* * *
The driver gunned the engine and set the sirens to full pitch two-tone as he drove down a wide avenue at speed. Five minutes later, Regan saw the bleak, grey walls topped with razor wire, and dotted with watchtowers. A large double gate opened to permit the van to enter a compound. The rear doors of the police van opened. A cop escorted Regan and Fon at gunpoint to a large building with barred windows; later they discovered this was a holding pen for prisoners awaiting charge and court appearances.
Fon whispered again, “Monkey house. We call prison the monkey house.” Cops ushered them inside, ordered them to stand in front of a large wooden desk.
A uniformed policeman stood behind the desk barking orders and asking questions. “You,” he said pointing at Regan. “You kill girl with knife.”
“Not me. No.”
“You,” pointing at Fon this time. “Him boyfriend?”
“Yes.”
“You help him kill girl?”
Fon swore in Thai. Regan had no idea what she said, but he knew she was angry. Fon, acting as interpreter, told Regan to place his belongings on the desk. He removed his keys, wallet and money clip, and beloved Aviators and put them on the desk, relieved to observe everything was logged in a large loose-leaf book. Then, the noises struck him. He turned around and saw two large holding cages, one for men and one for women.
Both men and women hung out through the bars gesticulating wildly, screeching and screaming gibberish. “You’re right. It is a fucking monkey house.”
Another familiar voice rose above the cacophony. It was Watkins. He had thrown Regan’s passport on the table and added, “Not that you’ll be needing that for the next thirty years or so.”
Regan moved towards him and shouted, “You won’t get away with this.”
Watkins sidled up to Regan to murmur in his ear, “This is Thailand, my friend. One hundred thousand baht buys you anything here.”
Regan drew back his fist but before he could punch Watkins, he received a heavy blow to the back of the head. One of the cops had pistol-whipped him. Fon pushed the cop away. Regan and Fon were pushed and locked in the large holding cells. Regan with the men and boys, one of whom appearing no older than ten, and the transgenders - the ladyboys. No matter how vivacious or feminine the ladyboy, they all had ‘male’ on a birth certificate. Thailand treated them as men. Regan looked about the small cell. He saw eight other occupants including the boy and the ladyboys.
The floor was filthy. Cockroaches ran everywhere. There was one container full of a foul-smelling liquid. It was where the inmates were expected to urinate and defecate. In the other corner was another container with a scoop. Regan guessed correctly. It contained brackish drinking water. A bowl full of what appeared to be rice encrusted with a blue mould lay on the floor in the middle of the cell.
Another dilemma, thought Regan. How the fuck do I get out of this hell hole?
Fon walked up to the bars separating the male and female cages. They spoke through the gap in the bars, a gap of six inches. “Wait until dark,” she said.
“What?”
“You heard me,” said Fon.
“Why?”
“I have something to get us out of here.”
“Such as?” Regan asked.
“Wait and see. Sleep there where you are now.”
“If I can in this dump.”
“Pretend then,” Fon said.
“Okay, but this better be good.”
“It is.” Fon smiled that special smile.
Regan felt reassured. “Did you mean that?” Regan asked.
“What?”
“Me being your boyfriend?”
Fon gave that mischievous smile and said, “You don’t want?”
Regan smiled back, looked right into her eyes and said, “I want.”
The hours dragged. There was a high window on the outside wall, again barred. The sunlight peeked through, but now was starting to fade. Darkness arrived but a small single bulb lit the room with a weak glow. It was feeding time at the ‘zoo.’ Several bowls of rice covered in a grey-brown liquid were pushed under the heavy barred gate. Inmates rushed to grab them. Some grabbed more than one and some fought to seize more or defend what they had. It was bedlam. Regan wasn’t hungry.
Feeding time over, the inmates chose a spot to settle down on the bare stone floor. Regan lay down next to the bars with Fon within reaching distance. He wanted to reach out and touch her but dare not. Stay still, feign sleep and wait, he thought. Much to his surprise, Regan found out he had nodded off. He was stirred by the touch of Fon’s hand on his arm. He could make out her face in the low light of the single bulb and saw her holding her finger to her mouth in a shushing gesture.
