Emerald Buddha (Drake Ramsey Book 2)

by Russell Blake

  Allie and Drake demurred. “No, thanks.”

  Margaret nodded and took two healthy swallows. “I’m not a drinker, but…well, I can’t sleep, can’t eat. All I can think about is Christine…” She choked up again and finished the glass. When she turned to them, her eyes were brimming with tears. “Thank you so much for doing this. I just need to know for sure…”

  “I understand. We won’t let you down.”

  Uncle Pete caught their signals from his silent position by the door and gave a small nod. Allie and Drake rose. Margaret tried to smile, but the effect was brittle and her gaze unfocused.

  “We’ll show ourselves out,” Allie said.

  “Thank you again for coming. I…I just wanted to meet you and offer my appreciation. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, just say the word. Or if you need something here – money, whatever. You know where I am. I’ll move mountains to get what you need.”

  “We appreciate it, Mrs.… Ms. Blakely. And we’ll keep that in mind,” Drake said.

  The elevator ride back to the ground level was somber. The reality of the emotional toll of Christine’s disappearance had drained them. Uncle Pete was the only one who seemed unaffected, and when they were back in traffic, his attitude was as though nothing had happened.

  “You want sightsee? Got time. Permit coming end day, soonest.”

  “No, thanks. Back to the hotel, I think,” Drake said.

  Uncle Pete gave Allie a sly look. “Maybe ping-pong show?”

  “Like a match?” Allie asked, her mind elsewhere.

  Uncle Pete cackled. “You look on web. Big deal here. Popular.”

  Allie gave him a puzzled look, not registering his meaning.

  “I don’t think we want to know,” Drake said, processing faster than Allie and cutting Uncle Pete off before he could venture further down that road.

  Allie’s eyes widened and her mouth formed an O as realization of what the little Thai was alluding to dawned on her.

  Drake shook his head and met Allie’s horrified stare. “Some things are best left for the documentary.”

  Chapter 13

  Alex and Spencer walked along the sidewalk in downtown Bangkok. Heat rose in waves around them; the air was muggy and tinged with the aroma of fried food, cigarettes, and exhaust. Pools of oily water glistened in potholes, the remnants of a morning cloudburst that had dropped a few inches of rain on the metropolis just after dawn. Street vendors hawked every manner of ware, from leather wallets and consumer electronics to illicit substances and sex shows where animals or children featured a prominent role.

  They ignored all the come-ons and made their way toward the Chinese cemetery, past ornate temples layered in gold leaf and bright hues and into a residential district where every other building boasted a sign in neon red or green proclaiming the lowest prices in all Bangkok.

  When Alex told Spencer the agency had secured weapons for them, Spencer had insisted on accompanying him to inspect them.

  “You don’t have to. I can handle it,” Alex had said.

  “No problem. If my life’s going to depend on gear, I’d rather see it with my own eyes before we buy off.”

  “Suit yourself. But is it really a good idea to give civilians submachine guns? That’s an accident waiting to happen.”

  “They know their way around weapons. They’ll be fine after some basic orientation.”

  “If they shoot their foot off, it’s on you.”

  “Appreciate the concern.”

  Spencer had let Alex’s condescending tone go. He could see the agent’s point. If the situation had been reversed, Spencer would have voiced the same concerns, and he didn’t take it personally. Both were professionals, and neither was trying to make a new best friend. They had jobs to do, and might need each other to survive once in the jungle.

  As they passed a restaurant filled with local diners, a comely young woman in a short red silk dress offered them a menu with a bright smile. Alex shook his head and Spencer noted his permanent scowl was back on display – like he’d just swallowed a shot of vinegar.

  Three blocks down, Alex checked his smartphone and verified the address.

  “It’s that orange place,” he said. They crossed the street and approached the building, which housed apartments above an antique store.

  They entered the shop, and a wizened man with gray hair and steel spectacles peered up at them from his chair, which was surrounded by curios and furniture.

  “Anurak?” Alex asked.

  “Yes. How may I help you?” Anurak replied in good English.

