The Courier

by Gordon J Campbell

  The round fired through the titanium tube suppressor cracked but not loud enough to alert anyone outside the living room. It tore into the left side of the bodyguard’s face as the target’s throwing blade caught the wall inches from Marron’s head. The bodyguard staggered, and Marron moved forward while firing three rounds grouped on the target’s chest. The man dropped to his knees and slumped sideways onto the tiled floor.

  “You still there?” asked Marron.

  “The kid’s coming back into the house,” replied the handler.

  The young man entered the house and walked without concern through the main lobby, only halting when he reached the body of the Thai bodyguard surrounded by blood pooling on the white-and-black mosaic floor. The edge of a hot metal silencer touched his head, and before a sound could leave his lips, a significant portion of his face splattered against a Persian wall tapestry.

  “Status in the bedroom?”

  “The IR indicates two bodies remain in the shower,” said the controller.

  Marron walked with soft and efficient strides back to the bedroom and yanked open the shower door. He extended his arm and jabbed the end of the firearm into Hamid’s mouth and squeezed the trigger twice. Hamid crashed to the ground naked on top of his servant who remained unmoving under his dead lover. Marron ignored the young man to pick up the shell casings left in the room.

  “I’m finished here,” said Marron. He walked out the front gate without looking back. He glanced down each side of the suburban Bangkok street and caught a shadow or a glimpse of a face three hundred meters to his left. He froze and asked, “Have you picked up any haji surveillance in this area of operation?”

  “Hold tight, we’ll scan the neighborhood,” replied the controller. After several minutes, Marron heard his controller’s voice in his ear. “Some bike taxi drivers are hanging out a few blocks east, but you’re clear in the west.”

  “Roger. It’s time to go for a boat ride and collect your untraceable paperwork. Your boy better be waiting at the rendezvous point,” he said.

  Chapter 18

  East Bangkok

  The bike taxi pulled onto the rough gravel driveway of a local roadhouse bar and restaurant not far from the airport. The driver braked to a stop, dropped his legs to the ground to steady the machine, and kicked the parking stand down. His passenger jumped off the bike. She was tall and shapely and immediately caught the attention of the men hanging around the steps of the outdoor bar.

  She returned a call on her cell and it was answered by a male voice with a simple “yes” after three rings.

  “You called,” she said.

  “We’ve got a lead on an American agent and are tracking him. It’s our best opportunity to locate Hamid and collect the bounty,” he said.

  “Are you expecting him to find Hamid and offer him up on a plate for us?” she asked.

  “Your insubordination isn’t appreciated, and if we want to stay alive, our squad needs to act quickly. We’ve got an opportunity to disrupt the American operation and take credit for the hit. The Arabs aren’t fond of the CIA and would certainly show their appreciation,” said the male voice.

  “There’s something desperate about your logic. It sounds like a losing proposition for us,” she replied.

  “Do you want the mission, or do I report you as absent without leave?”

  “I’m a patriot and have never refused an order or missed an assignment. Remember who you’re controlling, little man,” she said and could hear her supervisor grinding his teeth in reply.

  “Head as quickly as possible to the Asiatique shopping and entertainment complex on the Chao Phraya River. We’ll deliver the matériel and operation orders on route,” the male voice said, and the line went dead.

  The woman started walking back to the motorcycle taxi when a dark-skinned Thai laborer whistled at her. His pants and shoes were covered in dust from construction work, and his manners were clearly influenced by overindulgence in Mekhong whiskey. The laborer stood bare-chested on the bar’s wooden entryway. She heard him yell the Thai term for “slut.” Once wasn’t enough for the drunk, and he repeated the insult. It was loud and clear without an alcoholic slur. She touched the taxi driver with her fingertips on his shoulder and walked at a relaxed pace toward the drunk. Her posture was erect, and she smiled as if enjoying an afternoon stroll along a sandy beach.

