Dazid Ishmael arrived right on time, wearing a black Coca-Cola T-shirt and baggy shorts. Instead of flip-flops like most of the people here, he wore sneakers—a good choice for a ranking member of Abu Sayyaf. Wanted by the Philippine National Police, he had Red Notices filed with Interpol by national law enforcement in both Indonesia and Malaysia. He’d shaved off his trademark beard, and now looked more like a kid than a murderer, Coronet thought, but the dead and dismembered bodies he left in his wake proved his abilities many times over.
Coronet watched as Dazid placed his mobile phone on the table, nudging the device around as he ordered a lemonade. Coronet imagined the phone reading and then registering the tag, instantly downloading the location for the next meet. The man slipped the phone back into the pocket of his shorts and shot a glance over his shoulder while he waited for his cup. Coronet glanced away, not wanting to seem overly interested—though there wasn’t much chance of him being seen at all, across the street and in the dark.
The Near Field Communication tag made for the perfect dead drop. Working on the same principle as a touch key for a hotel room or a subway pass, the inconspicuous NFC tags contained nothing but a simple set of GPS coordinates, with the latitude and longitude transposed. Dazid would know to reverse the numbers before attempting to go to the next location. The time he’d spend transposing the two numbers also worked to Coronet’s advantage, keeping the man on site for a few extra moments. Dazid knew the dangers and took the security measures in stride. The incredible sum of money Coronet’s handler had authorized may have had something to do with his easygoing temperament.
At first, Coronet noticed no one but Dazid. But when the bomber finished up with his mobile phone and headed southeast on Roxas Avenue, a man who looked suspiciously like an off-duty policeman did a double take. He was standing at a food stall with his chubby wife, a small boy of two or three clinging to his leg. The policeman obviously thought he’d seen someone important, but could not be sure in the darkness. His eyes locked intently on Dazid, and he leaned in quickly to whisper something to his wife, peeled his little boy off his leg, and then walked into the darkness to investigate.
It was an extremely foolish thing for him to do.
Coronet had two choices. He could disappear and let Dazid be arrested, or he could act as the wanted man’s countersurveillance. He looked at his watch and realized he truly had only one choice. There was no time to develop another asset. Groaning within himself, he got to his feet. He grabbed a paring knife from the stall next to him while the owner was busy fanning away the smoke. It was a small blade, not quite four inches long, but he’d watched the man cut chicken and knew it to be razor-sharp, perfect for his purposes.
Coronet dropped the knife into the pocket of his jacket for the moment and fell in behind the policeman. He remained hidden in the crowd, closing the distance slowly so as not to arouse suspicion. As he walked, he took a slender canvas bag from his other pocket. Veering off the path slightly so he was along the edge of the canal, he scooped up a handful of gravel, which he poured into the mouth of the canvas tube. He repeated this procedure three times on the move, filling the tube until he had a makeshift cosh, or bludgeon, weighing a little over a pound. An American would have called it a sock full of rocks; it would make a formidable stunning weapon in the hands of someone who knew how to apply it.
Closing the distance now, Coronet held the cosh in his left hand and the blade in his right. Bludgeoning was a gross motor skill. The bladework needed to be more precise, ensuring he could evade the inevitable spray of blood.
Unfortunately for the hapless policeman, Coronet already knew where he was going. Dazid’s destination was the Talk and Text café down the street. It was the location of the next NFC tag. He’d guessed correctly that the policeman would want to keep his distance and would likely remain across the street near the canal while he summoned backup. Considering the army of law enforcement at the night market, it would not take long for help to arrive. Coronet would have to act without hesitation. Which was fine. He’d done this before and knew the entire process would not take long.
Coronet moved quickly, hopping the guardrail that ran adjacent to the canal and moving into the shadow of the trees at the same moment the policeman stepped over the rail, still focused on Dazid Ishmael.
Padding up quickly but quietly, he struck as the policeman raised the mobile, utilizing the canvas bludgeon in the same manner OSS commandos employed brass knuckles to stun opponents in advance of a dagger attack during World War Two. The canvas-and-gravel cosh impacted the man’s left temple with a sickening thud, causing him to drop his phone and stumble forward a half-step. This put one leg slightly in front of the other, opening a gap for Coronet. His blade flicked back and forth quickly inside the man’s legs just above the knees, slicing at least one, and probably both, of his femoral arteries. Coronet struck him again before his stunned brain could work out what had happened. The policeman stumbled sideways, weakening quickly. Coronet gave him a solid shove, careful not to soil himself with the man’s blood, pushing him into the canal. The canvas cosh and the paring knife followed him in.
Coronet cried for help at the same moment the man splashed, pointing into the shadows as bystanders rushed to help. Instead of moving closer with the crowd, he melted backward, letting the press of people swallow him up and hide his movements until he was across the street in front of the Talk and Text, where passersby were just realizing something was going on at the canal.
Taking one of the NFC stickers out of his pocket, he held it up by way of identification as he approached Dazid Ishmael.
The terrorist looked up at him, confused. Then his hand dropped into the pocket of his shorts.
Coronet raised both hands. “You had company,” he whispered. “Off-duty PNP.”
“Okay,” Dazid said, still suspicious. “Did you bring the money?”
Coronet nodded at the NFC tag between his fingers. “Half the account number is right here. My associate has the remainder of the number.”
“Wise.”
Dazid glanced toward the back of the café.
Coronet shook his head. “There was only one policeman and he did not make a call. We should go out the front as if nothing is wrong.”
And with that, Coronet made contact with one of the most dangerous terrorists in the Philippines.
The provocateur glanced at the date on his Rolex. He would not read about the Abu Sayyaf operation for several days, but his previous assignment would be in the papers by tomorrow morning.
13