Chapter 18 - Cabbage Avenue

 Wednesday, August  14, 2024 - 4:00 PM

The Ambassador’s wife had no sooner strapped on her SEC helmet than David’s voice was in her head. 

“Sabriya. Sabriya. Can you hear me?”

A shiver ran up Sabriya’s spine. David’s voice was present and clear, as if he were literally inside her helmet. She flicked the toggle switch on the bike’s console to activate the full duplex comm channel. “Yes, David. Have you been trying to communicate with me?”

“No. I knew you had just put on the helmet. Landon’s system seems to know your every move and mood. You’re done with the Queen, right?”

“Yes, I just left her.”

“Good, then return to the Embassy right away. I repeat, return right away.”

“Don’t you want to know what happened with the Queen?”

“Yes, but I suspect she’s not able to help find Jia Kun, or someone was not willing to let her help. So, come back.”

“You’re right that she can’t help. But I’ve got a few things to check out.”

“Cabbage Avenue is not one of them, I hope.”

“I hope it is.”

“Sabriya, that’s a dangerous place for a woman. We’ve been told to stay away.”

“David, you’ve never been there, have you? Or are you telling me you know it all too well?”

“No, I don’t know it at all. You know that.”

There was a pause in their conversation as Sabriya left the Palace grounds and headed southwest toward that part of the city where Cabbage Avenue was famous.

“Sabriya, we’re tracking you. Turn around. Come back to the Embassy. Leave Cabbage Avenue to Landon or one of the guards.”

“Well, David, I’m glad you’ve never been there, but I’m sorry to say, I have. And if my darling Jia is there now, she won’t be for long. Give me 20 minutes, and perhaps I’ll come home with my daughter. How’s that?”

“No, don’t do that.”

“What? Not come home with my daughter? You should meet her. Sweet gal. Didn’t you want to be the father of my children? I think you said that one time. Did you not mean it?”

“Sabriya, if you don’t return right away, and we’re tracking you, you may not be able to ever return.”

“Is that a threat, David?” 

David didn’t answer. 

“That’s not happening, darling. I am coming back, but not until I find my daughter. And you’re right. I may get blood on my hands, but it won’t be my blood or Jia Kun's. Every minute that goes by, Mi’s life is in greater danger. I’m glad you’re safe back in the Embassy. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt. But I would be a nervous wreck if I were with you and not out here looking for my daughter, and neutralizing the jerks that took her.”

“Sabriya, don’t do that! You’re in no position… you’re not the police….and remember the MI6 reports of Peallagore’s border dispute with the Chinese. If you start poking around up there, you’re likely to run into the PLA, and then I’ll have some serious explaining to do with the Prime Minister. That’s why we sent both Jack and Hannah with you before.  You don’t have them now. You’re on your own. Come back immediately. I demand it.”

“David darling, what good did Jack and Hannah do? Sorry, Jack and Hannah, if you’re listening. But in spite of their presence, we neither saw, attacked, wounded, nor killed any of your fearsome PLA soldiers.”

“No, but I’ll bet they saw you, and now you’re vulnerable.”

“I can’t move swiftly or quietly with a regiment.”

“Sabriya, I love you, but I will not allow you to do this. You must not.”

“How can you stop me, David? I love you, too, but right now, I love my daughter more. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Your life’s in danger, Sabriya.”

“How nice of you to think of me, darling.” But Sabriya’s tone was not tender, and David didn’t reply, as Sabriya raced along all too familiar roads to brothel row, which at one time she had called home. 

Ten minutes later: “Sabriya?” It was Hannah’s voice in her head now. 

“Hannah, that you?”

“Yes, ma’am. David is mad, and I’ve never seen him mad before.”

“So am I, Hannah, but not at David, just disappointed. Gotta go, I’m close to my destination.”

Sabriya had been searching the SEC’s console for the helmet’s mute button. She found it and toggled the comm link off. There was something ironic and frightening about turning away from Hannah and David and turning back to her life on Cabbage Ave with Jia Kun.. 