  There were two stairs leading up to the deck entrance to the roadhouse. The foul-smelling young drunk stood at the top and offered a blackened-tooth grin as the young lady approached. Her right foot stepped on the first stair, her left pressed down on the second, and with the third motion she lifted her right knee high and kicked the drunken brute in the scrotum. The motorcycle taxi driver witnessed the action and winced, subconsciously moving his hands to a protective position in front of his own manhood.

  The devastating blow dropped the drunk to his knees. His head was now exposed, making it a perfect target for the young woman’s left knee. She struck fast and the rotation of her hips carried the full strength of her lower body. Momentum drove the drunk down the stairs and forced him to roll onto the gravel.

  She pushed her hair back into place and jogged back to the bike. The driver started the motor and she jumped onto the back. She turned her head and looked back at the drunk as the wheels spun and the motorcycle gained traction in the gravel. He was throwing up his dinner and his T-shirt was covered in a yellowish combination of whiskey, noodles, and red mucus from his crushed and broken nose.

  “Disgraceful,” she said and laughed out loud as the bike reentered the highway and headed to Bangkok.

  Chapter 19

  Bankok, Conrad Hotel

  It was still dark when Gregg woke in his luxurious room at the Conrad. It was 4:03 a.m., ahead of the iPhone alarm and front desk wake-up call by thirty minutes. He turned on the lights and made himself a coffee with the room’s Nespresso machine. The double shot gave him the kick he needed, as did the generous fruit basket on the table and yogurt in the fridge.

  He enjoyed breakfast while watching the big city come to life. He glanced at the front page of the newspaper left under his hotel room door where bold headlines celebrated the Queen of Thailand’s birthday. Thai monks would lead religious ceremonies around Bangkok from early morning while the military and government institutions celebrated in the evening.

  Gregg cleaned up and dressed in casual tourist gear. He finished the look by dawning Ward’s black baseball cap received at Narita Airport. He patted his cargo shorts to confirm he’d packed the essentials and, after feeling his communication device and passports, secured the Velcro pocket closures. He picked up the black OGIO handbag containing his assigned load for the handoff and departed his room for the lobby.

  He stopped at the concierge and glanced at his watch. “Would you mind giving me a bottle of water?” he asked.

  The young women behind the counter wiped beads of water off the cold bottle with a cotton cloth and passed it to Gregg. He offered a thank-you in Thai before making his way to the front door. An attendant dressed in a military-style uniform asked, “Are you going to the airport?”

  “No, I’m just going for a walk,” Gregg said. He jogged to Witthayu Road and followed it for four blocks before crossing into Lumpini Park. He ran along a path intersecting the park diagonally for about ten minutes before reaching the busy Rama IV Road. He slowed down after sighting water monitor lizards resting on the track and took the time to look around the park. There were several people scattered around the vicinity on benches or walking dogs. None seemed interested in him, and he returned his attention to the path ahead of him.

  The lizards seemed to be enjoying the warm flat surface of the walkway. One looked to be three meters long and Gregg wanted nothing to do with it. He gave the lizards a wide berth and jogged on the grass around them before returning to the stone and concrete paths. At Rama IV Road he looked over his surroundings. He was confident nothing was out of the ordinary and hailed a cab.

>   A pink Toyota pulled up and he entered its back seat. “Mandarin Oriental Hotel, please,” said Gregg. The taxi driver was confused, requiring Gregg to show him the map taken from his room at the Conrad. He’d circled the destination, and the driver nodded his head in understanding. After pulling back onto the street, the taxi driver accelerated past a street cleaner whose large round brushes swept the road, tossing dust and debris left from the weekend.

  The city was awakening. Shops were opening and preparing for the day’s work ahead. Roadside open-air restaurants were serving breakfast to Thai laborers. Trucks were parked waiting for dayworkers to transport to construction sites. School buses full of children arrived from suburban locations. The light traffic allowed the taxi to pull into the Mandarin Oriental Hotel parking lot next to the Chao Phraya River after only twenty minutes.

