GORDON J. CAMPBELL
THE COURIER
Copyright 2019 by Gordon J. Campbell
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Gordon J. Campbell
4-20-19-1 Shukugawara, Tama-Ku, Kawasaki-shi 214-0021 Japan
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Printed in the United States of America.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Brandon Bergeron, Gyle Graham, Michael Harrison, and Michael Rollins, for reading the first draft of The Courier and encouraging the continuation of the project.
Jeannine, “mémère,” offered hours of much-appreciated feedback.
Edward Picket, my Developmental Editor, pushed back the drafts with useful direction until the work met his experienced approval. Thank you for the straight talk.
Thanks to Ryan Quinn for his valued-added Copy Editing work.
Lots of coffee and hours of discussion with author and longtime friend Christopher Earnshaw were essential to keeping the novel on track.
Allen, Beau, Chad, Coach, David, Deano, EJ, Jeff, Joe, Josh, Kevin, Paul, Roger, Ryan, and Serge. You are whom with you hang. Thank you for your positive support and inspiration.
I offer a special note of appreciation to US Army Veteran Paul Stearns, who helped with technical aspects of the book and always has my "six."
Thanks to Alex, who is an Excellent IT guy and an even better son.
Stuart Grant created a much-appreciated author’s website. (www.gordonjcampbell.com)
I’d be nothing without the kind and patient support of my wife, Mako, and daughter, Nao.
I'm grateful for the generous support and love offered by the family around the globe. You are amazing.
TO MARLENE
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Epilogue
About the Author
Chapter 1
Bangkok
The taxi bounced over the speed bump and splashed through a steaming puddle of rainwater remaining from a summer shower as it sped toward the front entrance of the Ambassador Hotel. It jerked to a stop, and a hotel employee dressed in a crème-colored suit and red necktie opened the taxi’s door while the customer in the back seat all but threw his cab fare at the driver. The man adjusted his camp shirt to conceal his German-made SIG Sauer P226 and stepped from the car. He handed the doorman a fifty-baht tip and walked several yards away before a thank-you could be uttered.
The assassin was built well for his profession with a trim and muscular frame. His average height combined with dark hair and brown eyes favoring his Japanese heritage granted valued anonymity when working in Asia. He turned left and walked up the crowded and poorly lit incline while maneuvering past street food stalls busy with patrons. An old woman was cooking beef and noodles in a wok.
Hot oil bubbled, and the spicy aroma was strong and appealing. A teenage girl used a wooden pestle and pounded on vegetables and red chilies in a large mortar. Several Thais and a few tourists sat on plastic stools around small tin tables enjoying the street cuisine. The smell of lemongrass and the coriander herb essential to Thai cooking brought back memories of his sniper training in the jungles of Chiang Mai Province when he was addressed as Sergeant Jim Takada.
The assassin hadn’t used his name given at birth in more than a decade and was presently known by colleagues as Pierre Marron. Dozens of taxicabs and bike taxis were parked in a line along the curb beyond the food stalls. One driver caught his eye. “Need a ride? Can I take you to see young sexy girls and maybe you want sex show? You want boys?” Marron ignored the staccato offers and carried on up the street to Sukhumvit Road where he again turned left.
Marron spotted the Blue Moon Restaurant’s neon sign flashing on and off a block away, and he pulled behind a street vendor’s cart full of counterfeit Major League Baseball caps. He purchased a black Chicago Cubs cap and replaced the plain white hat he’d been wearing. While tossing the old headwear in a trash can he observed the streets.
There was nothing across the road in the south, but a young Caucasian man was cutting in and out of the crowd and moving toward him with speed from the east. Marron considered the best defensive measures and swiveled his head to identify other potential threats. He relaxed when the young man stopped in front of an ice cream shop where two Thai women welcomed him with hugs and kisses. The threesome entered the shop, and the gunman walked to the Blue Moon.
Marron let himself into the after-hours club and sat down while wondering why he’d allowed himself to break his number-one rule. “Look out for number one,” he muttered. He was waiting to meet an informant with data key to the next operation. It was an annoying and unprecedented request with potential risk. “Was he the only gun in town?”
The detour from protocol had the assassin on edge, and he contemplated the implications of his orders to hold in place a moment before brushing the questions aside to run a check on the room. Nothing waved a red flag, and he forced a smile when a waitress approached him. He ordered a Singha Draft and scanned the tables placed outside the restaurant for those who didn’t mind the heat and humidity.