Wednesday, August  14, 2024 - 4:30 PM

It was late afternoon when Sabriya drove her SEC down Cabbage Avenue, the street from which she and Jia Kun had escaped eleven years ago. She had been determined never to return to this place. Yet, here she was, ready to attempt another escape for Jia Kun if not also for herself if she was careless enough to fall into malevolent hands. It was that thought that made her recheck her rearview mirrors, as she had on and off for the past 30 minutes. Yes, she was being followed, or so it seemed. The Suzuki Sport motorbike, driven by a man in dark clothes and a distinctive helmet, was careful to stay at least 100 yards back. She recalled their trip to Miwu Cun and Jack’s suspicion that a man on a motorbike had followed them. Was it the same man? Her heart skipped a beat, wondering if she was being pursued, and if so, by whom, all the while trying to quell doubts that she should have come alone on this junket into hostile territory. But who else could she have relied on? Indeed, David was not going to let Jack or another British agent take on her cause. It was also clear that the Palace was too shy and the new Parliament too slow. All the while, it was certain that Jia Kun and Dao’s captors were not going to wait for bureaucracy to change its stripes.

Sabriya slowly cruised Cabbage Avenue. She rechecked her mirrors and caught a glimpse of the Suzuki. It was time to find out for sure. She turned left into an alleyway. Fifteen meters in, she quickly turned around, stopped, and readied her cycle to head back out onto Cabbage Avenue. She watched the traffic pass. A moment later, the Suzuki and its rider appeared, waited for traffic to clear, and turned left into the alley. But it suddenly stopped, recovered, and continued down Cabbage Avenue. He saw me, Sabriya thought, but I got a good look at him—short, thin, not Pellagorian or Chinese, perhaps Filipino. 

Sabriya immediately accelerated her SEC and followed the Suzuki except that the Suzuki driver didn’t like the role reversal. He sped off and tried to lose Sabriya before ducking into a side street. He’s doubling back, she thought. Who is he? Was he the same man who followed them to Miwu Cun? She decided not to follow or confront him, but return to her survey of Cabbage Avenue. She was sure the Suzuki would show up again; she’d need to be extra vigilant. She remembered too well what her life was like here, years ago.

 

FLASHBACK

September 1981

Cabbage Avenue was a narrow street with corrugated galvanized-iron-walled buildings lining both sides of the dirt roadway; bare light bulbs hung over the building entrances, and corrugated aluminum roofs overlapped. When it rained, Cabbage Row, as it was named then, sounded like a war zone, and the water cascaded into the unpaved street, creating rapids that could easily knock a man down and flush him away. And oh, how she had wished the men that came in all shapes, sizes, and cleanliness she was forced to share a bed with each night would find justice in those fugacious muddy waters. But she rarely heard the muddy rapids as she cowered in her cell after a beating because she had not met her quota. Her body bruised, her stomach growling from hunger, her loins raw from assaults. The wash basin was empty, but there were tears that washed her face, and a rag she kept beneath the mattress, thin and torn. 

 

She quaked at the remembrance, which seemed so far away in time and distance. But it was here that such things took place, as her life was repeatedly threatened. Today, the road was wide, underground storm sewers kept it safe, and when night fell, colorful neon signs lit the entrances to restaurants, bars, and dozens of innocuous entertainment establishments. Although the Avenue glowed in festive hues, the dark underbelly was evident in the names inscribed by luminous tubes pitching unlisted menu items—Companion Karaoke, The Velvet Kettle, Golden Lotus Society, No Questions Bar, and Private Hour Lounge. Through windows, Sabriya observed scantily clad girls waiting tables, and outside entrances, muscular men stood in dark suits, admitting elite businessmen and rejecting rambunctious youth. She passed an older man in an expensive suit, strolling hand in hand with a girl young enough to be his granddaughter, wearing a short skirt and unstable sky-high heels. 

