But she’d never seen anything like Bangkok at rush hour.
It didn’t help that she had to pee. Marybeth realized she should’ve gone at the airport, but there had been so much commotion, all those people waving at her with flyers offering cheap hotels, guided tours, places to eat, cars to rent, things to do; it was overwhelming. She had grabbed her suitcase and wheeled it out to the taxi stand without thinking. She just wanted to get out of there. Get in a car. Get to the hotel.
But now she was stuck in an ungodly mass of slow-moving metal. As if the entire country of Thailand had decided to park their cars on the road and let the engines idle for a few of hours.
Maybe this is the cause of global warming.
While the cars weren’t moving, all manner of two-wheeled transportation was flying by in the narrow gaps between vehicles. Countless motorcycles and scooters raced past, shooting down the narrow lanes created between cars as if they were on the wide-open road. Marybeth saw one sagging Honda 250cc, a man driving it, a woman sitting behind him with a small child sandwiched in between them and a toddler perched on the handlebars. She thought it was strangely unfair that only the man was wearing a helmet. Shouldn’t they all have helmets? Shouldn’t they be in a car? Marybeth wished she had a helmet. She’d pee in it.
When the taxi finally pulled into the driveway of the Oriental Hotel, Marybeth handed the driver a scrunchy wad of funny-looking Thai money and took off running. She ran in a kind of hunched-over scuffle, one hand holding her crotch, applying pressure to keep the urine trapped in her bladder until she reached a toilet.
The bellman understood right away and led her down a hallway past some expensive boutiques to a bathroom. Had anyone been using the toilet when she entered, Marybeth would’ve killed them. Or she would’ve stood on the counter and peed in the sink. As it happened, the stalls were unoccupied and Marybeth was able to squat and let loose what can only be described as a torrent of urine worthy of a drunk elephant. She shivered with relief.
After she’d checked in, gone to her room, taken a quick shower, and put on new clothes—a flouncy hippie skirt, no underwear, and her Metal Assassin T-shirt—she went to look for Turk. Her first stop was the bar, where she was surprised not to find him. Then she tried the restaurants and the Authors’ Lounge—looking slightly surreal with its white wicker furniture, like Alice had gone to a tea party and ended up in Bangkok. She even looked in the spa. She called his room and left a message. She asked the bellman and the concierge if Turk had left the hotel.
She finally found him eating lunch outside on the veranda.
“You’re a hard man to track down.”
Turk looked up at her and smiled.
“Marybeth.”
He stood up, wiped the spicy Thai noodles off his lips with a napkin, and planted a kiss on her cheek.
“Have a seat. Please.”
Marybeth joined him as a waitress appeared and handed her a menu.
“Don’t you want to eat inside? It’s fucking hot out here, dude.”
Turk mopped some sweat off his face and took a long drink of cold Singha.
“Once you eat the food, you forget about the weather.”
Marybeth looked at him and smiled. “You look good.”
“Considering.”
“No. You just plain old look good.”
She turned on her smile. Turk nodded. “Thanks. You look nice yourself.”
Turk used his spoon to scoop up some food and pop it into his mouth.
“Don’t they have chopsticks?”
Turk swallowed. “They don’t use ’em here. Everybody eats with a spoon. That’s the proper way to do it.”
“Who told you that?”
“A waitress at the resort set me straight.”
The waitress came over and Marybeth ordered eggs Benedict and a large orange juice. Turk smiled at her.
“You come all the way to the other side of the world and order eggs Benedict?”
“I bet they’re good here.”
Turk shook his head. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
Turk realized that he was sounding a lot like Sheila. Chastising someone for ordering eggs Benedict in Bangkok was something she’d do.
“Is Jon meeting us out here?”
“He couldn’t make it.”
Turk’s face fell.
“Don’t worry. He sent me. That’s why I’m here.”
“To tell me he can’t come?”
