The Next Best Thing

by Wiley Brooks

  Another wall offered photos of Bob from his Vietnam days. One had been taken by a news photographer who was embedded with the unit at Cu Chi. It shows Bob, his leg bloody from the gunshot wound, carrying a grimacing soldier away from a burning helicopter. Fitz was surprised Jonathan hadn’t included that photo. It had to be the incident that earned Bob the Bronze Star with V device.

  The credenza behind his desk offered a half dozen photos, all family. There was a wedding photo of he and Juliet. Bob's in his semi-formal Class A uniform. There also was a picture of Bob, Juliet and a young Amanda in Paris with the Eiffel Tower looming behind them. There were two other photos of Amanda. In one, she's in her cap and gown at her graduation from Brown. The other showed her standing at the Delta ticket counter at Tampa International with her pack on her back. It was probably the last picture Bob had taken of her.

  “Welcome to Tampa, Mr. Fox.”

  “Please call me Fitz. Everyone does.”

  “Okay, Fitz. I’ve been curious as hell since Eileen said you asked that I clear my calendar for the rest of the day. What’s up?” Bob said with a bit of a smile.

  Fitz looked at him solemnly for a moment. Bob knew instantly. His face drooped and he appeared to stop breathing.

  “Oh no. It’s Amanda. Is she okay?”

  Fitz had tears in his eyes as he looked at Bob.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Oh God no. No. Please no.”

  He fell back into his chair and sobbed uncontrollably. Fitz remained seated across from him, knowing that there was nothing he could say or do right then to help.

  After several minutes, Bob got some control of his anguish. His breaths, though, were still coming in gasps. Finally, he looked back to Fitz, said nothing for a bit, then stood and walked around the room. He sat in a formal seating area in the center of his office. Fitz rose and took a seat opposite him.

  “Mr. Anderson, I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am. We found out yesterday at State. When we learned she was your daughter, we notified the president. He asked that I tell you that he and Nancy are holding you in their prayers.”

  “Was it some kind of accident?”

  “No.”

  Bob was again silent for a bit.

  “Not an accident? I don’t understand. She was healthy. She called me just a few nights ago. She was someplace called Melaka.”

  “I’m going to be direct with you, Mr. Anderson.” He took a breath. “Amanda was murdered.”

  “Oh Christ!” He began crying again. “My poor baby,” he cried out through sobs. “God. Oh God.”

  Fitz let him sit with that piece of information before speaking again.

  “Tell me, Fitz, what happened. And don’t spare my feelings. I need to hear it all.”

  “It’s not good, Mr. Anderson.”

  “Please stop calling me that. I’m Bob. Just Bob, okay? Now tell me!”

  Fitz removed the police report – without the photos – from his briefcase then spent several minutes telling him what the report said. He didn’t tell Bob that she was naked and appeared to have just had sex. If asked directly, he would be honest, but saw no reason to add to Bob’s pain.

  “It sounds like the police have leads. This guy she left the restaurant with. How long before they’ll track him down? Do they think he’s from, what’s the name of the town?”

  “Mersing. It's a fishing village that backpackers stop at to take a boat to Tioman Island.

  "Bob," Fitz continued, "my guess is that they’ll never find him. It’s Malaysia, not America. The local police don't really deal with major crimes. They don’t have the training or the resources. Neither does what passes for the national police. They focus on threats to the government. The murder of a foreign backpacker probably won’t even be followed up on.”

  Bob stared at Fitz. It was easy to see the anger building, not just in his face, but his whole body.

  “You’re fucking kidding me, right,” Bob seethed. “Some scumbag murders an American girl and no one will even try to find him?”

  “I’m not going to lie to you, Bob. The odds of the authorities catching the guy who did this are between slim and none. I know you don’t want to hear that, but it is what it is.”

  “How about you guys in State. Can’t you do something?”

  “We’ll ask, of course. Maybe the president could write a personal note to Prime Minister Mohamad. Don't count on that making a difference, though. There isn’t a lot of goodwill between the US and Malaysia right now.”

