by Ed Kovacs
Once, Lagos ranked as the busiest port in Europe, brimming with commerce, so it fit that a mere fourteen kilometers from the beach, at a well-guarded hillside Mediterranean-style villa, a secret meeting took place among titans of commerce, Twenty-first Century style.
In an off-white raw silk blazer over a gold silk tee, cream linen pants and Gucci loafers, Simon Forte looked every bit the casually elegant oligarch, enjoying a post-lunch digestif and forgoing the cheese, port, and cigars. He and his fellow amoral globalist travelers in this particularly aggressive little SW cell sat under a mature olive tree on a tiled patio with priceless views of the sea that launched a million trading ships.
Their group membership comprised a South African media baron, Dutch billionaire investor, a French European Central Bank board member, German manufacturing magnate, and an insurance and banking titan ne British Lord deep into the drug and illegal gem trade. Deeper than the others, that is. Except for Forte, they all came from old money and bloodlines that hardcore conspiracy theorists would have termed, Illuminati. Forte couldn’t compete with their lineage; his fabulous personal wealth was the equalizer.
Cocktails had been a pleasant open-ended discussion of the Euro, NATO, genetics, robotics, a possible global currency, past wars, future wars, favorite tax havens, corrupt bankers who could be counted upon, new smuggling strategies, fraudulent bond schemes, and a listing of troublesome adversaries who needed to be neutralized. By lunch, agreements had been reached casually over cataplana, a local seafood dish served sizzling in a frying pan, regarding who would kill who. Naturally, the lion’s share fell to Forte, but it was always worth his while to collect chits.
Terry Maxfield, the heavy-set media mogul, puffed on a Davidoff Churchill cigar wedged clumsily between stubby fingers. “Simon... an opinion,” exhaled Maxfield. “Sorry I forgot to bring this up earlier. There’s an investigative reporter for Le Monde, a dammed dogged one, who’s hell-bent on dredging up some dirt on my eldest son. Don’t know who’s behind him, but he’s a man with a mission.”
“That might prove a problem for Mark with your stockholders. I mean, he’s your logical successor when the time comes.”
“Ummmm,” voiced Maxfield, noncommittally.
This was a little game. Maxfield had a very good idea which of his enemies directed the reporter. The “who” wasn’t so important; the “what,” on the other hand, what would happen to the reporter, meant everything. The fact the mogul mentioned this as an afterthought belied its importance. Forte understood all of this instantly. He knew of Maxfield’s iron-willed desire to keep the helm of the gargantuan, publicly-held corporation under dynastic control.
“I understand this reporter suffers from depression. In fact, he’s suicidal.” Forte smiled. The pact was sealed, another IOU pocketed.
They moved inside, to the study. Their little clique didn’t function as a secret society per se. Sure, they used passwords, a special hand sign, and created some rituals involving sex, but nothing purely occult or magical informed their activities. This was no Golden Dawn or Church of Satan. A few of them had a passing interest in the paranormal, but were either too busy, lazy or shallow to actually be good magicians. At best, they toyed with the supernatural.
These were, after all, people with phenomenal wealth who employed, for their private life, physical trainers, valets, bodyguards, massage therapists or reflexologists, nutritionists, drivers, pilots, cooks, sex surrogates, dog walkers, professional shoppers, party planners, multiple personal assistants, psychiatrists, and psychics or spiritual trainers. Forte once joked that the only thing he still did for himself was wipe his behind, and he was considering hiring someone to take care of that chore, as well.
So what Forte lacked in family history and pedigree, he made up for, in this little cadre of very intelligent, astute capitalists, with money, muscle, and the tempting offer of the secret to living forever. After all, his cohorts faced the same dilemma he faced: they had so much, but they were going to die! Forte had sold them on the validity of the Hui legend, and they risked little by playing along with his game.
Intellectually, none of Forte’s group thought the elixir would work; however, a desperate little flame of hope flickering in the darkest parts of their hearts, fueled by hubris and vanity and greed, illuminated in each of them the faint notion of “what if?”
