by Greg Dinallo
“Yes, even to kill someone.” Kate shrugs, mystified. “Do you need a visa to get into Thailand?”
“Not for a short stay.”
“How short?”
“Up to fifteen days, I think.”
“You give any more thought to going?”
She breaks into a wry smile and nods. “I was just talking to that businessman in Bangkok I told you about. He couldn’t believe it when I told him John had survived. He said he’s going to check his files for new information.”
“Does that mean you’re going?”
She hesitates briefly, then nods.
“When?”
She smiles and fetches a pad from the desk. “There’s a flight every night at eight-thirty,” she replies, referring to her notes. “Gets into Bangkok at nine-fifteen in the morning. There are also several that leave daily between eight and noon, but I’d rather not waste a day.”
“I can’t afford to. Mind some company?”
“No. But I’d prefer traveling with someone who wasn’t being hunted by assassins.”
“I gave that a lot of thought on the way over here. I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t think it was safe.”
“Want to tell me why?”
“I’m pretty sure they think I’m dead. I mean, I’ve been expecting them to come at me again and they haven’t. It finally dawned on me that Surigao wouldn’t have left Los Angeles, let alone gone to Bangkok, unless he thought he’d gotten me.”
“Seems to make sense.”
“I’m counting on it. It gives me an advantage. So if you don’t mind traveling with a dead man—”
“I think I can handle it. By the way, do you have your passport with you?”
“Always. I’ve got several international clients. You never know. Get us some reservations on the eight-thirty. Make ’em first-class.”
“Whoa. That’s way out of my league, Morgan.”
“I’ll cover the difference. You have a place where you stay?”
“I know a hotel.”
“It isn’t the Dusit Thani, is it?
“No. Way too expensive. You want to stay there?”
“Any place but there. Long as it’s first-class.”
Her head tilts to one side as if something’s dawned on her. “You’re rich, aren’t you?”
“Comfortable. I don’t see you worrying about getting back to the office.”
“I watch what I spend. I have some savings.”
“So do I. So does Donald Trump—”
“Did.”
“What I make in a year still wouldn’t cover his phone bill. I figure you only go around once. Why not enjoy it as much as you can?”
“Yes, why the hell not?” she says, brightening. “The Oriental’s probably the best, then there’s—”
“We’ll stay there. See if you can get us a couple of rooms.”
“Hey,” she protests with a troubled frown. “I’m not your secretary, Morgan.”
“Thank God.”
“That cuts both ways, mister.”
“Feel better now?”
“Much.”
“Good. This is no time to take offense. You’re the expert here, Kate. I’m acknowledging it.”
She studies me, and breaks into a little smile. “That’s pretty good.”
“I meant it.”
Kate goes to work on the phone. I return to my hotel and do the same, reviewing business projects with the office and briefing my daughters on my plans. Then I make a quick trip to a bookstore just down the street and buy a travel guide to Bangkok, spending the rest of the afternoon reading it.
Hours later, the island is shrouded in darkness as our flight takes off from Honolulu International and makes a big looping turn out over the Pacific, leaving Waikiki’s glittering lights behind.
Kate and I are comfortably settled in the first-class compartment of the stretched 747. Singapore girls are rustling about the aisles in their sarongs. The laptop is at my feet, the Beretta concealed inside. The foldout map that came with the travel guide is spread over my tray table. It delineates highways, streets, canals, places of interest, train stations, and major hotels in great detail. I’m interested in the Oriental, on the Chao Phraya River, which meanders through the center of the city. The Dusit Thani is slightly more than two miles away at the far end of a nearby canal.
I’m circling these locations when Kate glances over and offhandedly asks, “By the way, how’d you leave things with the Colonel?”
“Unsettled. He’s going to run it past someone he’s been working with before making any decisions.”
“That someone wouldn’t be with the DEA, would he?”
“How do you know about that?”
“The League. It was in one of our newsletters. We’re hoping the crop substitution program helps when it comes to repatriations.”
“Yes, the Colonel mentioned that. He said a lot of MIAs were lost in opium-producing regions.”
“A hundred thirty or so—less the seven that were just repatriated.”
“I didn’t realize they were lost up there.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You sure about the number?”
“I’m the unofficial expert, remember? Why?”
“Sounds like a lot. I mean, out of five hundred forty-seven that’s more than twenty percent. Twenty-three point seven six six to be precise.”
“I’m positive. I’ve always cross-referenced who was lost when and where on my mailing lists so I could connect families who wanted to share information. You know, stuff from letters home, stories from buddies, anything that might help them cope.”
“This list on a computer?”
“Uh-huh, at home.”
“I can think of a few calculations I wouldn’t mind running.”
“Why?”
“My guy was in the drug business—might be some kind of a connection.”
“Then you better get that thing booted up,” she challenges, taking a thin plastic case from her handbag. It contains a high-density 3½” computer diskette. “I always have a backup with me. God forbid the house burns to the ground, twenty years of work won’t go up in smoke along with it.”
“I know the feeling.”
“What kind of software you use?”
“All of ’em. Great bridge program too. You play?”
“No. Sorry. It’s WordPerfect, by the way.”
