Gregg turned right from the airport corridor and entered the wide-open immigration reception area, finding it pleasantly chilled by powerful air conditioners. He followed the line for foreign passport holders and reached the front in less than a minute. His passport and immigration form were handed to a female immigration officer upon request and Gregg studied her stern face. Without a question or any reason for delay, the passport was stamped and returned, allowing him to move on to customs.
Gregg walked through the customs free of scrutiny and exited into the reception lounge carrying the duffel bag packed with clothes and the government travel satchel. He ignored canvassers while walking directly to the limousine car service booth. The transaction was straightforward involving the negotiation necessary to business in Thailand. Gregg received a discount for paying cash.
“Here’s your voucher. Turn right when you leave the terminal and you’ll soon see our ride coordinator,” said the booth attendant.
They exchanged gratitude and Gregg left the air-conditioned building for the humid Bangkok evening. The booth attendant placed a sign on his desk stating he’d be back in ten minutes and walked over to a bus tour company’s office located on the opposite side of the arrival terminal. A gray-haired man wearing a polo shirt rose from his chair upon recognizing the approaching booth attendant.
“We booked a Canadian on a limousine transfer to the Bangkok Conrad,” he said.
“Do you have a name and description,” replied the gray-haired man.
“He paid cash and didn’t ask for a receipt. He was tall and bald with big shoulders,” replied the attendant.
The gray-haired man eyed the attendant long enough to make him fidget and pulled some Thai baht from his wallet before folding them and passing them to the younger man. The attendant offered a mock salute as he backed away, completing the transaction. The gray-haired man pulled out his cell phone and scanned the immediate area before walking to a quiet spot in front of a restaurant closed for the evening. “Hello, I think your guy is on his way to the Conrad,” he said.
***
It took an hour to reach Bangkok and the traffic congestion worsened when they turned off the Bangkok-Chonburi motorway toward the city center. Gregg often looked back and glanced at the side mirrors, trying to detect any sign of a tail while the car maneuvered through traffic. His efforts were fruitless as he noted lines of cars stuck in traffic and a never-ending parade of motorbikes passing along the sides of the road while his ride meandered toward the city. Gregg tried to engage the limousine driver. “What kind of music are you playing?”
“Luk thung. It’s Thai country music,” replied the driver.
The limo exited at South Ploenchit Road and turned onto Sukhumvit Road where traffic flowed better and they passed an elephant standing in front of a tall office building.
“You’ve got elephants in the city?” asked Gregg.
“It’s against the law. The concrete is too hot for the animals’ feet,” replied the driver.
Gregg soon saw the greenery of Lumpini Park. The car passed the American embassy and they turned right into the entrance route for the Conrad. Gregg hurried from the limousine to complete the check-in requirements, and a bellman escorted him to his executive suite on the twentieth floor. The room featured a sensational view of Bangkok. “I feel bad. My wife would enjoy this beautiful room,” said Gregg.
“I hear that often. Have a good night, and please call the bell desk if you require anything,” replied the bellman.
Minutes after the bellman departed, his doorbell rang. Gregg checked the door’s peephole and saw a Thai housekeeper.
“Would you like turndown service, sir?” she asked.
Gregg watched her adjust the bed and leave chocolate on the nightstand. He didn’t notice the black pen deposited by the woman next to the phone. “I’ll add these extra towels to your bathroom now,” she said.
Gregg left her to do her job and glanced out the window at the impressive Bangkok skyline. The housekeeper added some female hygienic products to the bathroom’s amenities and excused herself. She took the elevator down to the basement and received permission from her manager to step out for a cigarette break. While outside alone in the staff lounge area she made a call from her cell.
“The listening devices are planted in the bedroom and bathroom as ordered,” said the housekeeper.
“Thank you, Boonsri. This may lead to a nice bonus for you,” said the voice, and the call finished.
