feet in diameter,” the computer geek replied.

“It would possible to hide such a large piece of equipment?”

“Not very easily,” Tomas replied.

“It is possible to use a smaller device,” a young man seated next to the boss said. “I saw new technology on the Web only yesterday that uses a transmitter dish less than half a meter in diameter. Such equipment could be easily concealed in the jungle. The problem is that it is not ready for the general market, yet.”

The boss stood, turning his back to the room and looked out one of the windows.

“Very mysterious. I do not feel Philippe had time or the inclination to pass it off before sailing away. His departure was spur of the moment. No planning. Again, we are talking of time. If he sailed directly from here to that island it would put him there as the typhoon arrived. Stopping to hand off the data to someone else would have him still well out to sea. The information was received immediately after the storm passed.” Wheeling around quickly the crime boss said, “I want you to go back to that island, Tomas. Turn it upside down if necessary. I believe the answers will be provided.”

Two days later Tomas stood on the bridge of one of his boss’ smaller yachts, a 90 footer, peering at the island through powerful binoculars. A helicopter made another extensive fly-over with two, sharp-eyed observers, but all they reported was a massive pile of rock and a couple trails radiating from the peak toward the lagoon and one toward the village on the north end of the island. A place to harbor a boat was extremely limited. Much of the east side of the island was rock cliffs and inaccessible. The lagoon was totally impossible to enter with anything larger than a canoe. The western side had stretches of beach, but coral deposits made it impossible to bring a larger boat within in serviceable reach. The only possible harbor lay on the northeast end of the island where the village was located. There was nothing there except fishing canoes.

Tomas was a very careful man and he had missed two important pieces of information. That bothered him. It was said the hermit picked up supplies in New Caledonia using an old, weather-beaten tub, however, none had been seen during any of the fly-overs. He had overflown the island carefully only a few days following the storm. There was no such boat. It might be possible it had been destroyed by the typhoon. If not, the hermit may have left before the storm. If so, at best it might take weeks to find this man to question him.

The other thing that had bothered Tomas since the initial fly-over was that no habitation was seen where this man was supposed to live. A clue was provided upon seeing some abandoned, long-range artillery batteries, apparently from World War II. He had passed them off as so much junk left behind to rust when the fortress was abandoned. He had the computer geek do some research. The mountain now owned by this hermit had once been a Japanese fortress during the war and a honeycomb of tunnels. The hermit must be living in the mountain and those trails would lead him to the entrance.

Late in the evening the yacht captain carefully approached the smaller island along its south side and eased up to the reefs before dropping anchor. This was the closest possible anchorage. Tomas and his men would have to ride a rubber launch a little over 500 meters to reach shore. The yacht would not be seen and Tomas could set up an observation post to spy on the main island across the lagoon.

The land rose quickly from a narrow beach. Before dawn the following morning Tomas lead five men ashore. While one stayed with the raft Tomas and the others worked west along the thin, sandy line of beach separating ocean and jungle.

During the initial fly-over Tomas had also been fascinated by the while line that arced from island to island. Closer investigation indicated that it lay shallow thereby affording passage. An early morning crossing would not be detected.