Prostitution in Pellagore was technically illegal, but rarely prosecuted, unless business proprietors blatantly promoted their off-menu offerings. Brothels, strip joints, love hotels, and the like hid behind legal businesses such as restaurants, hookah lounges, nightclubs, karaoke bars, hotels, and even massage parlours. She looked for the Iron Spoon and the Backroom Wok, and while she found the buildings, they had been remodeled, enlarged, and no longer appeared to be faux fronts for brothels in the back. In fact, there was no back where dark rooms and secretive alley entrances had once been the norm. In the streets, one could still buy cheap souvenirs and street food, but what was really for sale kept to the shadows and was not for the faint of heart. As long as the sex industry mainly stayed underground, the illicit was taxed and tolerated. The tolerance was no doubt often directly proportional to the backsheesh paid to the police and their captains. 

The scent of spicy kabob, noodles, and exotic spices pedaled by street vendors wafted into her helmet and made her mouth water. It reminded her of how, years ago, the only food she often ate was given to her by generous noodle-and-meat vendors.

The more she surveyed her surroundings, the more problems presented themselves. Unless she had reasonable suspicion of exactly where Jia Kun was being held, there was no sensible way Sabriya, by herself, even with guns blazing, could investigate dozens of establishments and demand entry and search for her daughter. She also had no evidence that Jia Kun's abductors had actually brought her here to Meijing. Jia Kun could be in China, as far as Sabriya knew. Finally, it was unlikely that a 12-year-old girl would be trafficked directly into a brothel as a prostitute, but kept as a domestic servant until she matured and then put into active service. Yes, there were pedophilia perversions involving young girls. Still, most of that dark world involved, unfortunately, young boys with men, a diabolical situation that reached back to the Greeks, if her reading of Socrates and Plato was accurate. She shuddered at the thought. 

So, where exactly was Jia Kun? If she were sequestered in the back rooms along Cabbage Avenue, she’d need more information. Perhaps then she could solicit the Queen for a squad of soldiers to raid the place and rescue her daughter. But until the King got his act together and shut this whole street down with rigorous efforts to discover and arrest the criminal gangs involved, she had to admit she, alone, was in no position to start knocking down doors. 

The more she thought about Jia Kun's situation, the more likely it was that she’d be trafficked into domestic servitude for a few years in Vietnam, China, or the Philippines. She’d be drugged, of course, and smuggled out, with no passport or identification, such that, if escape was possible, she’d have a hard time proving who she was or where home was. In five years, if she developed into a sexually appealing teen, then the drugs and coercion could find her a prisoner in a brothel. Sabriya’s mind wandered in depression and disgust at the vast possibilities, and she realized how naive she was to suggest to David that Jia Kun might be found at The Iron Spoon or Backroom Wok. 

After an hour of wandering the environs of Cabbage Avenue and watching her back,  Sabriya was tired and dejected, but hardly willing to give up. If she went to Miwu Cun, as was her plan, would she find there a clue that would lead her to her daughter? And would the Suzuki man follow her? She would know soon enough. 

SABRIYA's HOPE: Chapter 17 - The Scorp

Wednesday, August 14, 2024 - 2:40 PM

As he walked through the open blast door, Sir David Kensington nodded to the sentry and entered the Scorp, the intelligence and provisioning lab in the Embassy’s basement. Scorp was short for Scorpio, the zodiac sign associated with intimidation, mystery, and the discovery of hidden knowledge—hallmarks of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service (SIS), otherwise known as Military Intelligence, Section 6 (MI6).

Inside, MI6’s officer-in-residence, Major Landon Scott, a trim, carrot-topped, thirty-five-year-old, ex-special forces officer, was crouched behind an equipment rack, threading cables. Scott, a confirmed bachelor, was assigned to provide intelligence services to the newly established Pellagore Embassy. He had lost his left leg to an IRA car bomb in 1980, but his artificial limb kept his body nimble, and a Cambridge degree in Electronic Engineering kept his mind agile. 

“Yes, Sir. Mr. Ambassador. What’s happening with your wife’s niece?”