***
Gregg called the operator and requested a 4:30 a.m. wake-up call. He set his cell phone alarm as a backup and laid out clothes for the trip to the temple. After emptying the contents of his dopp kit onto the washroom shelf, he pulled his communication device from his duffel bag. I guess they know exactly where I am, he thought.
Gregg returned to the main suite and checked the wet bar. He was pleased to find a half bottle of Cloudy Bay Chardonnay from New Zealand.
“Perfect, and I’m on an expense account,” he said out loud and poured a glass to sip while bathing. After disrobing and entering the hot bath, he sat back and enjoyed the Chardonnay’s crisp citrus nose with its hint of honey. Gregg picked up the remote placed on the shelf beside the bath. He pressed the large red button, raising the blinds separating the bathroom from the main suite. It opened his bath to the city, and Bangkok lit up before him.
Chapter 16
Yokota Air Base, Basement of Building 316
Jeff Ward sat at his desk reading through multiple data reports and internal email messages and took an extra second to reread his communication sent to Pierre Marron forty-eight hours earlier.
Encrypted text line one: When does the courier arrive?
Handler’s reply: Sunday evening, on Thai Air 643 from Narita.
Encrypted text line two: Description?
Handler’s reply: Six feet tall. He’ll wear a black baseball cap and carry a bottle of water.
Encrypted text line three: Rendezvous point?
Handler’s reply: Wat Chaeng Temple, located on the west bank of the Chao Phraya River, on Monday morning before 8 a.m. Your identity phrase is Sweden 17–Canada 1.
Encrypted text line four: Are you kidding? This can’t be an ice hockey score.
Handler’s reply: Everyone is a critic or a comedian nowadays.
Encrypted text line five: Could use some backup for the upcoming wet work.
Handler’s reply: None available. You’ll have to make it on your own.
Encrypted text line six: What about the courier?
Handler’s reply: Don’t go there, he can’t help you. We’ve secured the alarm system. He’s guarded by an African mercenary and a forty-two-year-old former Thai Navy Seal. They’ll be in close proximity to Hamid and he keeps two pit bulls in his backyard. Can you handle them?
Encrypted text line seven: We’ll be resourceful.
Handler’s reply: You are creative. Break a leg.
(Transmission terminated.)
It was 7:00 a.m. when he put the report down on Monday morning in Tokyo and two hours ahead of Bangkok time. His office with the Intelligence Flight at Yokota Air Base was in the basement of building 316. There was one entrance to their section, and it was fortified by thick steel doors and bulletproof windows. Two security men monitored the access point and collected personal cell phones and weapons. Everyone without exception was exposed to recognition and screening technology before moving past the guards to their office.
Eight clocks displaying local time in major cities around the globe lined the main hallway. Multiple computers used for various tasks dependent on security classification were positioned on desks throughout the office. One room sealed from common view housed the communication and translation teams, considered a tribe unto themselves. Steve Brown was expected to arrive at 10:00 a.m. and Ward focused on finishing a project Fifty-First Star activity brief in preparation for the meeting.
The project’s name honored William Francis Buckley, represente
d by the fifty-first star on the CIA’s Memorial Wall. The report included critical points from each meeting with Gregg Westwood including the hash run and briefing en route to Narita. Ward had requested data from the liaison officer interfacing with Japanese counterparts in the intelligence community. He was holding his breath. An oversight jeopardizing the mission could endanger lives and prove toxic to his career.
Initial calls from the surveillance team were assuring. Gregg Westwood was traveling and on schedule for the designated time for the package delivery. Marron was positioned for the necessary wet work and supporting personnel were on high alert. Ward’s agents in Bangkok were instructed to watch from a distance. A two-man team was positioning themselves around the river to report Gregg’s movements and anything extraordinary. They’d use state-of-the-art technology to monitor Gregg’s activities and even his heartbeat, if required. No tail was yet detected, and the mission was running smoothly.
Ward’s phone rang. “Ward speaking,” he said.