“No. No. No. I’m here to help you. I’ll do anything you want. Whatever you need. I’m here for you.”
She smiled again, and Turk caught the meaning behind the smile.
“I want to get Sheila back.”
Marybeth kept smiling.
“Right. Exactly. Dude, that’s why I’m here. But that doesn’t mean I can’t help you with your needs. When you pull up to my pump, it ain’t self-serve. I’m a full-service personal assistant.”
The eggs Benedict arrived, two soft round poached eggs slathered in a bright yellow hollandaise and jiggling on a couple of toasted muffins.
…
Jon Heidegger was a good manager, and what a good manager does is anticipate his clients’ needs. That way when they ask for something, it’s already done. Heidegger had made a few phone calls and tracked down a security consultant in Bangkok. He’d already called and spoken with this man and learned that he was an expert in ransom and retrieval, often spending a good deal of time negotiating the “escape” of American students from Thai prisons, personally escorting them over the border to Cambodia or down to Singapore, where they would be reunited with their wealthy and worried (and, admittedly, disappointed by their children’s lack of judgment) parents. He’d also handled the ransom and release of a famous Hong Kong director who had been snatched from a Patpong brothel by a gang of unemployed Thai actors. A former Australian special forces commando, he was well qualified for the job, and Heidegger had already made the appointment for Turk and Marybeth.
…
It hadn’t occurred to Turk that someone from the government might be following them—he assumed he’d given them the slip with his coded message—so he hadn’t taken any particular precautions, like using cash to pay for his food or wearing a disguise (not that he would have known what to do if someone was following him) as he and Marybeth got in a cab and gave the driver the address of an office building a mile or so down Silom Road.
…
Ben sat in his cab and watched as Turk and Marybeth entered the office building. Having come to the decision that he was going to keep the million dollars, he’d also come to the decision that he had to keep Turk from ransoming his wife. If Turk was successful, he would inevitably get in touch with the Bureau of Immigration and Customs Enforcement and ask for his money back. This would cause complications for Ben, because he had no intention of giving the money back.
In Ben’s perfect world, the kidnappers would become bored with holding Sheila hostage and release her. That would be ideal. He could then spin a web of reasonable untruths, telling Turk that it had been a “backdoor negotiation.” Of course, he’d exaggerate the story, detailing how he’d violated U.S. law and paid the ransom. Turk would commend Ben for his bravery, for putting compassion and humanity above the law. Ben, in turn, would make Turk swear an oath to never tell a soul; they’d be two men bonded by a secret. Maybe he’d even put Ben + 1 on the guest list at all of his shows. Or better yet, give him an all-access pass.
The next best thing would be for the kidnappers to get bored with holding Sheila and do what frustrated kidnappers do: kill her. Then he could say he gave them the money—again risking his job by putting humanity ahead of U.S. law—but they’d double-crossed him. Ben would make Turk swear an oath to never tell a soul and they’d become two men bonded by tragedy.
The third option, and least palatable, was that Turk would persist with his Don Quixote rescue mission and Ben would have to kill him. It wasn’t unheard of. A lot of people had been killed for less than a m
illion dollars.
Ben didn’t follow Turk and Marybeth into the building. He didn’t have to. He knew who they’d be seeing.
…
Lampard International Consulting was one of the largest and most experienced security firms in the world. Headquartered in London, it had more than sixty international branch offices. It handled everything from bodyguard services, personal protection, and risk and threat assessments to the planning, design, and implementation of security systems for your home, office, or corporation. LIC experts handled crisis management, corporate espionage investigations, and hazardous materials situations. They could do just about anything you might want someone to do for you.
The company’s specialty was crisis intervention. Say your head of marketing is stuck in some godforsaken country due to a natural disaster or political upheaval; an LIC “quick response team” could be mobilized within the hour to plan and execute a precise extraction of your valued executive from the hostile environment.