His eyes widened when he saw Fon reach down under her dress. She grimaced as she groped for what she sought. Regan looked closer. He saw her hand inside her dress, inside her panties. Now her hand disappeared for a second. Fon had retrieved it. She handed the object to Regan. It was warm and wet to his touch. It was a clear plastic bag, but he could see the red colour and shape of its contents, his Swiss Army knife.
“I thought I had left that in Phuket,” Regan murmured softly at the same time looking over to check if any guards were watching. They weren’t and seemed to be asleep themselves. Regan felt buoyant.
“Anything else of mine up there?” He smiled cheekily.
“Not yet,” Fon whispered.
They forced themselves to stifle laughter. I love this woman, thought Regan. I love this man, thought Fon.
8
Escape
Regan knew he must escape with Fon. But how?
Stay calm, he thought. In fact, it was the only way he operated. The opportunity would arise, and he would recognise it and seize the moment. It has to be the knife. What else? It’s the only weapon I have.
Regan slid over the floor to get nearer to the cell door. He curled up into a foetal position and wailed, holding his stomach. No one stirred outside the cell. Inside, everyone was woken up. It became chaos. The rest of the inmates yelled at him. He yelled back and wailed as loud as he could. He frightened himself with the din coming up from his chest.
There were two policemen on guard. One behind the large desk and one on a chair in front of the desk. The latter rose, rubbing his eyes, drew his pistol and unlocked the male cell door. He kicked Regan in the ribs but as he did so Regan, the knife at the ready, stabbed the cop in his fleshy calf. At the same time, Regan pulled and twisted the cop’s leg. The cop toppled to the ground. Before any inmates could react, Regan stabbed the cop in the hand. The gun was now freed. Regan grabbed the gun.
Fon now spoke, telling the cop to do as he was told. The cop nodded in agreement.
Regan thought, Good. No heroics from this guy. “Wait, Fon, let me get my stuff back first. We will need some money and my car keys. Right, tell this guy to open the locker with my stuff in it and tell him no funny stuff or I’ll stab him or shoot him. Either way, he will be dead.”
Fon interpreted. The cop went behind the desk, unlocked a property locker, and stepped back. He was shaking. Regan got his belongings and pocketed them.
“Fon, tell this other guy to place his gun nice and slow on top of the desk.” After Fon spoke, the officer complied.
“Good. Now tell him to give me the key for your cell. Then handcuff himself to the other cop.” The cop obeyed. He detected the determination in Regan’s eyes.
Regan opened the cell gate to allow Fon to walk out. She embraced him. Regan said, “Later. Let’s get out of here first.”
The door to the courtyard was unlocked. Regan stepped outside. He spotted the parked police van and one policeman guarding the gate which led to the outside world. He beckoned silently for Fon to join him and took her hand in his. The other inmates - male, female, adults, kids, transgenders, sane and insane - followed her in to the courtyard. They whooped and yelled. The guard at the door looked at the source of the commotion and raised his gun towards the crowd. Rega
n fired one shot into the air. The guard cowered. Regan ran fast towards the guard. The inmates ran amok.
He pressed the barrel of the gun against the guard’s temple. “Open the fucking gate. Now!”
No interpretation was necessary. He opened the gate. Regan, Fon and all the other inmates fled in to the wide avenue outside the police prison. “Let’s get clear of this lot first. We will grab a taxi,” Regan said.
Fon asked, “How do we make crazy people go?”
“Watch,” Regan smiled.
He dipped into his wallet and was relieved to find his money still in place. He clutched about half of the notes and threw them into the air. A strong breeze scattered them away from Regan and Fon. The inmates fled, shrieking, chasing the money down the street but away from Regan and Fon.
“Job done!” Regan said as he kissed Fon full on the mouth.
Regan had never felt happier for years. He had avoided blowing his cover. He was with a beautiful woman. She had helped him escape. Fon was funny, practical, caring, and pretty damn good in bed. Long may it last, thought Regan.