“It’s Mariko from the domestic desk,” said the slightly accented female voice.
“What have you got for me?” asked Ward.
“The Tokyo and Yokohama container ports are fucking vibrating,” said Mariko.
“You pick up the local lingo at graduate school?” asked Ward.
“At my high school in Cincinnati while on a Rotary scholarship. Do you want the report?” she asked.
“Go ahead,” said Ward.
“Our informants are hearing rumors of incoming cargo with serious contraband. It’s expected to arrive in Tokyo for redirection to the American West Coast,” she said.
“The data’s interesting, but what makes you think it’s worth our attention?” asked Ward.
“The kind of money being thrown around to secure future cooperation will blow your goddamn mind,” she said.
“Cincinnati?” asked Ward.
“Graduate school in Edinburgh, actually. Do you want to be kept up to date, or will you pick up the reports at the monthly meetings?” asked Mariko.
“Feel free to call me when you find something solid. I appreciate your support,” said Ward.
“Quid pro quo, my man. Will you take me to the two-for-one steak night at the Officers’ Club?” asked Mariko.
“Do I need to dress up?” asked Ward.
“Only if you want to see me in a slinky black dress and spiked heels,” Mariko replied.
“You are on. Did you develop these negotiation skills in Scotland?” asked Ward.
“Try New Jersey. I minored in marketing at Princeton. Good-bye,” said Mariko.
Chapter 17
Bangkok, Thonglor District
Dalir Hamid began his evening prayer, called Salat al’Isha, and felt grateful to Allah, the merciful and compassionate, unaware of his proximity to a dangerous predator. Marron had made his way to his back garden wall through a neighbor’s home vacated specifically for the purpose. His team had rented it under the guise of an onsite inspection for future rentals and possible use as a movie set.
He started the operation by tossing juicy pieces of beef laced with doxepin to knock out the dogs. Marron loved animals, and killing them was not in his playbook. He touched the communication device in his ear and asked for a status report. “How’s Fido and Fifi’s stress level?”
“They’ve chilled out dramatically in the last minute. This is why I teach my animals to never eat without a pat on the head from me first,” replied the controller.
“What do you see in the backyard?”
“It’s clear. Everyone’s in the front of the house and Hamid’s busy with his evening prayers,” replied the handler.
“Thank goodness for technology, both ancient and modern,” said Marron as he lifted a ladder and placed it against the brick wall separating himself from the target. “Shut down Hamid’s security system now,” ordered Marron.
His face was covered by dark camouflage makeup and every piece of his gear was black and designed to perform in hot and humid climates. Marron did a final visual check of his equipment and quickly climbed the ladder. He placed his foot between two shards of glass built into the top of the brick fence and leaped onto the soft grass of Hamid’s backyard. The assassin landed with barely a sound and sped to the cover of bushes near the target’s home.
Hamid finished his moments of meditation and found himself reflecting on Imad Mughniyah. His mentor’s ghost or the lingering memory of their conversations echoed throughout his days. He wondered how much better their last meeting could have gone if he’d kept his cool. Hamid concentrated on the details of his last conversation with Imad.
Mughniyah had said, “The Zionists and Americans are hypocrites calling the soldiers of Islam cowards. They attack us with Apache helicopters and plant explosives in our homes. Face me with a gun or your bare hands and we’ll soon determine who is the coward.”
Dalir Hamid had responded by pounding his fists on the short-legged teak table, knocking teacups to the floor and shouting, “The CIA and Mossad are monsters and the worst kind of fajir. The unbelieving foreign sinners will all burn in hell.”
“Don’t waste your energy by destroying our furniture. We have eliminated the American presence in Lebanon, and please understand this truth, my brother. For this service to God, I will certainly pay with my life. There’s a five-million-dollar bounty on my head, and time is short. Don’t fear or frustrate yourself, my young warrior, as you will be left to carry on the fight. You are the future of our cause, and a new leader of our Jihad. You will never stop taking it to the pigs.”