“Daughter,” corrected the Ambassador. 

“Ah, right you are, sir. Yes, sir.”

“The latest is, and this may not be a total surprise to you or MI6…” David glared at the Major as if Landon personally had held back the disturbing information from their briefings years earlier, “but my wife has revealed that in her younger days she was trafficked in one or two brothels along the Cabbage Avenue corridor.”

“Yes, I heard,” said Landon, tightening his lips and peering at the floor for a moment in disappointment. 

“What do you mean you heard? She just told me this not an hour ago. Have you always known?” David turned to see Hannah enter the room and stand behind him, a concerned look on her face.

“No, sir,” said Landon. “Such information was never part of the intelligence briefings about your wife.” Landon became suddenly reticent, glancing at Hannah, as if they both might have something to hide. “I, ah, surmised that from our earlier conversation, and what she told me…” he looked at his watch… “30 minutes ago.”

“Landon, where is my wife?”

“Well, she’s not here, sir. She took an SEC and its paired short-link helmet to go see the Queen of Pellagore, or so she said.” 

“You gave her an SEC?”

“She’s checked out on it.” The SEC was an experimental MI6-modified, Stealth-Electric Cycle; its short-link helmet, with its microphones and speakers, was electronically paired with the SEC that was linked via satellites back to the Embassy for voice communication. 

Landon said nothing more.

That Landon offered no more information suggested there was more, as if the Ambassador or the husband didn’t need to know.

Landon stared back with an expression that said: “Nothing to see here, boss.”

David scanned the lab, its array of equipment, and its locked cabinets and cupboards, and glanced at Hannah again, who was purposely trying not to be part of the conversation but was attentively listening. 

Underplaying the question as if to trivialize the interrogation, David asked, “So, what else did she take?”

Landon nodded his head, as if to say, that’s the question I was waiting for, ambled to his desk, picked up a clipboard, flipped a page, held the board more in the light, and read: “An L6 Night Vision Pocket Scope, extra batteries, and a single PPK (Personal Provisioning Kit).”

“She needed all that just to go see the Queen?” David fumed.

“Well, no. Not just the Queen.” Landon bit his lip and gazed at David over the top of his glasses.

“Oh, Landon, don’t tell me she’s…” David stopped mid-sentence and stared at Landon, waiting for the Major to finish the sentence.

“Okay, sir, I won’t tell you. After the Palace, she’s going to Cabbage Avenue…”

“No!” interjected David.

Landon continued. “After that, she didn’t say exactly where else she was going.”

“Oh, she’s going to Miwu Cun, I guarantee it,” said David. We had, shall I say, a difference of opinion about this last night.” 

At that point, Hannah stepped forward. “Sir, you won’t have to worry. She’s well protected. I helped her dress in her tactical gear. You’ll remember it’s made from a rip-stop fabric of Kevlar, nylon, and cotton, in an attractive camouflaged design…”

“Military fashion narration I don’t need,” said David, interrupting, as he began to pace, his breath getting shallower.

But Landon wasn’t done. “And oh,  yeah…” he flipped another page, “…she took a P250 and extra clips.”

David raised his voice, “She took a gun!?”

“Yes, sir,” said Landon, nonchalantly. “A SIG with four, 11-round clips…plus the one in the gun.”

David was nearly speechless. “We can track the SEC, right?”

“Yes, plus the communicator has a five-meter exterior and 10-meter interior accuracy.”

“Right into the hands of the Chinese People’s Liberation Army.” David spun in frustration and ran his fingers through his hair. “God save us! How long will the SEC last?”

“Batteries are good for a couple of days, depending on atmospheric temperature and pressure, speed, and load. She’s light, so longer than normal. She was in a hurry, sir .”

 “I’ll bet she was.” David attempted indifference and detachment, but was decidedly upset. He turned and gestured at the communication desk. “Can we?”

“Yes, sir. I was just patching in the biometrics when you entered. She’s also wearing a personal communicator under her jacket, short-linked to her tactical earplugs, and in the SEC helmet there are voice transducers. All full-duplex.

