The Malacca Conspiracy Read Online Free Page B

was referring to Zack’s prosecution of two US Navy fighter pilots, both Islamic, who had used their navy jets to launch terrorist strikes— and his successful defense of a US Navy submarine commander on trial for war crimes in Moscow.
    “It’s amazing what they put on TV, isn’t it?”
    “I am Victor Yang Loon. It is a pleasure, Commander Brewer.”
    “The pleasure is mine, Victor,” Zack said.
    Yang Loon babbled on. Zack ignored the driver and gazed at the colorful sights of the bustling, tropical Asian city by the water.
    The cab swung left, crossing over the causeway from Singapore’s main island to Sentosa Island.
    Would she be there? She promised. But it had been so long.
    They’d fallen in love. Or so he thought. How was a guy supposed to know? And then, like that, she was gone.
    Time.
    Distance.
    Misunderstandings.
    The navy pulling them in different directions.
    These warred against him, it seemed. He tried staying in touch in the aftermath, but most of his emails and letters went unanswered in the months that followed. Silence prevailed.
    Long-distance relationships were rife with misunderstandings.
    He had been the victim of such a misunderstanding. Or, perhaps, of his own idiotic decision making?
    He was sent to Australia by the navy to get him out of the limelight. The loneliness at times was heavy.
    A British naval officer—a woman stationed at the British embassy in Australia when he was at the US embassy—found out that his birthday was approaching. When the woman asked him to dinner for his birthday, he politely declined.
    Then, she asked again.
    And again.
    And one or two more times.
    “Oh, come on, Zack,” she said. “We’ll have a jolly time. No worries. We’ll just go as friends, you know. There’s a great little restaurant over on Marcus Clarke Street,” Leftenant Emily Edwards had said, in that magnetic, cheery British accent reminiscent of Princess Diana. “The Cougarette. The service is slow, but the food is mouthwatering.”
    Her repeated invitations were friendly enough, casual enough, and nonthreatening enough.
    Finally, he relented.
    Big mistake.
    They went out three times, a dinner and two lunches. They did nothing taboo by most Southern Baptist Sunday school standards. But Leftenant Edwards had apparently seen it all differently.
    She found Diane’s cell number. The international call roused Diane from bed.
    “Did Zack tell you about me?” Edwards was purported to have asked. “Did he tell you that I took him out to dinner for his birthday?”
    It was downhill from there.
    Diane called, scolding him harshly for the first time. “Friends don’t lie to each other,” she had said. “Zack, I don’t need women calling me. I won’t be coming to see you. You can call me every six months to let me know how you’re doing.”
    Then Diane had hung up. What was up with all that?
    He’d spoken with her, emailed her, or text messaged her every day for over a year, and after Edwards’ call, she had just hung up. Then, silence.
    The package arrived a few days later. It was a sentimental family Bible that was his grandmother’s. He’d given it to Diane. It showed up in the mail with her return address. No note, no nothing. The body blow left him breathless.
    Ambiguity had reigned in their on-again, off-again relationship. “You should date other people,” she had told him several times in the past. “I need time to heal. You shouldn’t wait for that.” She had never recanted from that position.
    What? Had she been joking? What?
    Women.
    Who could figure?
    Pitfalls and personal hardships were part of navy life, and long-distance relationships were a navy pitfall. Diane came from nowhere—out of the blue. They had been through the fire together in San Diego. And then, she was gone.
    Wrestling with himself for months, finally he surrendered to the reality that he had fallen for her.
    Now she had agreed to meet him, once more, just for a couple of days before reporting to her