  “There has to be some way to find this guy. There are people who know what he looks like. How about a Malaysian private detective? I can afford pretty much anything.”

  “A Malaysian detective would probably be a waste of money. I’m sure there are good ones, but I don’t think that’s the way to go.”

  “So, what is?”

  Fitz stood and walked to the window wall. He stared out as he thought through something.

  “There is a guy that I know in Bangkok who might help, but he comes with baggage.”

  “I don’t care about his fucking baggage. I don’t care what it takes. The cocksucker who did this to my girl is going to die. I fucking mean it.”

  Fitz nodded solemnly. Bob’s rage was front and center. He needed to acknowledge it. After a few moments, he told Bob about Mason Ray. He first met Mason in 1972 when both were stationed at Vientiane, the capital of Laos. Fitz was pure State Department. Mason was a covert operative for the CIA.

  “He was really good,” Fitz said. “Then something awful happened.”

  Fitz said that a bomb blast at Mason’s home killed his fiancé, a beautiful young woman who also worked at the embassy. The North Vietnamese wanted to eliminate Mason for the trouble he was causing them along the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Not knowing that he had been called away unexpectedly, they blew up his house thinking he was in it. Sylvie, his fiancé, died instantly.

  “Mason was never the same after that,” Fitz continued, “but it was more than just not being the same. He had always enjoyed a drink, but he started enjoying them too much. He was probably a functioning alcoholic.”

  Fitz told Bob that what no one at the embassy knew after Sylvie’s death was that Mason was plotting revenge.

  “It was 1974,” Fitz said. “The war, at least as far as the CIA was concerned, was still raging and Mason continued to do a kick-ass job disrupting NVA use of the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Nobody had a clue what he was doing on the side.”

  Mason had worked with Hmong fighters around the country, Fitz continued. He even learned to speak the language.

  “Those CIA guys, you know, are pretty autonomous,” Fitz said. “He put together a special team on the agency’s dime. Their job was to find out exactly who ordered the hit.”

  Fitz said it didn’t take long for his guys to learn that General Tho Van Tho himself had ordered the hit. General Tho was the North Vietnamese Army general responsible for the Ho Chi Minh Trail in Laos. Mason was making him look bad. Really bad. Like his father, the infamous General Tho Nguyen Giap, Tho was a small man. Unlike his father, a brilliant military strategist, Tho was known for his brash, impulsive nature.

  General Tho ran the Laos operations from the safety of Sam Neua. The city sits in the far northeast corner of the country. It's a short distance from the border with North Vietnam. The Pathet Lao controlled the surrounding countryside. Much like the Viet Cong in South Vietnam, the Pathet Lao had one goal. Both sought to overthrow the governments in their country so they could install communists.

  Mason’s team sneaked into Sam Neua and shadowed General Tho for weeks. They cataloged everything they could see him doing. A few patterns emerged after several weeks. One member of the team returned to Vientiane. He detailed three opportunities each week to kill the general.

  At about eight o’clock every Saturday evening, General Tho walked with his family two blocks from his home to a restaurant for dinner. It would be easy to drive by on a motor scooter and shoot him at close r
ange.

  He also visited a tea market between five and six every Wednesday afternoon. The team had found a good sniper’s roost about three-hundred yards away that had a clear view of the entrance to the market.

  Finally, the general took his mistress to lunch every Tuesday. They sat at the same seats at the same table in the same restaurant each time. General Tho sat with his back to the wall and could watch people pass by the café. A bomb planted near him would certainly kill him and the two guards who were always close by.

  The first two options were straight from the CIA playbook for assassinations. Mason chose option three. It was justice, Mason felt, to take him out with a bomb.

  Mason returned to Sam Neua with his Hmong teammate. He wore a disguise that enabled him to not call attention to himself and his Hmong colleague did all the talking, when it was needed. Mid-afternoon Monday, he sat in a sidewalk café across the street from the general’s Tuesday lunch spot. He watched as three members of his team entered the restaurant and sat at what would be the general’s table the next day.