David walked to the console with a desk-like work surface mounted on a rack of displays, used to communicate with embassies around the world via a satellite dish on the Embassy’s roof. Mounted in the rack were controls for shortwave radio, local radio and TV, UHF police bands, and VHF marine bands, and the capacity to track Sabriya wherever in the world she might venture.

Landon flipped a few switches and pressed a few buttons. The displays in the top rack illuminated. On one, Sabriya’s biometrics were displayed: heart rate and variability, respiration rate, body temperature, activity, posture, blood oxygen saturation, and sweat composition (glucose, hydration, and electrolytes). On another display, a bright blue dot was superimposed on a Meijing street map, and moving slowly along the approach road to the Laksana Palace.      

Wednesday, August  14, 2024 - 2:50 PM

It was mid-afternoon as Sabriya’s cycle streaked silently along the Royal Causeway to Lanksana Palace. Her vexation over law enforcement’s ambivalent attitude toward finding Jia Kun, or hunting down her kidnappers, distressed her, and to sit passively at the Embassy, waiting on others, only magnified Jia Kun's danger and Sabriya’s frustration. She found little solace in the beauty of her surroundings as ocean waves whitecapped the causeway’s embankment of boulders, and tall coconut palms lining the roadway wildly swayed, forecasting a storm. Yet, clear blue skies sanctioned the sun to warm her tactical uniform, and a sea breeze and the apparent wind of her cycle’s forward motion kept her relatively cool. 

She would have much preferred her flowing silk gi to the camouflage-patterned, rip-stop jacket, utility belt, and cargo pants. But a fall at speed in a silk gi would end her mission and leave her crippled. Besides, there were no rigs, loops, or pockets in a gi for her holster, clips, scope, and retractable bo staff. 

She thought about the lightweight school clothes Jia Kun would be wearing, and how they would not protect her against the rough abuse she would be exposed to. Sabriya shivered thinking of her daughter in a brothel, drugged, stripped of her innocence, and naked under a thin, dirty sheet, her arms, legs, and face scarred and scratched. It maddened her; the cycle accelerated.   

As expected, she was delayed at the Palace guard house; Queen Devi was not expecting her. But luckily, she was available, and Sabriya parked her cycle under the porte-cochère. A hostess ushered Sabriya into a parlour.

Shortly, the Queen entered the parlour, followed by a servant with tea service and mints. Sabriya stood and curtsied. 

“Oh, my dear, no need for formality,” the Queen said. “We’re two friends alone in a humble parlour.” To Sabriya’s eyes, the parlour was anything but humble. The rich oak flooring was embellished in the center with a round oriental rug, woven around the circumference with symbols of Pellagore’s natural resources. The large Embassy side chairs were upholstered in saddle brown leather. The dark bamboo side tables and coffee table all matched with polished glass tops. The ceiling was at least 3 meters high, with several down-drafting fans supplementing the soft breeze that swept from one side to the other through 2.5-meter-by-2.5-meter windows. In the corners, live feather palms added color and texture. A bookshelf lined one wall, and an upright piano sat against the opposite.

The Queen’s voice was huskier than Sabriya remembered. Perhaps she had a cold, which would be unusual in this warm climate with fresh air circulating through the room’s open windows and doors. It was a casual day for Queen Devi; her long jet-black hair had been rolled into a neat bun and held in place with two decorative bamboo hair sticks with turquoise and brass toppers; there was no crown, no jewels to accent a plain, dark blue silk robe-dress cinched about the waist with a gold elastic belt. Her feet were bare on this warm day in her own house on the polished dark oak floor. But her eyes were puffy and a bit bloodshot, Sabriya thought. She looked sad, yet duty and protocol forced a smile, a straight back, and a forward, attentive face. Her reserved smile indicated an appreciation for the interruption from otherwise unwelcome duties. 