  “I’m looking for a baby carriage.”

  “We have several.”

  “Something in blue.”

  The old man’s demeanor changed, and he pushed wordlessly past them to the entrance. He flipped the sign over so it read “Closed” through the glass door, and locked the deadbolt. When he returned, he was all business.

  “In my warehouse,” he said, and led them through a glass-beaded curtain to the rear of the building.

  A dark green duffle bag rested on a wooden crate near a water dispenser. Chests, armoires, and tables filled the large space. At the far end a refinishing and sanding area sat empty, cans of stain and varnish strewn around the floor. Anurak unzipped the bag and removed a submachine gun. He handed it to Alex, who disassembled it with practiced familiarity and inspected the parts. Anurak watched with an impassive expression and then extracted another identical weapon and gave it to Spencer, who eyed it approvingly.

  “Heckler & Koch MP5SD6. Very nice. Three-round burst mode, integrated suppressor, chambered for 9mm parabellum. Thirty-round box mag. Simple, easy to use, light, compact,” Spencer said.

  “No match for an AK,” Alex observed.

  “In the jungle? How close are we going to be? Fifty yards? Tops? Although I agree, which is why I requested a pair of AKMs for us. Bulkier, but a lot more stopping power and range.” Spencer fieldstripped the ugly little gun with sure hands. “Didn’t see any reason to saddle them with any more than they’ll need.”

  “I have four Beretta 9mm pistols as well,” Anurak said.

  “Where did you get the H&Ks?” Alex asked.

  “Pakistan. They manufacture them under license there. These, as you can see, are new. Only test fired to verify they’re in good working order.”

  “And the AKs?”

  “Chinese. Quite good, I think you’ll agree. Accurate to at least three hundred meters.” Anurak peered over his spectacles at Spencer. “Depending on the shooter, perhaps farther.”

  Twenty minutes later they were done with their inspection and had accepted the arms. Each pistol came with three full magazines and belt holsters, and the MP5s and AKMs with six full magazines each. They exited the shop, with Alex carrying the heavy bag, and retraced their steps toward the hotel. Spencer glanced at Alex as they made their way down the blistering sidewalk and noted the sweat beading on his forehead.

  “I can take it for a while. We can trade off,” Spencer suggested, and Alex nodded and handed him the duffle.

  “We’ll swap every couple of blocks.”

  “You want to grab a taxi? Or a tuk-tuk?” Spencer asked after another block, the swelter almost overwhelming with the heavy load, referring to the motorcycle-based tricycles that carried a pair of passengers in addition to the driver, ubiquitously used in Thailand for cheap transportation.

  “Might as well.”

  The sound of a powerful motor roared behind them. They spun just in time to see the grill of a dark sedan bearing down on them, two of its wheels up on the sidewalk. Spencer threw himself out of the way; Alex was right behind him, but a split second too late. The car slammed into his legs, throwing him into the air like a rag doll as the vehicle accelerated and sped away.

  Alex struck the ground with a sickening thwack, and Spencer could see in an instant that at least one of his legs was broken, and likely his pelvis as well. Spencer glared at the departing sedan, its license plate unreadabl
e due to muck smeared across it, and then forced himself to his feet and ran to where Alex lay in the street.

  “Can you talk?” Spencer asked, kneeling beside him.

  Alex fought for breath. The pain had to be blinding, Spencer knew, and he recognized the signs of shock in Alex’s pallid complexion. He stood and looked around and saw a woman on her cell phone, frozen in place.

  “You. You speak English?” Spencer called out.

  The woman nodded. “Little.”

  “Call the police and an ambulance. My friend’s hurt. Please.”

  “All right,” she said, and terminated her conversation and dialed emergency. After thirty second she hung up. “They coming.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Crazy man in car.”

  “Yes,” Spencer said, suddenly remembering that he had a bag full of guns and ammo. Perhaps the police wouldn’t be that understanding of his presence under those circumstances. He knelt beside Alex again and whispered to him, “Nod if you understand.”

  Alex managed a weak nod.