  For the next hour, they dined on spring rolls and fried rice, washing it all down with modest amounts of beer. They also carefully and surreptitiously packed the underside of the table with C-4 explosives and a remote detonator.

  Tuesday came. Mason again took a table at the café across the busy street and waited. He had a straight line of sight to the general’s table. Right on time, the general and his mistress arrived and were seated at their usual table. Mason’s pulse quickened as he stood and waited until he made brief eye contact with the general. It took a moment, but the sudden recognition on the general’s face was what Mason needed to see. He then smiled and detonated the explosives.

  The general and his mistress died instantly. So did fifty-four others. In the chaos and confusion, Mason and his accomplice were able to simply walk away. Once back to Vientiane, he reported his unsanctioned assassination to the Chief of Station. While the fact that he had taken out a high value target was commendable, to do so in such a rogue manner and with so much loss of civilian lives was not.

  The Agency reassigned Mason to a desk job in Udon Thani. That was a huge air base in northeast Thailand where intelligence for Southeast Asia was analyzed and shared. That was his job for the next two years.

  Meanwhile in Washington, DC, the CIA was coming under scrutiny for its tactics. Newly elected President Jimmy Carter was signaling that he opposed extreme measures. Langley asked its stations around the world to report any knowledge of its people doing things that Carter would clearly object to.

  Udon Thani sent Langley a report on the bloody off-book Sam Neua assassination. Langley's response was quick. They dispatched Mason to the embassy in Bangkok.

  Upon arrival, the Bangkok Chief of Station told Mason he understood that Mason did what he felt he had to do. “The motherfucker got what he deserved,” the COS told him. But, he continued, the heat was getting too intense on the Agency and Mason was now a potential liability. He had to go.

  The Agency wasn’t abandoning him, though. They were going to make it as easy for him as they could. Off-book, of course.

  The Bangkok COS told Mason it wasn’t a good idea for Mason to return to the States until things calmed down a bit. To help him, he had arranged with an American businessman in the region to retain Mason. Private security. Industrial stuff. Maybe even some covert work for friendly nations.

  “That was twelve years ago,” Fitz told Bob. “Mason still hasn’t been back to the States, as far as I know. He’s now a security ‘consultant.’” He made quote marks in the air when he said consultant. “I haven’t seen him in years, but Southeast Asia is my responsibility so I’ve kept tabs on him. Some. I don’t know if he’s still a big drinker, but I do know that I haven’t heard any complaints. He definitely gets shit done.”

  “Connect me to him,” Bob said.

  Fitz used the phone on Bob’s desk to call Jonathan. He told his aide to go to the Rolodex on his desk and get the info for Mason Ray in Bangkok. He held while Jonathan got the info off the card, then the young man read it to him. He wrote it down and handed it to Bob.

  “We need to talk about what to do with Amanda’s remains,” Fitz said. “Right now they are being held at the embassy in Kuala Lumpur. I recommend, unless you have a religious objection, to have her cremated there. You can then have the embassy oversee sending her home. I know that money isn’t an issue for you, but it really is best.”

  “I need to go to Malaysia myself and see her before anything like that happens,” Bob said. “I’ll fly out tomorrow.”

  “Bob, it’s pretty gruesome. You sure you need to do that?”

  “Absolutely. She’s my little girl.” Tears again rolled down his cheeks.

  “I’ll let the embassy know. We have a good man there, John Monjo. I know him well. He used to have my job.”

  “Thank you, Fitz, for your help. I should call Mason Ray to see if he’ll take the job.”

  “Don’t call him right now. We’re eleven hours behind Bangkok. It’s about two in the morning there. I’d call him at ten or eleven o’clock tonight your time. That’ll give my assistant Jonathan a chance to send Mason the file so your call won’t be completely out of the blue. And if you’re doing this, you should fly through Bangkok and get him to meet you at the airport.”

  “I’ll do that. And listen, if he can’t help. I’d like to talk with you again about who else I can try.”

  “Actually, Mason would be a better person to ask than me. But I think he might do it, especially if you pay him enough.”

