Emerald Buddha (Drake Ramsey Book 2)

by Russell Blake

  Tomorrow morning, he would be in the hot seat.

  A position he was more than familiar with, but which weighed heavily on him with the loss of his daughter.

  He sighed again and glanced wistfully at a carafe brimming with eighteen-year-old Scotch on his bookshelf, and then lost himself in his work, the complex nuance of the bill commanding all his attention if he was to absorb it in time for the vote.

  Chapter 15

  Bangkok, Thailand

  Alex faded in and out of consciousness. The painkillers pumping through him blunted the worst of the agony from his injuries but left him in a fugue state, a Neverland of blurred images and confused impressions. The air smelled like industrial cleaner, astringent and laced with the peculiar medicinal smell particular to hospitals. Beside him, a monitor beeped with each beat of his heart, and he registered the pressure of a pulse oximeter on his finger as he shifted on the bed.

  He cracked an eye open and saw daylight. So he hadn’t been out that long. Assuming it was still the same day. He tried to bring his wrist into focus and then gave up when he realized his watch was missing.

  Alex replayed the moments before impact again and again in his imagination, searching the impressions for anything that might hint at who had been driving the car that struck him. But it was no good. All he remembered was a glimpse of a grill, and then the world tilted as he flew through the air, pain overloading his synapses from his ruined legs and the impact of his landing.

  He cursed the effects of the drugs, and prayed that he hadn’t sustained any permanent brain injury that was causing the memory glitch. Bones they could always pin together, he knew from friends who’d taken bad hits while on their Harleys, but the old gray matter was an entirely different matter.

  The door opened and a nurse entered. At least, Alex thought she was a nurse. For some reason he couldn’t get his eyes to focus. Eye. His left lid seemed to be stuck shut.

  The woman spoke to him in broken English, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying. The words seemed to distort as she talked, sounding more like a vacuum cleaner’s whine than conversation. Alex groaned and closed his eye again – he’d find out soon enough what she was going on about, if it was important.

  When he came to again, he was moving. The harsh white glare of overhead fluorescent lights strobed above him as he was rolled down a hall. He could just make out two orderlies wheeling him along the corridor, a plasma bag connected to the gurney and draining into his arm. Maybe he was going into surgery? The throb from his legs was muted from the morphine, and he hoped that whoever was making the calls wouldn’t amputate them. The thought of being legless sent a spike of fear through him, and he struggled to speak.

  “My…legs…”

  The effort was wasted, because the gurney’s forward momentum didn’t slow. He tried again, but what emanated from his mouth was a strangled moan in place of words. He decided to save his strength for battles he could win.

  Eventually he felt the gurney slow, and then he was moving through a pair of steel doors. The chilled, relatively dry air changed to warm humidity, and he realized he was outside. The mechanism below his body made a series of loud clacks and pops, and then he felt himself lifted. He opened his eye again and saw that he was now in the back of a vehicle – an ambulance. So they weren’t taking him to get his legs cut off. But if not, why was he being put through the trauma of a move?

  Before he could muddle through the puzzle, the engine started and one of the orderlies closed the rear doors. Alex tried to move his arms to assess the damage, but all he managed was to flop his right one around like a beached smelt.

  The ambulance began moving and he stopped trying. There would be time enough to learn how badly mangled he was. He suspected it wasn’t pretty, but there wasn’t much he could do about it now.

  The ride was smooth, for which he was grateful, and he didn’t even notice when he slipped from the present into the narcotic dream state in which he’d spent the last few hours. When he was jarred back to consciousness, he wanted to complain, and then realized that the ambulance had stopped.

  The rear doors opened and two men lifted the gurney out. He heard them speaking to each other – but again it sounded odd, distorted. He drifted away as the opiate warmth washed over him, and this time dreamed of being a child, running through a field back home in Texas – he was five or six, he thought, because his family had moved to Ohio when he was seven, and the landscape had changed for the worse. Someone was running ahead of him, and he could make out his father, his gait confident and strong, his bristly hair thick against the vivid blue of the summer sky.