They were empty, and the main air-conditioned room where he sat was less than half-full. He spent hours in places like this one in countries once classified as the third world. He wondered where he found the patience to stay in place. The last project was complete, and he was ready to leave Bangkok. His hours of preparation had paid off as they always did. He had memorized a checklist, which included visualizing the entry and exit points, practicing local accents, and readying equipment. Readiness was everything, and people in his profession knew awareness of the details kept you alive. “What am I doing here?” The words came out of his mouth as if spit by the assassin.
The Blue Moon would get busy over the next hour with the arrival of young girls and some boys released from work in the entertainment district. They’d join the wealthy foreign tourists, called “farang,” and offer their professional company. The default demand from the scantily dressed and heavily made-up children of the night was at the least a free drink or a bite to eat when their services were refused.
Marron’s location near the rear f
ire-exit doors offered a peripheral view of everything and everyone in the room. His language skills were impressive, speaking flawless Thai and with proficiency in several other Asian languages. Another prerequisite for his line of work was patience, and he’d reached its limit. He stood up readying to leave as his burner phone vibrated in his pocket. Marron answered by offering the operation code of the day, “Vincent.”
“It’s Theo. Get out now. You’ve been compromised and must evacuate,” said the voice.
The threat was confirmed as soon as he stepped near the back door of the Blue Moon. Both routes out of the alley were blocked by motorbikes staggered in gauntlet formation. Marron hesitated for a heartbeat and turned toward the bar’s front door to find a pair of men dressed in security uniforms blocking the main exit.
Marron turned away from the rent-a-cops and stepped into the lane. He walked away from the direction of the busy Sukhumvit Road while removing his SIG Sauer from beneath his shirt. He pulled a silencer from his pocket and fastened it onto the handgun with practiced dexterity. Clouds moved across the sky, shading the alley from the moonlight. The darkened side street was subject to faulty and crackling back-alley lighting and it was shadowed by the buildings flanking the corridor.
He stopped thirty yards from the small pack of bikes and assessed the four sun-blackened and raggedly dressed young men. They straddled their bikes, facing into the alley toward Marron.
Their posture and unconcealed interest in Marron telegraphed the gang’s intent, and they stood between him and his objective. A polite “excuse me” wasn’t going to get him past the thugs. His focus sharpened and his mind and body began to mesh. Marron charted the course of every move necessary to escape from the ambush. The professional killer controlled his breathing and heartbeat, remaining calm when he felt the adrenaline spike through his body.
His mind’s peaceful state allowed a clear perspective, and he scanned the thugs, making an instant assessment for the impending engagement. Two of the bikers left their jackets open with firearms concealed under their vests. The other two grasped their bike handlebars with one hand and held blades exposed against their legs with the other.
Marron jogged toward the bikers, forcing two of the rough young men to kick the starter pedals on their bikes. The armed thugs fumbled and pulled at the weapons held tightly against their chests by their vests. Marron’s SIG Sauer spat out two muffled shots, and he moved with the speed and agility of an elite athlete. The sound resonating around the concrete walls resembled the retort of a child’s cap gun. Bloody red mist filled the air, and the two bikers’ bodies slammed to the asphalt with their weapons remaining forever concealed and useless.
The young thugs armed only with blades started maneuvering their bikes one-handed to escape. Marron sighted on the first and fired then moved his aim to the second to deliver another fatal round. The hollow-point bullets penetrated their chests and erupted, finishing the skirmish in less than fifteen seconds. Brass shell casings fell to the ground and bounced on the road. Their metallic ring reminded Marron to scoop them up to drop in his pants’ pockets.
He analyzed the scene with a microsecond-long glance and confirmed the four deaths. The men waiting on motorbikes at the Sukhumvit Road entrance seemed frozen in shock. The rent-a-cops stepped into the alley from the bar’s exit and dropped to the ground when Marron fired one shot in their direction.
No further action was required as most of the bikers rode away toward Sukhumvit Road. The others dropped to the ground and crawled for cover while the rent-a-cops dashed back into the bar. The hesitation allowed Marron time to snatch a motorcycle from one of the shell-shocked bikers. He stomped on the kick starter, and the bike’s engine roared to life.
The assassin maneuvered around two corpses before turning the throttle and accelerating down the narrow alleyway, which emptied onto a thoroughfare allowing him to increase speed and blend into traffic. Marron slowed and positioned himself behind a family of three commuting home on a small motor scooter. He blended into the traffic, becoming another piece of the Bangkok community in motion.
Chapter 2
Cerulean Tower, Shibuya, Tokyo
It was 4:00 p.m., and the tower’s bar was all but empty except for two men seated at a corner table by the windows. The view from the fortieth floor allowed for glimpses of the distant Mount Fuji and the busy business district of Shinjuku. A third man entered the bar and scanned the horizon as he approached the two gentleman and waited for an invitation to sit down.