“Good. I’ll hang on to this, if you don’t mind.”
“We’ve more than ten hours to go. Why wait?”
I let out a long breath, then leaning close to her, I cover my mouth and explain about the Beretta.
Kate’s eyes widen in surprise. All of a sudden she’s not sure what to make of me. She’s about to say something when a flight attendant approaches, handing out blankets and pillows in preparation for the long haul to Bangkok. My itch to get at the data is about to be satisfied. I drape the blanket over my chest and legs, then slip the computer from the carrying case and pull it onto my lap.
“What’re you doing?” Kate whispers.
“Changing the battery.”
She rolls her eyes and looks away.
My fingers find the access panel and open it. I remove the pistol and slip it into my pocket, then dispense with the blanket, retrieve the battery from the carrying case, and insert it.
Minutes later, I’ve got the probability analysis program working with Kate’s diskette in the “A” drive. I extract the MIA losses by province—547 men spread over 16 provinces—and graph them. In 14 out of 16 the deviations are within the range of statistical acceptability, even in southern provinces along the Ho Chi Minh Trail where the greatest number of losses occurred. But Luang Prabang and Houa Phan approach the top of the graph. I break the losses down into the subtotals—136 for Houa Phan and Luang Prabang combined, and 411 for the remaining 14, then calculate the per province ratio—137:2 × 410:14—which works out to 68.5 to 29.285.
“Hmm . . . ,” I say, making another calculat
ion.
“Hmm?”
“We’re looking at a deviation of two point three three nine between the two opium-producing provinces and all the others.”
“That’s important?”
“Could be. In my business anything varying from the norm that much sends up a flag. But I need more data to determine the significance.”
“Like what?”
“Number of ground forces deployed; number of missions flown—”
“Don’t look at me.”
“The number of MIAs repatriated to date from each province would be a start.”
“From each? Would you believe less then forty from all of Laos?”
“I had no idea. I’m afraid it’s not much help.”
She nods, then cocks her head thoughtfully. “You know, now that you mention it, there’s something that’s always bothered me.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, these guys were lost in the so-called secret war, right?”
“Right.”
“The way I understand it, when it comes to secret wars, or secret missions, we always make a special effort to get our dead and wounded out.”
“Yes, so they can’t be used to prove we’ve been there. We had a hard and fast rule in Special Ops: Never, never leave any evidence behind.”
“That’s my point. Information on men who were lost in Laos was easy to come by because it was used in enemy propaganda campaigns.”
“But nothing on the guys lost in Luang Prabang and Houa Phan,” I say, sensing where she’s headed.
“Nothing much. Especially in Houa Phan.”
“Like they never existed.”
“I know one did,” she says wistfully.
I notice her eyes starting to glisten, and direct her attention to the screen to take her mind off it. “What’s with these names?”
“They’re next of kin.”
“I know. I meant the asterisk.”
“Oh, it means deceased.”
“Sorry I asked.”
“Hey, it’s okay. Really. Parents, wives, even children sometimes, pass away. I have to keep track of it. I lost a good friend about five years ago.”
“MIA wife?”
“Wrote the book. Made me look like I was standing still. I mean, always pressing, always at the CIL, always digging for information. Off to Thailand every chance she got. A real gadfly.”
“What happened to her?”
“She was up north somewhere. Probably trying to get into Laos. Went off the road in a monsoon.”
“She was killed in an automobile accident?” Kate nods matter-of-factly.
“Where was her husband lost?”
“Houa Phan. Same as John. One of the reasons we became close.” A moment passes before it dawns on her, before she turns to me with a spooky look in her eyes. “I’ve got this weird feeling all of a sudden.”
“I know.”
“Maybe ifs the connection you’re looking for.”
I shrug, trying to keep it in perspective. “Then again it might be we’re seeing conspiracies everywhere. Remember, my guy wasn’t anywhere near those areas.”
“True,” she says wearily.
“It’s been a long day. Let’s get some rest.”
She sighs, then pulls the blanket up around her shoulders and turns her head into the pillow. “Good night,” she says softly.
“Good night, Kate.” I shut down the laptop, and settle in for the night. The cabin lights dim. Air hisses quietly past the fuselage. A half hour later, I’m still awake, staring at the ceiling. The numbers are inconclusive, and the loss scenarios don’t match, but I can’t help thinking that maybe Kate’s right. Maybe I’m not the first.
24
I’m on my second cup of coffee, watching the mist rising like incense from the dense jungle below. I was awake most of the night planning what I’m going to do when I finally catch up with Surigao. This trip came out of nowhere and this is the first chance I’ve had to really think it through. I can never sleep on planes anyway. Evidently, Kate didn’t get much sleep either. She’s uncharacteristically quiet and has a steaming courtesy towel pressed to her forehead.
According to the captain, we’re on final approach to Don Muang International Airport, which is about sixteen miles north of Bangkok. We’ve covered 6,700 miles in just under thirteen hours, crossing the international date line before making stops in Seoul and Taipei, then continuing west across the South China Sea, along the coast of Vietnam, finally turning north into the Gulf of Thailand toward Bangkok.