“Please sit, Mrs. Kensington; you do me a great honor by your presence.” The Queen gestured to a comfortable side chair facing the gold-upholstered mahogany armchair that resembled a modest throne, into which the Queen drifted. The servant placed the tray of refreshments on a low table between them. “You certainly are dressed for something of an adventure or an extenuated mission. What brings you? Though it is unexpected, I am happy to see you and be of service.”

“My Queen, you show me great kindness to give me this audience on such short notice. Please forgive my presumption. May I speak freely?”

“Of course, my dear. That is why you came. Is it not?” The Queen forced a slight condescending smile.

Sabriya spoke softly and slowly, two qualities of speech that, under the circumstances, did not seem natural or comfortable but were no doubt appropriate given her audience. “This morning, at our embassy, I was honored to host a small delegation of craftsmen and women from Pellagore’s gifted textile cooperative, when I was interrupted with very tragic news of the work that is on your heart and to which we both spoke at your banquet.” 

The Queen leaned forward; her body went rigid. The soft face and puffy eyes suddenly grew taunt and alert. 

“I’ve been informed that my niece and a friend, who were on their way to school in the western mountain district not far from the Chinese border, were abducted by two unidentified men and taken away in a van. The constable assigned to the village was miles away at the time. Besides, the district told us the constable only deals with territorial and property disputes, not crime.” Sabriya decided not to mention the ambivalence of an unidentified palace security officer whom David had also talked to by phone.

Queen Devi began to cry. She glanced at the servant, who, after delivering the tea service, had been standing by the entrance. The servant rushed to Devi’s side and produced an embroidered hankie, with which the Queen dabbed at her eyes and cheeks. 

“Oh, Mrs. Kensington, I am so sorry to hear this. Believe me when I tell you I am in anguish with you.” The Queen avoided looking directly at Sabriya for several moments. Her lips trembled, she dabbed at her eyes again, after which her hands landed in her lap, gripping one another. It was as if she wanted to reveal a secret, but propriety prevented it. 

“I’m sorry to bring this grief to you,” said Sabriya. “May I ask you something? I do not intend offense.”

The Queen nodded as she wiped her cheek and attempted to regain a courtly presence.

“From what I know of our country, and from what little my husband’s growing knowledge has offered, is there no kingdom-wide criminal law enforcement unit to investigate criminal activity? When we pledged to the country to go after trafficking criminals, how was that to occur? By what agency?”

 Queen Devi searched the walls of the large parlour for an answer. When she answered, her voice was filled with disappointment and doubt. “Local police should investigate such things. What you were told about police only dealing with territorial and property disputes does not sound right. We have the army, of course, but they’re mostly to protect our borders, I think. More to your question, as I mentioned last week, the anti-trafficking program I want is being developed with the various forces of my husband’s administration and our new Pellegorian government. I have wanted to be part of that, but they are men who don’t think women can fight. My husband knows different…sometimes. It all moves too slowly for my liking. And now that we have a parliament, it moves even more slowly. Everyone bickers and wants things their way. I fear we are only King and Queen in name only. It was my fear. But, again, back to your question. No, there is no kingdom-wide, interdistrict law enforcement. Criminals can move from district to district without fear, and there is corruption among the police. My husband wants to keep the peace. I not so much.” The Queen gazed at Sabriya, looking distraught and defeated.

Sabriya’s stomach clenched—the Queen’s vision was being shattered, and so deep was the hurt that Sabriya feared offering advice or encouragement would be an insult. The Queen had no answer, no arsenal, no recourse, no budget, no real plan, and little or no support from the army or local police. Sabriya was reflecting on this turn of information when the Queen stirred as if an omen had suddenly appeared. 

“Mrs. Kensington, do tell me, where was this? What village? What is this village’s name?”

“It is known as Miwu Cun, or the mountain village lost in the mist.” 

The Queen froze; fear rose in her eyes, and blood flushed her face. She stood, collected herself, and in a faltering voice, said, “Mrs. Kensington. I must leave.” She glanced awkwardly at her servant across the room, “Naoko, why did you not tell me? Am I not late?” And without looking again at Sabriya, Queen Devi rushed out of the parlour, her voice shaking and trailing after her: “Naoko, be so kind to see our guest out.”  