  The scene darkened as the sun’s warming rays changed to something more ominous, and then he was in a different place – another hospital room, but this time holding his father’s hand, which was now frail as a bird’s wing, the skin nearly translucent, the tremor in his desperately clutching fingers a byproduct of the poison the doctors had pumped through him in an effort to arrest the malignancies eating him alive. Alex’s gaze roamed down an arm bruised beyond recognition from IV cannulas, shots, and blood draws, and he could almost taste the salty tear that worked its way down his unlined cheek, young and idealistic as his father’s had once been; and then the scene seemed to accelerate away from him, down a long tunnel whose walls were closing in as his speed increased to a dizzy blur.

  He came to with a start, pain lancing through his head. For an instant he didn’t understand what had happened, and then he realized that something – no, someone – had slapped him. He forced his eye open and found an Asian man in street clothes glaring down at him. Alex fought to force his reluctant lens into focus and, in spite of the drugs, felt a chill creep up his ruined spine. The man’s eyes were the color of lead, flat and uncaring, and Alex knew in an instant that this was no doctor.

  Jiao nodded slowly at the realization he saw in the CIA man’s stare. When he spoke, his accented English was musical with the singsong cadence of his native tongue.

  “The pain meds will be out of your system within a few hours, my friend. Then we will have a talk, and you can share with me everything you know about your operation.”

  Alex’s eye widened in horror at the words, which his brain had no problem deciphering, and realized with dismay that his ravaged body was now the least of his problems. There was no question about the man’s intent, and Alex offered a prayer to a God he didn’t believe in to spare him the torment that would surely come – before he told the Asian everything, which he knew he would eventually.

  In the end, Alex died a hundred times before he finally stopped breathing.

  Chapter 16

  The mood at the hotel was glum as Spencer, Drake, and Allie waited for Uncle Pete to arrive. Spencer had called their guide after returning to the hotel and told him about Alex. The Thai was shocked, and explained to Spencer that he’d need to confer with his superiors before any action could be taken. An hour later, Uncle Pete left a message for them all to be in the lobby by no later than two – they were shipping out.

  “Any idea how long it will take to get to Chiang Rai?” Spencer asked.

  “I can look it up,” Allie said, waggling her phone at him. She tapped in her query and waited for the answer. “Says here…hmm…once we’re out of Bangkok, maybe eight to ten hours, depending on how fast we drive.”

  “You’ve already seen Uncle Pete’s skills,” Spencer said.

  “So we’ll be there about midnight,” Drake guessed.

  “Midnight tomorrow, more likely,” Allie added.

  “Why don’t we fly?” Drake asked. “I wonder if we can get a charter that doesn’t require us to go through a security scan?”

  Allie checked her watch. “I can ask the concierge to make some calls.”

  Drake shook his head. “How are you going to manage that? You can’t really say we’re gunrunning and want to dodge the authorities, can you?”

  “Let’s ask Uncle Pete,” Spencer suggested. “Not that I don’t want
to spend the next ten hours on the road. But it seems like we’re wasting time we don’t have. Whoever ran Alex down is out there, and for all we know, we’re next.”

  “Why, though? It makes no sense,” Drake said.

  “Maybe someone recognized him? Someone with a grudge?” Allie speculated.

  “There are only a few possibilities,” Spencer said. “The first is that it was an accident – someone either drunk or not paying attention while they were texting, who lost control and freaked when they hit Alex. The second is that it was deliberate and they wanted to take him out, either because they recognized him or because of something we haven’t been told about our little jaunt.”

  “Sounds like you think there might be a third possibility,” Drake said.

  “Yeah. If I hadn’t gotten lucky, the car would have hit both of us. So it could have been that I was the target all along, and Alex was just in the wrong place at the right time.”

  “Why would anyone want to flatten you, Spencer?” Allie asked.

