Chapter 682 - The Tattoo
He couldn't afford to offend those two missionaries. He hadn't fully made up his mind yet and still needed those two fools as cover for his identity. At Australian customs, he had repeated to the local officials the same story he had originally used to fool the Jesuits.
But the biggest problem with that story was that he hadn't anticipated the Australians would subject all entrants to mandatory physical examinations. Thorough, completely-stripped examinations at that.
When Weiss removed his shirt and exposed his back, he heard the sharp intake of breath from the doctor and officials behind him. He didn't know if their surprise came from seeing the tattoo or from recognizing its meaning. If the latter, all his fabrications became meaningless.
Weiss suspected they had a camera hidden somewhere in the immigration inspection area and had already photographed him from every angle.
Damn. These Chinese have definitely recognized what's on my back.
Weiss Rando had never imagined he would become a mercenary—at least not when he was young. A few years after he was born in an old, run-down Italian immigrant neighborhood in San Francisco, his mother passed away. His father was a construction worker who frequently beat Weiss black and blue after getting tanked at a tavern. But when the Calabrian construction worker wasn't drunk, he could be quite loving to his son. Weiss still remembered his father putting on his best clothes on Sundays, sitting in the front pew at church, smiling as he watched his son lead the choir.
The choir robes were old, imbued with years of accumulated sweat. Just like the Italian quarter itself.
Weiss didn't like the place where he was born. The old Italian quarter was dirty and decrepit, with an isolated, stale mustiness. The streets were dangerous and chaotic. People said coming to America meant coming to heaven, but heaven was obviously not in the Italian neighborhood. This was just another copy of the Italian hell.
During summer breaks from high school, he preferred staying at his classmate Leo's place—sailing on Leo's family fishing boat through Golden Gate Bay, fishing under California's blazing sun, or shooting seagulls with Leo's father's ancient Springfield. He quickly became an excellent shot, the seagull killer of the bay. Seagull meat was inedible, but watching clouds of feathers scatter from the muzzle gave him an inexplicable satisfaction.
One day, lying on the fishing boat's deck with Leo, he heard a roar cut across the sky, drowning out even the ocean's roar. Two Tomcat fighters swept over their heads. The sun outlined their swept wings in a golden silhouette.
"I'm going to be like that," he told Leo. "Flying a fighter jet across the ocean."
His dream of becoming a fighter pilot soon faded. Despite his outstanding physique and good looks making him quite popular with high school girls, Weiss Rando fell madly in love with Mrs. Warren, the new music teacher—a petite and charming married woman. She gave him music tutoring, encouraged him with dreams of one day performing at the Metropolitan Opera, comforted him, pampered him, and wasn't averse to this teenager more than a decade her junior showing certain excessive familiarities. But things eventually went wrong. After Weiss spent an entire weekend afternoon alone with Mrs. Warren, he was nearly shot dead by the enraged Mr. Warren. He left school and never returned.
His dream of becoming an opera singer shattered with it—he discovered that without Mrs. Warren, music held no attraction for him. The Navy would certainly never let someone without even a high school diploma fly fighter jets. They suggested he become a sailor.
Even Weiss didn't expect that simply wandering into an Army recruiting station because he had nowhere else to go would end with him crossing the ocean to Korea, becoming an infantryman in the 2nd Brigade of the 2nd Infantry Division. In the Army he might have made sergeant, and if he'd completed his contract smoothly, might even have gotten funding for college.
It all went wrong one weekend before Christmas. The base village of Dongducheon near Casey Barracks was enveloped in holiday fever. By evening, every bar and dance hall was packed with noisy soldiers and various patrons. Army Corporal Weiss Rando sat in a corner of a bar, slowly sipping a drink. Then screams erupted from the bar counter, followed by bursts of wild laughter and cheering. Weiss saw the bar's Filipina waitress pinned to the counter by two white men and a stocky Korean. Her skirt had been torn off. She screamed and struggled, but her desperately writhing hips only drew louder, more brazen laughter. Weiss knew the girl—quite well.
