Two Books. One Extraordinary Life.

That morning, as I prepped for the upcoming sit down, a sense of apprehension had crept into my gut. I didn’t know specifically who we would be meeting, but I suspected it would be a member of the Hong Kong Triads that controlled all gambling, drugs, prostitution, and human trafficking in this high energy city of 7.5 million people.

If they were involved, I had to be impeccable. If doubts entered my head, I had to adopt an attitude that said I had no doubts at all.

I was a freelance operative. By facing the Triads or some international criminal enterprise, I knew I would be entering into an intense psychological duel. Over years of facing dangerous terrorists and criminals, I had learned a few things, first and foremost to trust my intuition. It was telling me loud and clear that there was something more at play here than my clients at Hill & Associates had revealed.

I hadn’t wanted a surveillance team or a wire, because they were two things that could potentially screw me up. A mishap of any sort could blow my cover and result in devastating consequences, and even endanger the people I loved. Back home in Melbourne, I had a wife and children, and I carried the weight of that responsibility with me wherever I went.

As Oliver and I crossed the plush carpet, I ran through every scenario, angle and contingency I could think of in my head.

The thing that worried me the most was working with another operator, especially one I didn’t know well. I’d rubbed shoulders with too many tough guy wannabes who saw themselves as 007s and Jason Bournes.

Oliver, the British undercover officer accompanying me, was a very likeable guy. He was with me now because he had set up the operation. A former SAS soldier with a wiry and muscular build, Oliver had seen lots of civilian carnage during an IRA bombing campaign in Belfast. That experience had left him badly shaken. Pain, guilt and uncertainty flickered in his light blue eyes.

This was a risky operation and I was psyched. As an experienced operator, I got a charge out of facing the baddest guys on the planet and overcoming fears. The latter had proved to be a powerful force for growth and self mastery. Paradoxically, stepping outside my comfort zone had strengthened my belief in myself.

I quickly sensed that something was off. Looking around the dining room, I noticed Oliver at my side stiffen and his face turned white.

“What’s up?” I asked him, in a calm, low voice.

“We’re dead!” he whispered back, his voice trembling. “You see the tall Chinese guy sitting at the table with Rosa?”

I quickly followed Oliver’s gaze to a table in the back of the room. Seated there was a towering six foot four inch Chinese man from Mainland China, wearing an expensive pinstriped suit. His cold, soulless eyes gave away that he had murdered many. He clearly wasn’t here to make friends.

I whispered to Oliver, “Yeah, I see him.”

“Well,” Oliver countered nervously. “That Chinese guy is Red Pole Triad. He’s the boss and the chief enforcer. He decides who lives and who dies.”

Beside Red Pole sat Rosa, a short, attractive Cambodian girl with a bob haircut who Oliver had introduced me to earlier. There was more to her than her femme fatale looks and seductive manner. She was also wildly ambitious. A Hong Kong police task force had targeted her because of her connections to major Asian counterfeiting rings across several countries, including North Korea.

With Rosa at the table was a third man, an older Vietnamese gent. At first glance, he looked like a harmless older man. But the energy he held revealed someone different. Past his benign veneer I saw the cynical eyes of a dangerous gangster and sociopath.

“Another six ex Chinese Red Guards are sitting at other tables around the room,” Oliver groaned in a voice that edged into panic. “They’re going to do the killing.”

“How do you know they’re ex Red Guards?” I asked.

“Look at them!” Oliver stammered. “They’re practically sitting at attention. Their eyes never leave their boss. We’re finished!”

I’d heard that members of the Triads didn’t just shoot their enemies. They killed them in colorful and dramatic ways designed to instill terror.

In moments like this I called the names of my loved ones and guardian angels, asking them for their protective love and support. It’s what soldiers had done for centuries before going into battle, asking to be guided and protected by something greater than themselves.

In my case, I tuned into the energy of my great grandfather Shahzad Mir Khan. This wasn’t the first time I had done so. I’d felt my great grandfather’s presence since the age of six. His voice had spoken to me, imparting wisdom and protecting me all my life.

My great grandfather had been an unusual man. At sixteen, he rode on horseback from the mountains of eastern Afghanistan to a British encampment in Ambala, India and told the soldiers there that he wanted to join the British Indian Army. He proceeded to teach himself English, Persian and Arabic, served in major military campaigns in Afghanistan, India and Egypt, and was eventually knighted by Queen Victoria. He was also a famous explorer, leading expeditions into Tibet and China and accompanying Dr. David Livingstone and newspaper reporter Henry Stanley on expeditions into central Africa.

He took notes during his travels which he later turned into a handbook on how to navigate through Africa. Later, he chronicled his life as a soldier and adventurer in his book, A Right Royal Tour of the World, published in 1920. He was also a poet in his native Pashtun language and did psychic readings.

I felt his spirit merge with my own. His reassuring voice resonated deep within me, filling me with confidence, and letting me know that no matter what lay ahead, I’d be protected.

Turning to Oliver, I said, “I got this, Oliver. Let me do the talking.”

I stopped typing and called her.

She was laughing before I had finished. Her father had fed the kookaburras at his home every day of his life. Since his passing, two of them had begun visiting her, and she believed with her whole heart that they were her dad and his brother, her uncle, who had passed only weeks before him. The kookaburras made perfect sense. The magpie did not. She could not place it anywhere.

I told her what I always tell people. Do not try to make the sign fit. Just keep your eyes open.

The next day she walked out to her car and found a magpie sitting on the roof. It did not fly off when she came close. It did not fly off when she opened the door. It stayed, and it looked at her, and it would not leave. A stranger walking past stopped and smiled. “Now that’s a happy bird,” he said.

“It’s my dad,” she told him.

That is how it works. Our people do not shout to us from wherever they are. They lean in close and use whatever is to hand: a bird on a car roof, a song at the traffic lights, a phone that rings the moment the last word is written. They choose the small things because the small things are what we notice when we are hurting, and the message underneath is always the same. I am here. I have not left you. I am happy. I am watching over you.

Martin was a cheeky lad to the end. He still is. Somehow, from wherever he is now, he is still making people smile.