  “God knows. I mean, I made plenty of enemies in past lives, but nobody comes to mind in Bangkok.”

  “Angry ex?” Drake suggested.

  “I’m serious. I mean, it’s a very low probability, which is why it’s number three. I actually think it’s likeliest it was an accident.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if they wanted to off either one of us, they could have just shot us. Few pros would opt for a car as a murder weapon.”

  They mulled over Spencer’s words until Uncle Pete appeared through the oversized entry doors, his face tight and his usual half smirk missing.

  “We go now,” he said by way of greeting.

  “Uncle Pete, we have an idea, and you’re probably just the man for the job,” Spencer said.

  Uncle Pete’s face was unreadable. “What you want?”

  “We were thinking it was a nice day to fly instead of drive.”

  “You crazy. Can’t fly with stuff. Remember?”

  “We were thinking you might know someone with a plane we could charter to take us there, including our luggage, without getting too curious about what we were carrying.”

  Awareness dawned in Uncle Pete’s eyes. “Ah. I see. Maybe. But gonna be lot of baht.”

  “I’m not feeling price sensitive, in light of the uncertainty on the ground here at the moment,” Spencer said. “Just get us a plane. We’ll take care of the rest.”

  Uncle Pete busied himself with a flurry of calls, and showed up in the lobby with a triumphant expression half an hour later. “We got plane. Leave in two hours. Take maybe that long get to airport with traffic. Terrible. We go now.”

  “Which airport?” Spencer asked.

  “Don Mueang. North side.”

  Uncle Pete whistled and a bellman ran over with his cart. Spencer refused to let the man take the duffle, and followed them out to the waiting SUV with it in hand.

  The drive took just over an hour, and they were pleasantly surprised to discover that the private jet terminal was sumptuous and quiet. Uncle Pete guided them to one of the windows overlooking the runways and pointed to a Hawker 800XP being fueled by two airport workers. “That plane. We pay now.”

  “How much?” Drake asked.

  “Dollars? ’Bout ten thousand.”

  Drake looked at Allie. “I only brought ten cash. Didn’t want to have to declare anything.”

  “Me too.”

  “Split it with you?”

  “I’m game.”

  Uncle Pete counted the money and then disappeared for ten minutes. When he returned, he was all smiles. “I tip security. They not interested look at bags. Say your face trustworthy.”

  “I get that a lot,” Drake said.

  “Not you. Her.”

  “Oh.”

  “How big a tip?” Allie asked.

  “Five hundred dollars. You give on plane, okay?”

  Spencer winked at Allie. “I could learn a lot from Uncle Pete.”

  “I have a feeling the lesson’s not over yet. And it will no doubt be pricey.”

  They toted their bags to the plane, the security workers blissfully otherwise occupied with a judiciously timed cigarette break, and loaded onto the jet. After a smooth takeoff, Uncle Pete filled them in on the discussion he’d had with his control in the U.S., who had told him they would try to get someone to replace Alex as soon as possible, but that Uncle Pete should act as their liaison in the meantime. That made sense, given the amount of time that had already gone by and the sense of urgency implicit in finding the plane.

  “And we get permits. So ready to go,” Uncle Pete finished from his position in the bulkhead seat.

  “Then we can start the search tomorrow?”

  “You betcha. We use airfield at Chiang Rai as base, yes? Close to border. Helicopter waiting, start tomorrow morning.”

  “Perfect,” Spencer said. “Any word on Alex?”

  “In hospital. Many broke bones. But look like will make it, for sure.”

  “That’s good,” Allie said.

  “Did headquarters have any thoughts on the incident?” Spencer asked.

  Uncle Pete shook his head. “Say keep eyes open. Thailand dangerous place sometimes.”

  “That’s helpful.”

  “Don’t worry. I take good care of you.”