I’ve journeyed to this part of the world before. Nearly twenty-five years ago. The accommodations were military-class, not first. My destination was Vietnam, not Thailand. And my weapon was an M-16 semiautomatic rifle, not a .25-caliber toy hidden in a computer. My mission was search and destroy—that hasn’t changed.
The local time is 9:35 A.M. when we touch down and taxi up to the ultramodern terminal. The boarding ramp swings into position and several hundred travel-weary tourists straggle into the lounge.
I’ve put the Beretta back inside the laptop as a precaution, but passport control turns out to be a tourist-friendly, if slow-moving, formality. The pistol could’ve easily stayed in my pocket. I make a quick stop in the men’s room to remove it, then join Kate in the line at the currency exchange. The rate is twenty-five bahts to the dollar. Once properly funded, we claim our bags and head outside, making our way through a blast of ninety-degree heat and humidity to a taxi stand. The smiling dispatcher loads us and the bags into a cramped death-trap-on-wheels made in Korea.
I notice a vital piece of equipment is missing from the dash. “There’s no meter,” I whisper to Kate suspiciously.
“We negotiate the price,” she replies as horns sound behind us. “Oriental Hotel, please?”
“Hundred fifty baht,” the driver barks, pulling away with a screech of tires before Kate can counter.
That’s six dollars, I calculate. I can’t get home from LAX for less than forty. Dulles to D.C. is over thirty. I’m thinking it’s a pretty good deal when Kate laces into the driver in fluent Thai and proceeds to bargain the price. He finally throws up a hand and settles.
“So what’s the deal?” I prompt.
“He opened at a hundred fifty. I countered with seventy-five. We closed at a hundred.”
“Fixed or variable rate mortgage?”
“Come on. I saved us fifty bahts.”
“That’s two bucks.”
“Thirty-three point three three percent,” she says pointedly with a grin.
“Must be a buyer’s market.”
The driver skillfully works his way out of the airport. We’re soon hurtling at dangerously high speed down Mittaphap Road, an elevated superhighway that splits jungle, farmlands, and villages with arrow-straight indifference.
I wouldn’t hire this guy as my permanent chauffeur, but he’s just what I need now. I’m thinking about that vacated condo at the Theater Arts Complex and having visions of finding an empty hotel room here too. Assuming we get to the Oriental in one piece, I plan to drop Kate and our bags at the curb and make a beeline for the Dusit Thani to look up Surigao.
About a half hour later, up ahead where the lanes of the expressway appear to converge, the silhouettes of modern skyscrapers frame the graceful gold-plated spires of centuries-old Buddhist tempies. More than four hundred in Bangkok alone, according to my travel guide.
We’re approaching a series of highway exit signs in English and Thai when the driver makes an abrupt lane change, cuts off several vehicles, and darts toward an exit labeled Din Daeng Road. The off-ramp deposits us smack in the middle of a massive traffic jam.
It makes Waikiki’s gridlocked streets look empty. There are no lanes, no sense of order, no traffic cops, just a mass of creeping vehicles: cars, vans, trucks, taxis, three-wheeled tuk-tuks, and buses with passengers hanging on the steps and out the doors. All appear to be headed in different directions, as do the bikes, scooters, and fearless pedes
trians, who weave between them ignoring the traffic signals. Total chaos would be a gross understatement.
The taxi inches forward. I’m squirming with impatience, looking at my watch. Twenty minutes pass, thirty, forty. We haven’t gone a mile. “This normal?”
“I’ve seen it a lot worse.”
“Okay. Change of plans. We go to the Dusit Thani first. You drop me off and continue on with the bags.”
“What’s the rush? I thought you said the Surigaos were going to be there for a while?”
“That’s what the clerk said. The way things have been going, they’re probably checking out today.”
“Like hours ago.”
“Maybe. I’ve just got this thing about coming all this way and getting there minutes after they’ve gone.”
“The old if-game.”
“Right. If the flight had gotten in five minutes earlier, if we hadn’t checked our bags, if the taxi had gone a little faster, if we’d—”
“Don’t tempt him,” Kate jokes before informing the driver of the change, which leads to another negotiation. “It’s not a buyer’s market any more. He says, two stops cost twice as much.”
“So do two houses. Makes perfect sense. Tell him triple, if he gets us there before eleven.”
“Triple?”
“It’s only twelve dollars, Kate. I think I can handle it.”
“Dai leou mai! Dai leou mai!” the driver singsongs excitedly when she informs him of the challenge. He leans on his horn, maneuvering between the densely packed vehicles finally turning into an unpaved alley.
Suddenly we are racing headlong down the narrow soi, as Kate calls it, into a maze of streets behind the theater district, from which, I’m becoming more and more convinced, we may never emerge. But the frenetic zigzagging eventually pays off, leading to a relatively unclogged road just beyond the Siam Intercontinental Hotel. Huge movie posters, two and three stories high, cover some of the buildings. Their bold graphics and bright colors seem to pop up in every section of the city. We continue past a racetrack, finally turning left at a large public park. But, despite the driver’s heroic efforts, it’s well after eleven by the time we arrive at the Dusit Thani, where lush tropical gardens and splashing fountains greet us.