  The meter showed seventy baht, and Gregg handed the taxi driver a hundred-baht bill and didn’t wait for change. It was 6:10, with plenty of time to secure a fantail boat ride to the Temple of Dawn. He estimated a twenty-minute travel time on the river to the Wat Chaeng Temple, or what the tourist maps called the Wat Arun. Gregg entered the Mandarin Oriental and was startled by the contrast in lifestyles as he left behind the rough streets leading to the river. He made his way past groups of guests lining up to check out at the front desk and was forced to step aside as an aggressive band of Korean tourists made their way to the restaurant.

  Gregg escaped the early-morning crowd by walking across the lobby to the quiet restroom. Its air conditioning caused goose bumps to raise on the skin of his arms and legs within seconds of entering the room. He walked to the sink at the far end of the facility and glanced under the toilet stalls before turning on the water. The walls were made of mahogany, and the porcelain sinks and urinals were brightly polished.

  He breathed deeply and felt the tension in his body. He wiped his face with the thick cotton towels left in baskets beside each sink. The spotless mirror was framed with gold leaf paint and he stood before it looking at his own reflection. “What are you worried about? You’re just a courier,” he reminded himself.

  An Asian man, possibly a Thai, dressed in a gray tracksuit entered the bathroom and passed Gregg on the way to a toilet stall. Gregg looked him over through the reflection of the mirror. Did I see the man in the park? He blew off the question and attributed it to nerves. Why would anyone follow you? You’re off the radar, he thought and left to make his way to the Wat Chaeng Temple.

  ***

  Thonburi River’s West Bank

  It was almost 8:30 a.m. and Gregg was sitting on a bench by the gate to the Wat Chaeng Temple near a group of tourists who were waiting to enter and smoking cigarettes. The wind blew their ash and smoke in Gregg’s direction, and he was ready to relocate when he noticed a straggler casually dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt. Gregg eyed the man wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap and oversized aviator sunglasses shielding his face from the sun and preventing easy recognition.

  He was about five feet, seven inches and fit and was walking a direct course toward him from the front gate. Gregg pretended to ignore the approaching baseball fan while sipping warm water and staring at his feet. The contact’s movements were subtle and relaxed and he seemed to glide to a stop a few yards from Gregg. “Sweden 17, Canada 1. Is ice hockey even popular in Canada?” he asked.

  “Funny guy. Shall we go put on some skates and find out?” replied Gregg.

  The contact’s lips seemed to move at the corners and were only perceptible for a microsecond. He made a show of taking a long look around while turning 360 degrees.

  “You’ve brought a crowd with you. Follow me,” he ordered.

  The contact walked toward the boat docks, and Gregg had to jog to keep up with him. He whistled and waived at a water taxi anchored offshore from the edge of the pier. The boat’s captain fired up his engine and maneuvered the vessel to the dock. “The long-tail boats are an endangered species,” said the contact.

  “Why aren’t you following orders? I thought you’d take my package at the connection point,” said Gregg.

  “Give it to me later, and for now, take a look at this beautiful hull made of Thai timber. They don’t harvest it anymore, and in a few years the river will be full of speedboats made of aluminum,” said the contact. The boat pulled next to the dock and the captain threw a rope to them. “Take the bag and sit in the bow,” ordered the contact.

  When Gregg didn’t move, the contact said, “That’s the front of the boat.”

  “I’m of aware of the nautical term, but this is contrary to my instructions,” replied Gregg.

  “Is it?” said the contact while Gregg gazed at his own reflection in the assassin’s sunglasses. “Were you also instructed to bring along three or four bad guys to fuck up the handoff?”

  Gregg shook his head in protest but stepped onto the boat. It rocked with his weight as he moved from the boat’s bow to the stern where the captain stood holding the control lever. It connected to a long drive shaft attached to the propeller and the rod and screw were held just above the water while the engine was in neutral. Gregg was in the act of placing the black handbag on the bottom of the boat when he heard his contact bark something in Thai, and the captain twisted the engine control while placing the propeller in the water. The boat seemed to jump out of the water and started bouncing down the river.

  Gregg sat down hard and looked at Marron. “I didn’t see anyone following me,” he yelled to be heard over the roar of the motor.