“Simon, you have been strangely silent about our little pet project. Don’t tell me you’ve lost the scent,” teased Hans Vermaak, a tall, strong Dutch man in his fifties. The European markets doted on his every word.
The undercurrent in the room ran palpable. Forte had purposefully refrained from updating them on the Hui front. He took great satisfaction to see them chafe at the bit for news. “On the contrary, my hunting dog is sniffing out the third and final tablet, even as we speak.”
“The hunt turned bloody, very bloody, I understand.” Jean Trevoux, the French banker, had a direct, caustic way of speaking that made his words feel like razors. Even when he was being friendly, his sentences rang sharp-edged.
“Which only serves to underline the authenticity of what it is we’re after, here. Do you think the American military and intelligence agencies would sacrifice their men in a secret war with me if they didn’t believe in the power of the Book of Spells?”
“Not likely,” mused Vermaak, softly.
Ian Fairbaine-Smythe tugged at his graying goatee, “How did you bring down that American jet, again?”
“Particle beam weapon.” The downing of the plane served the secondary importance of demonstrating to his gathered peers the deadly power and scope of his reach.
“My government wants that weapon technology,” interjected Trevoux.
“And in two more years, if they meet my price, they can have it,” said Forte, casually.
“Just get us Hui’s bloody formula, if you’d be so kind, Simon, before I’m too old to remember why I want to live forever,” joked Fairbaine-Smythe.
They all laughed. Hui’s story played like a treasure hunt, simply enough, but the bounty it dangled like a carrot on a stick provided Forte tremendous leverage to wheedle in on more and more deals. They almost wanted to shoo Forte out into one of the three parked private helicopters on the oversized helipad and get him back on the quest.
Forte neglected to mention the small detail that, in spite of his worldwide intelligence apparatus, he’d lost track of Dr. Sky Wilder. And his remote viewers remained curiously blocked from getting any kind of fix. But Rene was working on another angle that he hoped would pay off soon.
Gretchen Mueller, the polished, svelte sixty-year-old German manufacturing heiress with ruthless blue eyes and the finest blonde dye-job money can buy, could easily pass for forty. As per usual she'd remained silent on the subject of Hui. Her cell members assumed she didn’t believe one whit in physical immortality. Forte knew that she didn't like him and had privately stated that she considered him a dangerous threat who clearly exercised poor judgment. Forte understood that Mueller was his biggest problem in the room, but he'd have to tread lightly; she was close to the other members, astutely cunning, and had resources that matched his own.
###
The short hop to Faro, the largest city on the Algarve, passed uneventfully. Rene Bailey and a contingent of bodyguards met Forte on the tarmac of Faro Airport where his Citation jet, with twin Williams-Rolls turbofans, sat fueled and waiting.
Rene, who filled out a hip-hugging pair of lime green leather pants better than most, kissed him on both cheeks. “Good news, our inside man at MAHG finally got us the identity of the ringer Klaymen assigned to Doctor Wilder. Apparently she’s an old friend of yours. Diana Hunt.”
Forte stopped in his tracks, thrown back into past-time remembrances. He had lusted for Diana like almost no other woman in his life. They finally became lovers, but he’d never gotten what he wanted from her. Not exactly. “Really?”
“She’s such a fox, Simon.” Said Rene, handing him a recent eight-by-ten photo fro
m Diana’s military file. “Wouldn’t she be fun for us to have in bed?”
“I love that one-track mind of yours.” Forte gazed at the photo appreciatively. “Diana, have I got a surprise for you.”
CHAPTER 15
Ping hauled yet another load of military surplus gear including ponchos, boots and backpacks into the main room of the apartment in Mae Hong Son and placed it next to a growing pile of expedition gear. He could hear Wilder and Tasnee talking from down the hall, but paid no mind. Ping exited onto the stairs and closed the door behind him. Almost immediately he was struck by a cudgel and collapsed to the floor with a thud.
Diana Hunt carefully stepped over Ping's body and into the main room, holding a homemade zip gun made from quarter-inch pipe, twine, wood, nails, screws and rubber bands. Crude, but it would kill. Three pipe bombs and a knife were tucked into a blue sash she had tied around her waist in homage to her Korean archery training. This was improvised warrior mode. She glanced at the gear on the floor, then moved cat-like into the hallway, following a voice that sounded like Sky Wilder's.