  “What will he cost?”

  “No idea. He’ll tell you, I’m sure. I don’t think he’s the kind of guy who will take advantage of you. I always liked Mason. I think you’ll be fine with him.”

  Day 6

  It was just past midnight in Tampa when Mason returned Bob’s call.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Mason said with a softness that hinted at his Georgia upbringing. He had worked for years to un-Georgia-fy the way he spoke, but his roots still seeped in at times, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. “I know what it’s like to lose someone to violence. It’s plumb awful.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ray. I haven’t come to grips with it yet. I’m sure it’ll take a long time.”

  “Please sir, call me Mason. Just sayin’, comin’ to grips is somethin’ that never really happens. Havin’ said that, you do learn to get through each day.”

  “I appreciate that, Mason. So, tell me how much do you know?”

  “I had a fax waitin’ for me this mornin’ from an old bud, Fitz Fox at State. Fitz said he met with you yesterday about your daughter. The police report was part of the fax. Gruesome. Fitz also said there had been another young woman who was murdered earlier this year. He didn’t know yet if the two were connected. He said he was going to get right on it.”

  “Another girl? Damn. Listen, Fitz told me that there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that the Malaysian police will find the guy.”

  “Right as a rain, sir. Not a chance.”

  “So, what do I need to do to hire you? I want to track down the sonofabitch who did it and see that he gets what’s coming to him. Money is no object. Whatever it takes. As long as it takes. I want that fucker to pay.”

  There was an awkward silence on the phone. Then Mason spoke again.

  “You don’t know, sir, how much I get how you feel. Fitz was right to send you to me. I will do everythin’ I can to root out the asshole who took your sweet darlin’ from you. When I find him – and I swear to God, if he can be found I will find him – when I do then we can figure out what to do with him. Agreed?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  Bob told Mason that at Fitz’ suggestion, he booked flights through Bangkok and on to Kuala Lumpur. His flight would arrive in Bangkok at about nine at night, too late for a connection. His flight on to KL would depart at eight the next morning, so he had reserved a room in the onsite airport hotel.


  “There’s a right nice bar in the hotel atrium,” Mason said. “Why don’t we meet up there at, say, half-past-ten? That will give you time to get into your room and get yourself cleaned up a bit, if you want. It’s a long-ass flight. I’ll wait at the bar till you get there, then we can move to a more private spot.”

  “Okay. One more thing.” Bob paused briefly. “Should I bring you cash?”

  “Why don’t you bring, say, four thousand dollars. I’ll give you the details when I see you for wirin’ money to me down the road.”

  “Okay. See you tomorrow night then.”

  “Yep. Tomorrow night.”

  Bob hung up, walked to the safe in his bedroom, opened it and removed his passport and a stack of hundred-dollar bills. After the four thousand dollars for Mason, he would have six thousand left for his needs. It would be more than enough. He climbed into bed, hoping he could sleep at least a little. His plane to London, the first stop on his twenty-three-hour flight to Bangkok, would leave at ten in the morning.

  Big Willie knocked on Joey’s second-floor apartment door. Joey’s place was in a newer two-story, six-unit building nestled among trees a couple blocks back from the beach. It wasn’t fancy, by US standards, but it was a nice place from a local perspective. It was well maintained and for Malaysians it was the kind of place normally occupied by the professional class. One thing was for sure, it was far better than the shithole that Joey had lived in when Big Willie first met him.

  Joey answered the door with a broad smile.

  “Hey! Come on in.”

  Big Willie removed his shoes and stepped in. The cool air from the window air-conditioner greeted him. The apartment was much as he remembered it.

  It was modest in size with just three rooms. The main room that visitors entered stretched from the front of the apartment to the far wall. The front area was the living room, followed by the dining area and then the kitchen with a wrap-around counter.

  The living room focused on a big TV sitting atop a sizeable TV stand that also housed Joey’s VCR and sound system. Next to the television was a bookcase that held hundreds of videotapes – movies and TV shows – on the upper shelves, and albums and plastic cases filled with cassette tapes on the lower one.