  The contact shrugged his shoulders. “Take it easy. We have all morning to review the next step,” he said.

  “Next step? I didn’t sign up for this,” said Gregg. His contact nodded his head in agreement.

  “Enjoy the ride. It’s a chance of a lifetime,” he said.

  The morning sun was heating the day, and Gregg was sweating as the temperature quickly exceeded eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit. He thought about jumping into the river and disengaging from the situation. He looked at the water. He assessed the mess of floating garbage covered in oil slicks and watched a dead rat float by on the boat’s wake, discouraging any inclination for a swim.

  The beautiful Temple of Dawn and its distinctive prang towers decorated in colorful porcelain disappeared behind them. Marron stood at the back of the boat looking perfectly proportioned like a professional soccer player or an Olympic athlete. He was staring at what looked like a car parking facility situated across the Chao Phraya River from the temple. Marron saluted with upraised middle fingers, using both his right and left hands for emphasis.

  “What the hell? Look at this guy,” said the surveillance team’s senior agent. “He’s giving us the bird.” Lundy and his partner, Roger Benetti, stared at Marron through their observation gear.

  “How would he know we’re up here?” asked Benetti.

  “I don’t know,” replied Lundy.

  The controller listening to the conversation commented, “Be careful. This guy’s a meat eater. Marron might not be a sociopath, but I bet psychological profiles place him close to that diagnosis.”

  “Was he Delta?” asked Lundy.

  “He was a sniper on a Marine Force Reconnaissance team. What he didn’t learn with the Semper Fi brethren he picked up with the shop. Marron works for us one contract at a time now,” said the controller.

  Lundy and Benetti nodded and watched the long-tail boat move up the river. They lost sight of it when the boat maneuvered behind larger commercial vessels.

  “Anything trailing our guys?” asked the controller.

  “A water taxi is moving in the same direction,” said Benetti.

  “Oh boy, the passengers in the water cab have eyes all over Marron and the courier,” said Lundy.

  “I’ll call it into the operation center. They better not get in Marron’s way,” replied the controller.

  “Amen,” said Lundy.

  ***

  Khlong Watsai Floating Market

  The long-tail b
oat’s engine cut and it glided to the dock and bounced off the tires strapped to the wooden pier. An attendant caught the rope thrown by the river vessel’s pilot and secured the bow end of the boat. The captain leaped onto the dock and pulled the stern tight while Gregg half-crawled out of the vessel to the pier. Marron followed by stepping out of the vessel with athletic grace.

  They walked down the short dock to a reception desk managed by a young lady wearing a flowered camp shirt. A large whiteboard welcomed them to the Thonburi Snake Farm and listed the programs available for the day. Marron pulled out three hundred baht and handed it to the desk attendant in exchange for two entrance tickets and an English brochure. Marron motioned Gregg to follow him with a subtle nod of his head, but Gregg didn’t move.

  “Let’s part company here. It’s time to go our separate ways,” said Gregg.

  “One moment,” said Marron and touched his earpiece.

  “I’m the guy you saluted while on the sail past,” said Lundy in Marron’s ear.

  “What’s your point?” replied Marron.

  “You’ve got two bad actors coming your way in the water taxi. They’ve been following you since you left the temple,” said Lundy.

  Marron turned and scanned the river. “Yes, your courier brought loads of party crashers. You’re indicating the long-tail boat coming hard from about four hundred meters out?” asked Marron.

  “Roger that. Take them out,” said Lundy.

  “Wilco,” replied Marron. He pulled Gregg’s arm. “Join me in a walk around this charming entertainment venue, and I’ll share some things you need to know.”

  Gregg glanced at the approaching vessel, felt the urgency in Marron’s voice, and followed without protest. They walked to a theater shaded by a brown thatched roof and decorated with red and gold tinfoil streamers. It was the featured attraction, and a small group of tourists occupied bleachers surrounding the theater’s dirt floor. Most of the spectators were Scandinavians clad in shorts, sleeveless tops, and sandals.