Sunlight filtering through open shutters infused the bedroom’s lightly stained wood furniture and bone-colored walls with a warm glow. Fine thatch mats and area rugs covered the teak planked floor, which might creak if she stepped in, so she’d play it from the doorway. Wilder sat at a desk going over frequency logs and possible flight plans. Tasnee stood behind him giving him a gentle shoulder rub. A pang of jealousy shot through Diana, the idea of being jilted for another woman, which made no sense since she and Wilder were virtually strangers. At least in this lifetime.
“Don’t think we have to worry about communication intercepts,” he said. “My concerns are fast extraction if things go south and—”
“Not too smart to sit with your back to the door.” She had the zip gun leveled at Sky. The improvised weapon only held one cartridge, but she figured she could take out the girl easily enough after shooting him.
“About time you showed up,” he snapped, not turning to look at her. “You move this slow in the field, we’re gonna have a problem. Tasnee, meet Diana; Diana, Tasnee.”
Tasnee turned to face her, smiling the big smile that had caused fashion photographers to pursue her back in Bangkok. “Darling, I think the honeymoon is over.” She kissed Sky on the top of his head. “She’s pointing some strange looking thing at you.”
He glanced over to Diana, careful not to move his hands, then returned to his work. “Haven’t seen a zip gun since high school. Cute, as long as it doesn’t blow up in your hand.”
“I’ve already tested it, you’re well within range and I’m a very good shot. Turn around and slowly raise your hands, both of you.”
“What happened to Mister Dang?” asked Tasnee.
“Never mind about him, I said raise your hands.” She spoke with a deadly earnestness. She stepped into the room narrowing the distance. Tasnee raised her hands, but not Sky, who turned to face her.
“Sorry about yesterday, but you’re a big girl who can take care of herself. And I had to know whether I could trust you or not. No way I’d go forward with you if I wasn’t sure. Dang is a former agent with Thailand's National Intelligence Agency who now works for Tasnee’s father. His job was to watch you and make sure nothing happened.”
“Is that so?” She didn't believe it for a second.
“May I?” He gestured to some papers on his desk.
“Slowly.”
He picked up a legal pad. “You checked into the Mae Tee Hotel last night, dinner at the Fern Pub. You didn’t finish the tom kha kai because it was too spicy, but you liked the kung ma kham. This morning you hit the hardware store to buy materials for your little arsenal there.” He looked over to her. “Pipe bombs, huh? Bring them along, although I have a half-dozen fragmentation grenades in the next room.”
Diana grew irritated. This jerk had set her up, had her followed, and she hadn't figured any of that out. She was actually more upset with herself for being had, than she was with Wilder. “You’ve got about thirty seconds left to convince me not to bring this little game to an end.”
“You didn’t make any phone calls, e-mails, nothing. Not to the General or anyone else. That tells me we can work together. If I wanted you out of the picture, it would have been easy to arrange. And if I didn’t want you to find me, you wouldn’t have.”
“Don’t be so sure,” said Diana.
“Dang had orders to bring you here for dinner tonight. You can ask him,” Tasnee chimed in.
Diana glanced at the woman, then riveted her eyes back to Wilder.
“Your gear is in the next room: women’s size nine Gore-Tex hiking boots, dungarees, pack, bag, the whole nine yards.”
“Maybe that’s all for your girlfriend, here.”
Sky shook his head. “Tasnee, bless her heart, is a foxy little princess who’s idea of roughing it is going two days without a manicure. And she wears a size six shoe. She runs the op from this end, including coordinating any resupply air drops we might need or a hot extraction.”
“Tell her about the dossier,” prompted Tasnee.
“I boned-up on Simon Forte last night. The Thais don’t hold him or his private security company Athanor in too high a regard. And the Thais are very accepting people. They know Athanor has people in Thailand and some of them are identified.”
“And just how did you arrange all this?” asked Diana.
“After you fell asleep in our hotel room the other night, I went down to the lobby and met Tasnee.”