  “Help’s coming. You carrying anything that would give your cover away?”

  A small shake of Alex’s head, almost imperceptible.

  “Okay. I’m going to get out of here. Hang tough.”

  Alex nodded again and Spencer stood, the wail of an approaching emergency vehicle all the warning he needed. He turned and, without saying another word to the woman, jogged to the corner and disappeared down the side street, and then sprinted as fast as he could manage with the bulky duffle toward the boulevard two blocks down.

  By the time he made it to the wide street, more sirens were klaxoning toward Alex. There being nothing left he could do for the fallen agent, Spencer flagged down a tuk-tuk. He gave the driver the name of a hotel a block and a half away from his, and then sat back in the seat, the duffle beside him, his brow furrowed in thought as he tried to piece together what had just occurred.

  Chapter 14

  Washington, D.C.

  Senator Arthur Whitfield looked up from his reading at the knock on his office door, scowling at the interruption. Dark rings lined his eyes, though as usual his full head of silver hair had been carefully styled to minimize the bald spot at the crown of his head. Behind him, oil paintings of Revolutionary War battles in golden frames adorned the walls, with the area opposite floor-to-ceiling bookshelves devoted to the War Between the States. He thumbed the sides of the hundreds of pages of the latest bill that was coming up for a vote and growled a command.

  “Come in.”

  The heavy cherry-wood door swung open and his aide, Alan Sedgewick, stepped in, an apologetic expression on his face.

  “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but the gentlemen from the agency you asked to see are here.”

  Whitfield nodded and checked the time. “Very well. Show them in.”

  Collins and the deputy director of the CIA, Edward Cornett, entered. Sedgewick showed them to two burgundy leather chairs beside a polished mahogany oval table. Whitfield rounded his desk and took a seat opposite them.

  Sedgewick made to leave, but Whitfield stopped him with a curt gesture. “Pull up a chair. I want your input on this,” Whitfield ordered.

  Sedgewick did so, opting to sit near the door.

  Whitfield addressed the newcomers. “What have you got for me? Tell me it’s good news. I’m beside myself with worry.”

  Cornett shook his head grimly. “I’m afraid nothing definitive. We’ve deployed a team and will be commencing a search of the area. But the odds aren’t good of finding anything but confirmation that she didn’t make it. I’m sorry.”

  Whitfield exhaled noisily and stared at the ceiling molding before addressing Cornett. “Why has it taken this long?”

  “Unavoidable, Senator. Laos isn’t particularly friendly, what with the unexploded Vietnam conflict ordnance that’s still scattered around the country, and Myanmar…well, you of all people understand the situation there.”

  “I want the details. How big a team, what methodology they’re using, how long you estimate it will take…the works.”

  Cornett nodded. “As per your instructions, we’re going in soft. We’ve obtained the cooperation of a civilian group that is a guarantee to get the necessary permits, working under the pretense that they’re looking for a national treasure.”

  “Why would Laos and Myanmar grant them that latitude?”

  “For Laos, it would be an important historical find,” Collins said. “For Myanmar, we all know they’re destitute, so they’re motivated by self-interest. In both cases we’ve used some operational cash to lubricate the way.”

  Whitfield grunted. Among other things, Whitfield sat on several intelligence agency oversight committees, and knew all too well that the CIA had any number of undisclosed income sources it could leverage to achieve its ends.

  “We’ve arranged for one of our most seasoned hands to accompany them,” Cornett added, “and they’ll have access to a helicopter we chartered in Thailand to perform the search. Only we will know their true objective.”

  “What’s your take on the timeline?” Whitfield asked.

  “Three to four days. Weather permitting.”

  “Why so long?”

  “It’s not a small area, Senator. They need to be methodical.”

  Whitfield sighed and looked over at Sedgewick. “Anything I left out?”

  Sedgewick steepled his fingers and looked over them. “Why all the secrecy? Why not just ask Laos to do a search and rescue effort? I’m not sure I understand the need for subterfuge. The senator’s daughter went down in a private plane. I’d think that would be enough.”