LIC had an entire division dedicated to kidnap-for-ransom cases. Due to the frequency of abductions in Latin America, this had become a booming business. Executives and their companies frequently bought kidnap insurance, and LIC worked with the insurers to “protect against financial and accidental loss.” Many times this meant tracking kidnappers in Mexico City or Caracas and abruptly putting an end to the secuestro express—basically an extended shopping spree, with the victim using his or her credit card to treat the kidnappers to electronic goods, clothes, and luxury items at gunpoint—by planting a well-placed bullet in the kidnapper’s cranium.
It was an effective strategy, and LIC had a very high success rate.
…
Turk stood in the air-conditioned lobby of the Southeast Asia bureau of Lampard International Consulting studying the framed photographs of cities around the world. There was Rio de Janeiro, Mexico City, Tokyo, Cairo, Johannesburg, and Sydney. Turk smiled when he saw them. They were all places Metal Assassin had played on its world tours, and despite his age and the sheer volume of conquests, Turk could still recall the myriad sexual encounters with fans, groupies, and all kinds of innocent bystanders in porno-film detail. Funny how a picture of the Sydney Opera House can give you an erection. Otherwise the office was austere, like a clinic. To the point of being drab.
A nice-looking Thai woman in a red silk dress came out of the back room, greeted them with a wai, and escorted them into a conference room. Turk tried to imitate the wai, and Marybeth laughed at him. Turk looked at her with some annoyance. He didn’t know why, but for some reason the longer he stayed in Thailand the more he wanted to be polite. He liked the way Thais were unfailingly polite to each other; maybe it was contagious.
The conference room proved to be much more impressive than the foyer. Decked out with a state-of-the-art video conferencing system, computers, global tracking monitors, satellite communicators, and some nifty designer furniture from Italy, the conference room was like a high-tech command center. Just standing there you felt better, at ease, like everything was under control.
Before Turk or Marybeth had a chance to sit down, a tall and ruggedly handsome man with short blond hair and a sunburned nose strode into the room. He spoke with a cocky, self-assured Australian accent and gave Turk a warm, confident handshake.
“Mr. Henry? I’m Clive Muggleton, your case officer.”
“Thanks for seeing us.”
Marybeth shook his hand, the extremely fit Aussie holding hers for longer than he needed to.
“I’m Marybeth. We spoke on the phone.”
“Nice to put a face to that voice.”
Clive actually winked at Marybeth, then turned to Turk.
“You’re here because you want your wife back. Safe and sound.”
Turk nodded. “Absolutely.”
Marybeth pulled a Metal Assassin CD out of her purse. “I brought you this. So you’d be familiar with the band.”
Clive took the CD and studied it. It was easy to pick Turk out on the back cover. He was on the far left, outfitted in black leather pants and some kind of straitjacket made from chain mail, glowering and baring his teeth like a rabid dog.
“Do you know the band?”
Clive cleared his throat. “I’ve heard of them, of course. Who hasn’t? But I can’t say I listen to a lot of this kind of music; not really my cup of tea.”
Turk tried to steer the conversation back to rescuing Sheila. “What about Sheila? Can you rescue her?”
Marybeth looked at Clive. “Like what bands do you like?”
Turk looked at her, annoyed. “Marybeth, for fuck’s sake.”
The Australian, not a man above a random nooner with a hot chick like Marybeth, spoke diplomatically.
“Oh, INXS, Midnight Oil, that kind of thing. I’m pretty old-fashioned.”
Clive turned back to Turk.
“Mr. Henry. I spoke with your manager this morning, and I want to reassure you that we’re prepared to do whatever it takes to see your wife safely repatriated.”
Turk sighed. Finally, experts were taking over. Someone was doing something.
“First thing I need to do is run what we call a risk assessment. Find out who might be behind this, what kind of threat they might be, what kind of resources I might utilize to extricate your wife from this situation.”
“I just need someone to give these guys the money.”
“That’s exactly right. But I think it’s important we understand who we’re dealing with. Don’t you?”