The look on Naoko’s face told Sabriya that the Queen was not late for anything. 

SABRIYA'S HOPE: Chapter 16 - Invoking Fury

 

Wednesday, August 14, 2024 - 11:40 AM

The Cathedral of St. Francis Xavier in central Meijing was designed by local artists 120 years ago. The church’s towering twin orange-tile steeples, topped with Christian crosses, were constructed with multi-layered roofs with upturned corners that invoked the design of Buddhist temples familiar across the region. Beneath the roof, wide eaves protected deep verandas that surrounded the front and sides of the church, keeping rain at bay from the large open windows, bracketed by typhoon shutters. Stone staircases rose from the street to ornately painted French doors that opened into the foyer and nave. Inside, the center and side red-carpeted aisles led worshipers to a regimen of mahogany pews and kneelers with green cushions. Centered in the sanctuary was an ornate gold-leaf altar, above which hung a 3-meter-tall, hand-chiseled wooden crucifix accented in subdued amber and blue tones. Behind the altar, on an elevated platform, sat a 1-meter gold tabernacle, flanked by 2-meter-tall, turbaned seraphims carved from white jade. 

Sabriya, her head covered in a black lace veil, hurried into the church to pray, with Hannah close behind. Near the front, Sabriya knelt in a pew, while Hannah stood in a side aisle watching the entrances and the few others scattered in the pews, presumably praying.

Inside, Sabriya’s mind was a jumble of what-if thoughts. Should she be confused or frightened? Was Kia Kun hurt? Was she alive? What of her daughter’s friend, Gely Suy? The news was staggering. 

Before coming to the St. Francis church to pray, Sabriya sat with Jack, Hannah, and Landon, the Embassy’s intelligence officer, as David called the local police and even the Palace for help in searching out and tracking the kidnappers. While everyone was sympathetic, especially the person David spoke with in the Palace, they all said the best course was to work with the district constable’s office, where Miwu Cun was located. The police gave David the number.

When David called the district constable’s office, the response was even more depressing. Yes, Miwu Cun was in their district. Still, there was only a single constable assigned to six villages in the region, and his responsibility was to settle territorial and property disputes, not investigate criminal activity. Who was then delegated to investigate crime? The answer rocked the Ambassador: The Palace, but the Palace had never shown any interest in the western village district beyond collecting taxes. David insisted that the district police contact the village constable, a task that could only be done by radio. They did, and, as expected, the constable was miles away in another village at the time, although the district said they would direct him to go tomorrow to Miwu Cun and see what could be discovered. 

Sabriya was desperate. By then, the kidnappers would be miles away. David then called a security officer at the Palace, but the man had no idea what he could do as district policing was not his responsibility. 

Sabriya couldn’t help but wonder if Jia Kun's kidnapping was a revenge for her speech at the Queen’s banquet. But who would know she and Jia Kun were related? .

Every day for years, Sabriya sat with the nuns at St. Mary Elias in prayer and adoration before the Blessed Sacrament. But today, chanting the Divine Office was far from her mind. Instead, without much thinking, and in tears, she found herself softly singing Salve Regina in Latin.  

Queen, mother of mercy:

life, sweetness, and hope, hail.

To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve.

To you we sigh, mourning and weeping

in this valley of tears.

Turn then, our advocate,

those merciful eyes

toward us.

And Jesus, the blessed fruit of thy womb,

after our exile, show us.

O clement, O loving, O sweet

Virgin Mary.

Earnest prayers of petition for Jia Kun and Gely erupted from her heart like a stiff Wing Chun elbow to her chest. She closed her eyes, and a sudden vision rushed upon her:

Jia Kun and Gely lay unconscious, bound hand and foot, a full head mask drawn over their innocent faces with little holes to breathe. They bounced as the van navigated the rutted road, their school clothes awry, their arms bruised and muddy, headed for a brothel.