“We were up most of the night,” said Tasnee, coyly.
“That I can believe.” Diana took it all in, almost convinced. She waved the gun at the two of them. “Let’s go.”
Keeping the drop on them, she confirmed the presence of clothes and equipment in the main room which might have been bought for her, such as size nine women’s hiking boots. She also came across some weapons and traded the zip gun for a loaded nine-millimeter Beretta. At the doorway, she had Sky drag in Ping’s body.
“Is he all right?” asked Tasnee, concerned.
“He’s not going to be happy, but he should be okay.” She then gestured for Sky to go out again, and he returned dragging Dang, whose feet, hands, and mouth were bound with tape. Diana bent down with the gun to Dang’s head and ripped the tape from his mouth. “What were your orders for tonight?”
Dang squinted angrily, “Bring you here for eat dinner!” He then cursed at her in Thai.
Diana tucked the Beretta into her pants and she and Sky freed Dang. She tried to help him to his feet, but he cursed again and wouldn’t take her hand.
“Not the best way to impress the man who’ll be guiding us into Burma,” said Sky lightly.
“Oh, I think I’ve made my point to Mister Dang. And to everyone else,” she said firmly.
“Indeed. I’ll hand it to you. Pretty impressive.”
“So, I take it you’re satisfied? We can get serious about the mission?”
“Just one thing. How did you know I was in Mae Hong Son? I wasn’t followed or tracked by hidden devices. And you communicated with no one; we had more people than just Dang watching you. How did you know?”
“If our trust ever becomes mutual, maybe I’ll tell you.”
###
They spent the day squaring away gear, working out plans, eating well and resting. As much as she had previously been excluded from Wilder’s thinking, Diana was now included. And not just in the security arena, but in every aspect of hashing out and planning the daunting illegal incursion that lay ahead.
While he napped, Diana found Tasnee in the study hand-stitching a silk “blood chit,” written in Chinese characters and again in the rounded-looking script of the Burmese alphabet, onto the inside lining of Sky’s vest. Similar to the chits worn by American pilots in World War II, Korea, Vietnam, and other conflicts, it stated a promise to pay a large reward in gold if the bearer was returned safely to Thailand. Tasnee looked up as Diana approached and handed h
er an identical blood chit. Diana interpreted her smile to mean sew your own.
“I hear your family has a lot of experience working the border.”
“Yes, my father has many friends.”
“Money can do that. But they’re not really your friends. You’re merely renting them while they’re useful.”
Tasnee looked at her evenly, then looked down at her stitching. The fencing had begun.
“What do you send across the border, into Myanmar?” Diana asked.
“Mostly rice and consumer goods. And your intention here at the border, I believe, is to illegally trespass into the Union of Myanmar and liberate some secret site in the name of archeology. Which is still an enterprise of profit, even if the receptor of what you steal is a so-called non-profit entity such as a museum. It is still a form of business. The border you refer to is an imaginary line, a place where soldiers may stand at a checkpoint, but where Myanmar ends and Thailand begins is perhaps more a state of mind or a set of historical precedents. The history of this region is a complex evolution of multiple kingdoms into the present day configurations. And surely the borders will change again in the future as they always have in the past. So, is there really such a thing as a border?”
“Spoken like a true smuggler,” said Diana, crossing her arms.
Tasnee ignored the insult. “Until the arrival of the Europeans, the Shan, who occupy the area you’ll be visiting, had no concept of rigid border demarcation. In fact, there was no such thing as national unity in Asia, where royalty, or warlords or charismatic leaders ruled. Men fought wars for pride or glory. Nationalism, as you in the West define it, is a relatively new thing here, and although the situation has improved recently with Myanmar becoming democratic, more democratic even than Thailand currently is, I have watched over the years as the generals of Rangoon tried to achieve national unity through the use of force: massacring civilians, raping young girls, shelling unarmed refugee camps, enslaving their own citizens off the street to be used as forced labor. All done in their quest for ‘unity,’ a quest that created untold need and suffering. So is it a bad thing that I illegally send salt into areas where it is scarce and people suffer deficiencies as a result?”