Turk didn’t answer.
“I’m a former member of the Australian First Commando Regiment. And I know how to plan and execute a tactical rescue. We are experts in this kind of thing. Let me do my job. Trust me, you’re in good hands.”
Clive smiled, flashing a set of perfectly straight, gleaming white Australian teeth. They were the teeth of the New World, confident and irresistible. Turk nodded. For some reason he felt reassured.
It was true: Clive Muggleton was a former commando, and he did know his stuff. But in the last ten years, stuck behind a desk, he’d let himself go, hardly working out, and spending much of his free time in a Soi Cowboy bar consuming vast quantities of vodka spiked with balls of opium from Chiang Mai. When business was slow he’d scuffle off to a brothel and spend the afternoon drinking beer and fucking fresh young Thai girls just off the farm. It wasn’t much of a hobby, but it beat sitting at his desk reading corporate e-mails.
Even though he was only forty-one, Clive realized he was getting older, that his commando days were behind him; he wasn’t going to be crawling through the mud with an assault rifle anytime soon. So living in Bangkok had become one extended midlife crisis for him. But if he no longer had the strength or the balls to fast-rope out of a Black Hawk helicopter, he could still party like the young commando he’d once been, could still get wasted and screw women half his age. Although he had to admit to himself that the hangovers had become more and more ferocious as the years passed and his liver disintegrated.
But what Clive lacked in fitness, he more than made up for by being a good salesman, a closer. It wasn’t a difficult job. Turk wanted his wife back, but didn’t know what to do. He was emotional, confused, and frankly didn’t have the skill set to locate a car in a parking garage. Turk would do the sensible thing. He would let the experts take over. It would cost him hundreds of thousands of dollars, but he could go back to doing whatever it was rock stars do.
Turk had one last concern.
“What if something goes wrong?”
Clive leaned in, put on his most serious warrior-like expression, and closed the deal.
“Then I promise you one thing. We will find the people behind this and bring you their heads in a bag.”
Turk nodded. Sold. Although it did sound like something he remembered from an old movie.
“How long is it going to take?”
Clive smiled.
“I just need you to sign some papers—our contract and a release form—and then I�
��ll get right on it. I should know something in a few hours. We can meet later tonight, somewhere discreet, and I’ll brief you.”
…
Turk and Marybeth walked out of the air-conditioned high-rise into the sweltering Bangkok heat. Sweat erupted from Turk’s forehead the moment he stepped outside. Marybeth’s makeup began breaking down in the thick, humid air, making her look ragged, as if she’d been up partying for days.
They looked for a cab in the fast-moving free-for-all that constituted traffic patterns on Silom Road. It was anarchy in action. There were no stop signs, signal lights, or pedestrian crossings that Turk could see, yet pedestrians crossed the free-flowing bumper car craziness without getting crushed, killed, or pancaked by what looked like a zillion cars, tuk tuks, motorcycles, and scooters careening around each other.
“This is some crazy shit.”
“Traffic’s fucking unbelievable here.”
A motorcycle with a food cart strapped to its side stopped in front of them. Turk pointed it out to Marybeth.
“Look at this guy. Instead of driving to the restaurant, he’s driving the restaurant. That’s so cool.” Turk flashed the devil horn salute to the motorcycle driver.
“Rock ’n’ fuckin’ roll, dude.”
Marybeth smiled. She didn’t think a guy with a grill strapped to his scooter was all that rock and roll, but then she wasn’t a rock star like Turk, so she just kept smiling.
“Yeah.”
The motorcyclist nodded, then moved off as traffic de-congested somewhere and the flow resumed. Turk watched as a couple of tuk tuks drove along the side of the street, weaving between the cars and the vendors.
“Maybe we should take one of those.”
Marybeth wrinkled her nose. “If you want to get high on car exhaust.”
“It’s better than standing here.”
Salty: A Novel Page 11