“Taxi!” Regan yelled and waved his arms like a whirling dervish.
The yellow cab stopped. The driver gazed at Regan but noticed Fon, smiled and opened the doors. It was three in the morning.
“Ask him to drive us to the hotel we stayed at. We’ll go get the Toyota.”
Once again, Fon interpreted. Five minutes later, the taxi doors opened to let Regan and Fon out. A short walk and they were at the place where Regan had parked the pickup truck.
“Okay, let’s get back to Phuket.”
* * *
The traffic was light in the Bangkok early hours. Regan kept a close eye on his mirrors, checking for unwanted followers. Satisfied he was safe, he made for the British Embassy. Once inside, he relayed the full story to a security services aide, Tony Broster, the only person outside of DOCS aware of Regan’s mission.
Fon remained outside the room until Regan came out. She had used the interlude to wash and change into what seemed to be a nurse’s uniform. It was hanging on a peg inside the washrooms. It was a pastel green skirt with a matching blouse.
The great thing about two professionals; it didn’t take long for Regan to tell the whole story and receive a rapid response.
Broster simply and accurately regurgitated the story from start to finish and said, “We’ll go in now. Eliminate Watkins and seize the contraband as well as freeing those poor girls.”
Regan asked, “Who are you going to use?”
“Don’t worry yourself about that. We have a surprise team arrive in BKK yesterday. They can’t wait to see some action. Ex SAS and a few SBS bods.”
“Sounds cool! Tell them to save a bullet for the fat police chief.”
The two men shook hands as they left Broster’s office.
Regan looked at Fon’s cleaned-up appearance and the change of clothing. “Wow! Sexy nurse,” he said, “where’re the washrooms? I’ll clean myself up before we get going. Look at this blood,” pointing to the dried blood on his hands. “I’ll change my shirt when we get back to the car.”
* * *
“What the fuck do you mean? Escaped?” Carlo Vitale shook Watkins by the shoulders.
“He jumped the guards, took their guns, escaped with all the other prisoners. That’s right, Chai, isn’t it?” Watkins said to the overweight chief policeman looking for an ally.
“Correct. The man is crazy man. Bar lady help him.”
“Tell your fat friend, Chai, to get rid of the girls, drugs and the guns. Hide them, pronto before we all get busted,” Vitale ordered.
“No one but Irish knows about them and the girl, not the dead one. She told Irish’s Mama-san about it. That’s why I shut her up,” Watkins said.
Vitale pulled out a 9 mm pistol from his shoulder holster. He slammed it on the table. “You aren’t freakin’ listening to me. Irish knows. His girl, Mama-san or not, knows. They could have told anybody by now, you stupid cunt. And who is this Irish? I told you to check if he’s legit and you even fuck up that simple task.”
“I know who he is. I’ve been to his bar in Phuket. We checked his passport. It’s kosher.”
“We had better go and visit him again then. This is a total SNAFU. I got a ship ready to sail, spooks waiting in Langley for guns to sell to some freakin’ commies. A Brit called Irish or Ryan, and his floozy, who know too much. Now get the fat fuck cop off his fanny and shift the product. If the girls make any noise, shoot them and feed them to the fishes. Capiche?”
“Okay, okay. I’ll drive. Chai, stay here and hide all the evidence,” Watkins said to the police chief. “Do it good and kill the girls if they as much make a whimper. Arun, Dorn, come with me. We are going to Phuket.”
Arun was the tall Thai who accompanied Watkins on the last trip to Phuket. He smiled and said, “Good. I owe him.”
* * *
Watkins, Vitale, Arun, and Dorn set off on the long drive to Phuket. There was no rush. They knew where to find Irish. As they headed out west on the Sukhumvit Road near Khao Din Market, Watkins slowed down to watch six men alight from a van. They were obviously farang because of their height and build. They were all athletic looking and each wore black balaclavas hiding their faces. Watkins slowed more.
Vitale said, “Who the fuck are they? They all have automatic machine guns.”