Mughniyah’s words had proven prophetic. A spare tire replaced with explosives finished his life in Damascus. The blast shook the entire neighborhood of Kafar Sousah while ending Mughniyah’s life and terrorist career as he strolled along the street. Dalir shook his head as if to cast off the nightmares. “Pim, call up the Windmill and reserve an outdoor table for tomorrow. Select one near the door where the air conditioning keeps the temperature down. Be sure to have them put a bottle of Krug Grande Cuvée on ice. I feel like enjoying some champagne. God will turn a blind eye to such a rare and slight indulgence.”
“Yes, would you require anything else?” asked Pim.
“Send Fon to me and tell him I need a firm massage. It’s going to be an exciting day tomorrow, and I must be relaxed and ready for action.” The young Thai man held his hands together in a gesture called the wai and bowed before backing out of the room. Dalir Hamid undid his belt and dropped his bathrobe while moving to a full-length mirror at the back of his bedroom. He looked over his body, now at least thirty pounds heavier than his days as a soldier. His long hair was turning gray and hung down past his waist.
“You called for me, Master,” said Fon. The light-skinned adolescent, not completely free of baby fat, looked at his master and solicited direction.
“Yes, give me a firm massage, my little love. I need to be in a fine mood before I go to sleep,” said Dalir. He slapped the boy’s buttocks.
“Lie down and relax. You are always worried about security, but nobody wants to hurt us,” said the young servant.
***
Bangkok, Thonglor District
Marron sat cross-legged in the walk-in closet of Hamid’s bedroom and listened to the sound of the two men leaving their bed and moving to the bathroom. He waited to hear the sound of the shower’s water beat against walls and glass and then exited the closet. “Iron’s on and hot. How’s the picture?” asked Marron. His voice was just above a whisper and loud enough for the earpiece to transmit without distortion.
“We’re locked into the security system and the drone feeds are switched to infrared. We count two bodies in the shower and one outside the bedroom sitting on a sofa watching television. One more is busy in the kitchen, and the last unfriendly is in the front room,” replied the controller.
Marron moved with the speed and grace common to professional dancers and advanced martial artists. He assessed Hamid and his servant as defenseless and left
the two alone in the shower. The assassin removed his Marine Corps Special Operations Strider SMF blade from his ankle sheath and in silence turned the bedroom door handle and pushed it open a crack. The African mercenary sat on the sofa seemingly absorbed by a Thai game show playing on the television.
Marron moved like a cat to the mercenary and the guard’s head jerked to the right when the assassin yanked it back by the man’s braided locks, exposing the carotid artery to his razor-sharp blade. The professional soldier’s resistance was negligible, and the room remained quiet, except for the canned laughter blasting from the television’s speakers. Marron moved forward, leaving the mercenary with his head all but severed and his life pouring rapidly from his fatal wounds. He paused before moving into the living area in the front of the house. The shower water continued to pour behind him and nothing ahead of him caused alarm.
“Time for the diversion,” whispered Marron. One second later, the front doorbell chimed and Marron heard footsteps moving to the main entryway door. “What have you got?” asked Marron.
The controller watched the tiny figure lit up and displayed on the IR screen leaving the house to walk to the front gate, and he switched his attention to the live video. “The second servant is opening the metal door and stepping onto the road. He’s searching for the phantom bell ringer. I guess they don’t get many deliveries,” said Marron’s handler.
Marron touched his earpiece, creating a clicking sound to acknowledge the controller’s statement. He moved silently into the living room where the Thai bodyguard stood looking out the front window. He breathed deeply and slowed his heartbeat, readying to make a perfect shot. Marron lifted his SIG Sauer and locked it onto the back of the former Thai Navy Seal’s head. He squeezed the trigger and fired a subsonic round as the bodyguard spun and released a throwing knife.
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