  The flight was smooth and they touched down without fanfare, only to discover that their hotel, the best in town according to Uncle Pete, was a rattrap. He apologized but pointed out that the town was mainly frequented by backpackers and hippies, so their choice of accommodations was limited. After dropping their bags off, they met him outside the hotel and went as a group to dinner, Uncle Pete in the lead, marching in his baggy pants and sandals as though on a mission from God.

  Jiao waited in the shade beneath a banyan tree across the street from the hotel until the Americans had made their way down the teeming road, motorcycles and tuk-tuks buzzing at breakneck speed in what passed for the backwater town’s evening rush hour. He drew a final drag on his cigarette, crushed it underfoot, and ambled toward the hotel, a black nylon backpack hanging from his shoulder, his clothes those of a casual tourist. He’d been alerted to their departure from Bangkok and on a charter flight of his own twenty minutes after they’d taken off.

  The hotel was all one level, built around a parking lot, with the office at the front. He’d followed the group from the airport, but hadn’t had time to reconnoiter the grounds properly. A glance at the office told him he’d be spotted if he entered that way, so he continued walking until he rounded the block, and stopped at an overgrown field that backed against the hotel perimeter wall.

  Twilight cast long shadows as the sun dropped behind the mountains. Jiao took his time, and when it was dark enough that he was confident he wouldn’t be spotted, he crossed the expanse until he was at the base of the wall.

  A quick perusal convinced him that it was no good. There were no footholds he could use, and the razor wire coiled along the top would prevent him from climbing over, even if he contrived a way to scale the ten-foot-high wall. He cursed under his breath and moved back to the side street – he’d hoped to avoid his alternative plan, but would now have to implement it if he was to be successful before the farangs made it back.

  The office door swung open with a creak and an attached bell tinkled. A short woman shaped like a brick emerged from the office and moved to the reception counter.

  “Yes?” she asked, in a raspy voice seasoned by a lifetime of smoking.

  “Do you have any rooms?” he asked in broken Thai.

  “Yes. For how long?”

  “Only one night. I’m off to see the temples tomorrow.”

  She pointed to a board behind her with prices in baht and dollars. Jiao nodded, removed a thick wad of currency from his pocket, and peeled off several bills. “A quiet room, if that’s possible,” he requested. “No parties. I’m up early.”

  “You want smoking or non?”

  “Smoking.”r />
  She nodded and handed him a key and a towel. “Check out at eleven. Soda machine outside by the pool.”

  Jiao skirted the parking lot, pretending to look for his room. When he found it, he paused in front of the door and studied the lock. He was relieved to see that he could jimmy it in his sleep, the mechanism at least twenty years old.

  Once in the room, he moved to the far window and pulled the dingy curtains aside, but it had corroding iron bars on the exterior, so using it to access the other rooms wasn’t viable. He quickly unpacked his bag and removed a set of picks and a flat metal slim jim that he slipped inside his windbreaker. The picks went into his jacket pocket, and then he was ready.

  The parking lot was still. He’d already confirmed on his walk that he wouldn’t be visible to the office if he stuck close to the building. He pulled his door closed behind him and strolled unhurriedly to the closest of the Americans’ doors.

  Ten seconds later he was inside the dark room. He hurried to the backpack sitting on the bed and extracted a small disk from his pocket – a tracking chip with a built-in battery supply good for at least thirty days. He felt along the bag until he found a small flapped compartment on the inside lining, and then pulled a pocketknife from his jacket and sliced the stitching above it. When he had created sufficient space, he forced the chip inside and shook the bag until the disk fell to the bottom, between the lining and the outer shell. If the stitching was noticed, the instinct would be to dismiss it as shoddy manufacturing.

  He powered on his phone and saw the orange blinking icon on a satellite image that confirmed the chip was transmitting. Jiao smiled in the darkness. Would that all his tasks were so easily performed.

  At the door, he listened intently for signs of life outside. When he was confident he was alone, he slipped from the room and locked the door behind him, and then headed for the office to get a restaurant recommendation, his time now reduced to waiting patiently until the group located the plane.