“Thank you for coming, Gregg. How did the meeting go today?” asked the older man sitting to Gregg’s right.
“It went well. Our distributor agreed to a 5 percent year-on-year purchase increase and presented a convincing marketing plan. There’s positive data supporting our ability to lead the company as the most profitable sales office in Asia.”
Gregg looked the two men over and studied their reaction, or rather the lack of any noticeable response, and seated himself. They were executives from the Scandinavian venture capital company that now owned the medical group Gregg had represented for over a decade. Noah, the vice president responsible for the markets in Asia, was approaching sixty years of age and was short with a thin runner’s build. His head remained well covered in grayish-white hair, and dandruff rested on the shoulders of his navy-blue Italian suit.
His protégé, Oscar, sat to Gregg’s right and was an enigma to the employees of the medical group in Japan. The man’s English was mostly unintelligible. He was short with an athletic build, but his pale Nordic features and his bald head encouraged the nickname “Gollum.” Noah’s professional ability and energetic charisma were respected, while Oscar was the subject of jokes and resentment. “Your distribution group isn’t prepared to represent the entirety of our product line, and we find their position unacceptable,” said Oscar.
“Pardon me, I didn’t understand your last statement?” asked Gregg.
Oscar’s face reddened, and Noah intervened before he could speak. “Our business plan demands representation of our entire product line. We want to control our own destiny in Japan.”
Gregg leaned forward in his chair and glared at Oscar. “Your position is clear, but what is your endgame? Please let me ask this one question: Are you willing to drop our distributor and lose the majority of business we’ve developed over the last decade? Case studies list few successes when multinationals cut distributors and try to go direct in this country. The costs of a start-up sales organization would negate any profits from current sales, and there’s a serious risk of losing a large portion of market share during the transition. You make this move, and the competition will take 50 percent of our market share overnight.”
“You won’t need to worry about these things, as they are no longer your concern,” said Oscar.
The room went quiet for several moments before Noah spoke. “Our board of directors wants to ramp up business in Japan. Your services as the company’s representative in Asia will become redundant by the end of the year. We’ll pay this year’s salary, the outstanding commissions, and the annual bonus as specified in our agreement.”
“My contract doesn’t finish for three years,” said Gregg.
“The annual renewal clause became null and void when our private equity purchased the medical group. You need to review your contracts more carefully,” said Oscar.
Noah stood up and the other two men followed the lead. “Let’s pick up this discussion at the Shinjuku office next week. Please excuse us. I need to review some numbers with Oscar,” said Noah.
Gregg picked up his briefcase and left without saying good-bye or shaking hands. He took the elevator down to ground level and exited the building onto the busy streets and walked to the famous Shibuya Crossing. While waiting for the light to change he felt the headache initiated by his employment termination expand with painful intensity. He crossed the street in time with a thousand other pedestrians and felt as if he was being singled out and charged at from fifteen
different angles.
Gregg entered Hachiko Square and looked for the statue of the dog for which the area received its name. It was a traditional meeting point and was surrounded by people waiting and generally occupied by their cell phones. The ten-foot-high statue of the dog legendary for his loyalty was barely detectable amongst the mob. Gregg reached into his jacket pocket for his cell phone.
He winced as his first-ever migraine kicked into high gear and he felt like needles were pushing through the backs of his eyes. He held his hand in front of his face and pushed past the pain. The headache diminished, but he understood his mood would not quickly improve and for the short term he’d be poor company. He decided to cancel all appointments and notify friends who’d undoubtedly wait for him at the Black Lion Pub. They’d have to hang tight until he got home to make the call.
Gregg moved to the side of the station entrance and found a few square feet of space vacant and out of the way of the Japanese commuters who tromped by him like a herd of migrating wildebeest. He texted his friend David and the other usual suspects who visited the Black Lion most nights with regrets for missing the get-together and revelry.
Gregg called home after noting the texts sent to David and his other friends were received.
“Yes,” answered Miki, his wife.
“I called to ask if you needed me to pick up anything for dinner?” he asked.
“No, the co-op delivered vegetables and some nice steaks, and they’ll be ready when you get home. You might want to pick up some French or California Cabernet Sauvignon and we’ll find something to celebrate.”
“I’ll get the wine, but there’ll be no real celebration. The new ownership of the medical group will not be extending my agreement. Gregg Westwood is officially unemployed as of next January,” said Gregg.
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