Sabriya quivered when the vision hit her, and a chill ran down her spine as if a leopard had clawed her spine open, draining her blood. Her eyes snapped open, gaping at the tabernacle… O Lord, see their pride, send forth your fury upon their heads. Put a sword in my hand.

At that moment, the Sanctus bells rang, and a priest, preceded by two altar servers, entered the sanctuary from the side sacristy to begin the noon Mass. She had forgotten that there would be a noon Mass, but all the better, she concluded, considering the reason she had come to the church in the first place. She missed attending daily Mass at the monastery, where the Traditional Latin rite was celebrated. Here at St. Francis in Meijing, they seldom celebrated the old Latin Rite, but tried, mostly in vain, to make the new order Mass reverent. It was never to Sabriya, reverent that is, but she supposed it was better than nothing. The lay lectors distracted her—they were too easy to judge—diction, wardrobe, posture. Priests and deacons in liturgical vestments, in the sanctuary, were proper, she concluded.

But after Mass, while walking back to the Embassy with Hannah, Sabriya wondered if a miracle hadn’t occurred during Mass. A female lector, wearing an immodest, gaudily colored dress suitable for a circus acrobat, read the Old Testament reading. There was no equivalent reading, especially by a layperson, in the Traditional Latin Mass. And yet, here it was: an idea…no, a vision that was both startling and dangerous. She felt guilty during the celebration of the Eucharist because all she could think about was what had stormed into her mind during that reading from the book of Judith.

She knew the story of Judith: a holy woman and unconventional warrior who saved Israel from the Babylonian army. Judith was Sister Linsim’s biblical hero, and during Sabriya’s Wing Chun kung fu training, sensei Linsim often joked that kung fu was really useless unless God was in charge. “Imagine,” Sister Linsim would say, “if Judith had known kung fu, the story of Holofernes’ decapitation might have been a finger jab or an elbow to the throat. Not nearly as dramatic, and might not even have made it into the Bible.” 

“Trust God, not kung fu,” Sister would say. But then, jokingly, she would always add, “But Wing Cun is different. God loves Wing Chun.” Whereupon, Sensi Sister would surprise Sabriya and pretend to punch her student mercilessly, sweep her legs, and take her down. Sabriya smiled at the memory. 

After Mass, as she and Hannah walked back to the Embassy, Sabriya thought back to a previous time when God had answered a prayer she had never prayed.

Flashback - May 2013

Pangina and Kolinggar Mountains, Pellagore

Sabriya cried when she left her one-year-old baby girl, Jia Kun, with Busaba; it was heartbreaking; she didn’t know if she’d ever see her baby again. But if the child was to be safe from the thugs chasing them, Sabriya had to keep moving and disappear…somehow, somewhere. What would she do? Where would she go? Her enemy’s network of degenerates and assassins ran throughout Pellagore, and she could not think of a place where she would not eventually be recognized and reported back to her wannabe executioners. She couldn’t go to the south into North Vietnam, she had no passport; nor would she return southeast into Meijing, the capital, from which she had just escaped; nor to the northeast, which was her home village that had been burned to the ground by the same malevolents. She was left with only one direction, due north, into the rugged, underdeveloped western range of the Kolinggar Mountains. But, where would she find sanctuary there? At least she had some money left, and food and extra clothing in Busaba’s backpack. 

Sabriya headed north, walking along jungle paths between villages and backcountry roads used by trappers, farmers, and the vilest of society from which she was convinced she had not yet entirely escaped. Stopping by a mountain stream to freshen herself, she removed the Kasden charm. Could it help her again? Protect her? Give her direction? She slipped the charm over her neck, kissed it, and prayed. “Lord Kasden, or whatever god of angels might surround me, where do I go? Protect me. I need to disappear and be safe…and please protect Busaba and Jia Kun.” 

And so, Sabriya started on foot, hitched rides on farm trucks and donkey carts, sojourning her way into the mountains, talking with villagers, and hoping something was guarding her path.