Watkins said, “NATO issue. They are Brits.”
“How the fuck do you know that?”
“I wasn’t in the USAF for twenty years and learned nothing. We used to do joint ops with the Brits.”
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! They must know already. This means the Phuket guy - Irish you call him - is an undercover cop. Step on the gas. I’m going to kill the son of a bitch before the CIA send someone to kill me.”
“Okay, okay. We’ll get there. Then we get rid of him and the Thai whore he’s with.”
“The more I think of it, the more I’m sure this freakin’ Irish is Regan, the Brit I should have drowned in the pool back in Miami. You got one thing right, though.”
“What’s that, Carlo?”
“He may be Irish. He has the luck of the Irish. I was about to cap him in Boston when this cop pulls up and yells at Regan to move his freakin’ car. Can you believe that? What’s he calling himself now?”
“Ryan, Steve Ryan. I call him Irish. I mean Ryan is an Irish name, right?”
“So is Regan.”
* * *
The bolt cutters sliced through the padlock like a knife through hot butter. The steel roller shutter was pushed up. Six men wearing balaclavas entered the American Steak House but they weren’t customers. They also wore NVD’s, night vision goggles. The lead member of the team kicked open a door leading to a back room. The room was in darkness. In green monochrome, the point man saw the fat police chief seated at a table opposite the door pointing his pistol at him. Thwack! The silenced Sterling SMG spat only once.
There was now a small hole in the middle of the police chief’s forehead and a trickle of blood. His brains were smeared across the wall behind him. Two other Thais in the room immediately surrendered by throwing down their weapons and putting their hands high in the air.
The point man spoke, “Interpreter, here now!”
A man in Thai Special Forces uniform stepped forward. “Yes, captain?”
“No ranks. My name is John Barnard. Call me John. This is Red.”
“But you SAS?”
“No. We are from DOCS. A UK multi-agency outfit. Stands for Destroy Organised Crime Syndicates. It was easier for our Embassy to tell your bosses we are SAS. Right, ask these two scumbags where the Brit is, Ryan.”
The Thai interpreted and waited for an answer. “He say the Brit and his lady escape jail. He has no idea where they are now.”
“Ask them where Watkins is?”
“He gone with fat American to Phuket,” came the interpreted reply.
“Okay. Handcuff these guys first then check the yard at the back.
”
The yard was in reality an open space at the back of the steak house. The raiders saw two shipping containers. Red released the metal sliding handles of one then spoke, “It stinks in here.”
Six Thai girls, some dressed, others naked, stumbled out of the unlocked container. One screamed. Another sobbed. A quick search of the second container revealed several crates of Russian made weapons and ammo. Other crates secreted bales of heroin.
John Barnard, the man in charge of the raiding party said, “Right. Get the girls into the van. Give them water and find some clothes or blankets if needs be.”
The Thai soldier asked, “What do we do about the container?”
“Good question. We can’t leave those guns and drugs here. What about the police?”
The soldier smiled and said, “Police sell them if they have. Better they no have.” He smiled again and spoke in Thai into his two-way radio.
“What was all that about?” Barnard asked.
“Wait. See.”
Five minutes later, they heard the clatter of a chopper. It was loud. They looked skywards as it hovered overhead.
“Wow! I had no idea you had Chinooks.”
“We have long time. We buy three ex-US Army CH-47 in 1971. King very proud. Royal Thai Army very proud. You know why?”
“No, but I get the feeling you’re going to tell me.” The humour was wasted.
In deadpan fashion, the Thai soldier said, “It was the first U.S. military export of the Chinook.”
Equally deadpan, Barnard’s reply was, “You don’t say.”
“I did say,” said the Thai Special Forces man.
“Forget it. Crossed wires in translation. The point is what are you going to do now? It’s clattering like hell and waking the dead.”
“Police chief wake up?”
“Figure of speech.”
“What?” The soldier interpreter said.
“Oh, fuck it. What we going to do now?” Barnard was exasperated.
“Wait. See.”
Dilemma Page 5