A bald, mustachioed white man swore as he held down the girl's waist, his pants already at his knees. His head suddenly shattered along with the beer bottle smashed upon it; he collapsed silently. The second white man felt his neck grabbed, his face slammed into the counter. He screamed as glass shards pierced his face. The Korean was reaching for a revolver under his clothes, but Weiss grabbed his wrist and shoved downward. The gunshot shook the entire bar; the bullet passed through the Korean's knee joint, shattering his right kneecap.
The bar owner called the police. Then the MPs arrived. Weiss was sentenced to seven months for assault. In prison, he saw an advertisement in an SOF magazine. He made up his mind, and after his release he chose to leave the service and head to Croatia. The dangerous life path he had chosen had cultivated his habit of taking things as they came, one step at a time. He intended to do the same now.
Summer in Lingao was unbearably hot, especially in the Political Security Bureau's classified conference room with its tightly shut doors and windows. To ensure no eavesdropping, this hellish place didn't even have windows.
Several buckets of ice had been placed in the room. An electric fan salvaged from the Holy Ship whirred loudly, but everyone around the table was still dripping with sweat.
The weekly internal security meeting—jointly held by the Political Security Bureau, Arbitration Court Investigation Bureau, Army, Navy, External Intelligence Bureau, National Police, Customs, and Cheka—was in session.
The delegates stared at the stack of photographs in the hands of Yang He, the head of the Customs Quarantine Camp, as he rambled on about how he had made this "major discovery." He was so proud of his find that he repeated certain points several times.
"This must be the person we've been looking for—the one from Vessel A whose whereabouts were unknown." When Yang He concluded, Zhao Manxiong, chairing the meeting, took the photographs. A slide projector had been set up in the conference room. Photographs taken from various angles were enlarged and projected. On the screen appeared a Latino white male, apparently under forty, over 1.8 meters tall, with a lean, well-proportioned physique. Dark brown hair fell to beside his neck.
In the front-facing Customs photograph, he had serenely placed both hands on the chair's armrests. His sun-darkened face looked ordinary, without distinctive features. Only those soft, limpid brown eyes—the kind that might attract women—were wide open, gazing at the transmigrators before the screen with a candid expression. When the fifth photo appeared, it caused a small stir. This was a rear view taken in the Quarantine Camp. On the white man's broad back was a striking tattoo: an F-14 fighter jet flying over a Jolly Roger flag of crossed skull and bones.
"Looks pretty flashy—" Dongmen Chuiyu suddenly remarked.
"What, want to get with him?"
"I'm just worried he might cause a stir among some female transmigrators." Dongmen Chuiyu said. "Could become an unstable factor. Just like Salina, Panpan, and Miss Mendoza are themselves unstable factors."
The room laughed. But everyone admitted that while this Latino's features weren't distinctive, his rugged face and powerful build had considerable masculine appeal. He might well find favor with modern women.
"We should secretly eliminate him for the sake of unity and stability," someone suggested.
"Additionally, the physical examination found over a dozen obvious scars on his shoulders, abdomen, and limbs," Yang He said. "We photographed each one. Some were identified as gunshot wounds; others are old surgical scars. These surgeries couldn't have been performed in the 17th century."
"Who is this person? What identity did he use to enter?"
"He's an attendant to a priest sent by the Jesuits." He Ying flipped through his notebook. "Three months ago, Rodrigues visited Macao and mentioned the Jesuits were preparing to send new missionaries to the Lingao diocese. This time four people came: one priest, two brothers, and this person. His Chinese name is Wei Landuo."
"Do we have more information on this Wei Landuo?"
"No. We conducted separate interviews with the priest and brothers. They know nothing about this person either. They rarely saw him before departing Macao. They only know that his assignment as attendant was personally made by Macao Jesuit Superior Geranzani—and these brothers seem to have an unfavorable impression of him."
"Where is Wei Landuo now? Still in the Quarantine Camp?" The questioner was Jiang Shan from External Intelligence.
"He and the missionaries are in a separate room in the Quarantine Camp," Yang He said. "We've already posted additional sentries at the door."
"What are we waiting for!" Dongmen Chuiyu, representing the General Staff, said sternly. "He's a spy, a saboteur! A potential threat. He should be immediately arrested, locked up, and interrogated separately! I don't believe we can't get the truth out of him."