  All eyes swiveled to Cornett.

  “The senator requested that we handle this subtly,” Cornett said. “There are fears that Christine’s absence could be used by hostile factions to exert leverage over him, or at least to capitalize on an unfortunate situation.”

  “Assuming she’s alive,” Whitfield said.

  “But the odds go down every day the plane’s not found,” Sedgewick fired back. At twenty-nine, having graduated at the top of his class at Harvard with a JD from Harvard Law, he was a rising star, and brilliant, if somewhat abrasive.

  “I’ve balanced that against the other issues in play,” Whitfield said, “and frankly, the likelihood of her having survived a crash, given the terrain, the size of the plane, and all other known factors, is slim to none. After speaking to experts, I’ve resigned myself to that fact. But I want to be certain. It’s one thing to think you know, another to have confirmation.”

  Sedgewick frowned slightly. “What other issues, sir?” he asked. “I can’t offer a valid opinion without all the facts.”

  Whitfield eyed the two CIA men. “We’ve received some chatter from the Chinese end that implies that she fell in with the wrong crowd. She was dating a fellow over there who might, and I stress the word might, have been involved in…might have been up to no good.”

  “I had no idea,” Sedgewick said, his voice low. “You mean something illegal? Smuggling? Drugs?”

  “I don’t have all the information yet, but apparently he was an undesirable. That’s all we know.” Whitfield paused. “We believe he was also on the plane.”

  “Then it might not have been accidental?”

  “Anything’s possible. We don’t know. But it’s a working theory I have.” Whitfield stood, signaling the meeting was at an end. “Gentlemen, I will expect regular updates as this unfolds. And I appreciate your assistance in the matter. It’s obviously deeply troubling, and the sooner I have answers, the sooner I will be at peace.”

  “We’ll do everything we can, Senator,” Cornett assured him. “This is a top priority.”

  “I appreciate it, gentlemen. Give my warm regards to the director.”

  “I will.”

  Sedgewick showed the CIA men out and then headed back to the chamber. Whitfield was behind his desk, poring over the bill. He would normally have had one of his aides write a summary
for him, but he wanted something to take his mind off Christine’s accident, and work was his favored diversion.

  Sedgewick cleared his throat, and the senator fixed the younger man with a concerned stare. “Sir, don’t take offense, but is there something you haven’t told me about the Christine situation?”

  “Why do you say that?” Whitfield deflected.

  “Nothing. Just an impression.”

  “I suggest you get your antennae tuned, Alan. You’re normally more on point than that.”

  “Yes, sir. Again, I meant no disrespect.”

  “None taken. This has been difficult for everyone involved. I know you don’t see the wisdom of conducting the search the way I am, but you’ll have to believe that I have valid reasons.”

  “Yes, of course, sir.”

  “I trust that puts the matter to bed?”

  “Absolutely. Will there be anything else?”

  “I’ll need the notes for the meeting tomorrow on my desk by eight forty-five.” Whitfield was chairing a Department of Defense oversight committee that was dealing with trillions that had gone missing from the DOD over the last decades. Tomorrow was the commencement of deliberations on whether there should be formal hearings on the matter. The morning before the 9-11 terrorist attack brought down the twin towers in New York, Donald Rumsfeld had announced that there were over two trillion dollars unaccounted for at the DOD. That investigation had ended abruptly the next morning when the section of the Pentagon that housed the staff researching the money trail had been killed by the plane strike. Following the attacks, the administration had been galvanized into action, and the missing money had been back-burnered as the country geared up for war.

  But questions kept arising, and the press had grown more inquisitive as years had passed – and now the American public wanted answers.

  Which made Whitfield’s job all the harder, because there were national security issues at play, as well as matters that might affect confidence in the country’s leadership.

  Whitfield had a reputation as tough but fair, and was one of the few members of the Senate who was respected on both sides of the aisle. At some point, a presidential run wasn’t out of the question, so he needed to be balanced in his steerage of the committee, showing no undue favoritism to any of the parties involved.