The tourists watched a young Thai man spar with two king cobras while squatting on the balls of his feet ready to avoid the snakes’ strike. The young man was keeping a safe distance from the dangerous animals and wore tattered jeans and a T-shirt cut away at the shoulders. He manipulated the cobras with smooth movements of his hands, seemingly hypnotizing the dangerous reptiles.
They turned down a path to their left and walked past a crocodile lying in a pool of water.
“That’s pathetic. I wouldn’t leave a pair of goldfish in that tiny cesspool,” said Gregg.
Marron stopped in front of an Asian black bear and scanned the area in front of the snake farm. Gregg watched the bear pace two meters only to turn and repeat the march in his tiny cell. His unhealthy-looking coat was devoid of underwool and looked sweaty. The bear panted while moving his head from side to side as it progressed. “This is disgusting,” said Gregg.
Marron didn’t take his eyes off the front of the dirty zoo but replied, “Yes, it’s offensive. Let’s go.” The assassin led the way past molting wild chickens and greasy-looking parrots before stopping in front of the tigers’ cage. The tigers lay in their pen, barely shaded, looking rickety and emaciated.
“I bet these two would prefer to take their chances with the poachers in Thap Lan National Park,” said Gregg.
“They’d be happy to dodge taxis on Sukhumvit Road,” replied Marron. The assassin scanned their surroundings, not bothering to make eye contact with Gregg. “Wait here,” he said.
The tigers smelled bad, and Marron had pulled him far outside his comfort zone. Gregg was considering the option of leaving Marron and the horrid animal park when he was approached by a short man. The stranger was wearing a pink snake farm T-shirt and carrying a bag of chicken heads. His dark face was blotched by pink patches on his chin and forehead. “You can feed the tigers for three hundred baht,” said the man.
Gregg pulled out a hundred-baht bill and gave it to the snake farm staff member. “Feed them yourself and leave me alone,” he said.
The man snatched the bill and turned away without attempting further negotiation. He’d taken a step and a half when he flew backward into Gregg who bounced off the tigers’ cage and rolled away. Gregg found himself on the dirt, angered by the collision, but his reaction soon changed to fear when he saw two gaping wounds in the staff member’s chest and stomach. The amateur spy pushed away from the wounded man and scrambled several meters like a crab on the beach.
For the first time, Gregg heard gunfire followed by bullets ringing off the cage bars behind him. They sent sparks spitting into the air and caused the big cats to scream. He started to run, and when shots raised the dirt in front of him, he tried to stop but stumbled and slid on his back like a baseball player trying to sneak into second base. Bullets whizzed past his face and body as he came to a stop. He froze and didn’t move a muscle while waiting for the fatal bullet. A shot rang out but sounded different than the rapid fire of the automatic weapon Gregg thought would kill him.
Gregg slowly looked toward the direction of the bear pens where he’d heard the roar of the machine gun. His eyes were drawn to an AK-47 machine gun lying on the ground an arm’s length from a man wearing a gray tracksuit. It was the man from the park who’d followed him into the hotel washroom. He didn’t need to see the assailant’s face to identify his stalker, which was fortunate. All the necessary features of the man from the park were destroyed by a well-placed bullet, making him unrecognizable. Gregg worked to not throw up, and he shook from the adrenaline now lingering in his system. He got to his feet and suddenly bent over to knock the dust off his pants.
The act saved his life as a spray of AK-47 projectiles passed over his head and into the tigers’ cage. He hit the deck, and the horrible sounds of the injured tigers behind him enraged him. He looked up and saw a well-dressed man holding an AK-47. At the same instant, two bullets impacted the wall behind the man, and he turned and began to run toward the park entrance. Gregg chased after the gunman and was running at a full sprint when the attacker stopped and raised his rife to fire at Marron, exposing his back in the process.
It was like hitting a quarterback when blitzing from the outside linebacker position, and Gregg and the gunman crashed into the crocodile pool. Gregg and the reptile rolled and scrambled out of the filthy water, but the assailant remained facedown, unconscious in the cesspool. Marron jogged up to Gregg and assessed the situation. He pointed his gun at the back of the gunman’s head and pulled the trigger of his single-action SIG. Marron looked at the crocodile and smiled. “We’ll leave him for you,” he said.
Marron pulled Gregg back in the direction of the tiger cages. “Grab your bags and let’s get out of here,” he said.
The courier bag remained by the tigers’ cage where Gregg had dropped it. He scooped it up and started toward the park’s back exit when he heard Marron shouting a profanity. Gregg stopped to watch the assassin all but break into tears in front of the tiger cage. The animals were alive but terribly wounded and suffering. Marron pulled out his SIG and put down both of the big cats.
“These motherfuckers are going to pay for this,” he said.
There were taxis waiting in the parking lot and their drivers were disturbingly complacent about the gunshots and screams coming from the snake farm. Just another day at the zoo, he thought.
They entered a cab and Marron gave the directions to the driver in Thai. The two men were only minutes into their journey when Gregg broke down. He started to weep and got himself under control. “Pull over,” he ordered. When the taxi moved to the side of the road, he opened the door and threw up his breakfast onto the pavement. He wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve and closed the car door. He saw the micro-movement of Marron’s lip before the spy reached over and took Gregg’s courier pouch.
“I’m very sorry about the tail. I didn’t see them,” said Gregg.
“There’s no way an amateur is going to spot a tail. The guys back at the snake farm were professionals. They’re dead because they made one mistake. They assumed we didn’t expect them, and you showed some guts. Let me take a moment to look over your package,” said Marron.
He pulled an unmarked tan manila envelope out of the bag and ripped it open to check the contents. “This seems in order,” he said. He returned the envelope to the courier pouch.
“Then my job’s done, and I’ll be on my way. This nightmare is over,” replied Gregg.
Chapter 20
Tokyo
Jeff Ward’s secure line rang at 15:00. “Ward here,” he answered.
“How’s our connection? It’s Benetti, and I’m calling on a burner phone.”
“Loud and clear. What do you have to report?” asked Ward.
“The handoff is complete, but we have some irregularities to report,” said Benetti.
Ward ran his hand through his dark thick hair and drank a gulp of the cold coffee sitting on his desk. “Give me the details,” he said.
“The courier was tailed from his hotel to the rendezvous point. Marron identified the security breach and exited the rendezvous point with the courier. They were tracked by two gunmen to a tourist trap called the Thonburi Snake Farm where they came under attack,” said Benetti.
“This is somewhat more than a few irregularities. What’s their status?” asked Ward.
“They eliminated their pursuit and the courier has remained with Marron. They’re heading to the Patpong District,” said Benetti. The line was silent long enough for Benetti to offer Ward a nudge by asking, “Sir?”
“How do you know they’re not being tracked as we speak?” asked Ward.
“Good question. We think they have a current tail, as drone imagery shows one motorbike with two passengers consistently on their taxi’s six. We think they’ve been under surveillance constantly since connecting at Wat Chaeng Temple and likely since the courier left the hotel. We’ve got a drone tracking them, and the courier’s communication device is alive and well.”
&n
bsp; Ward grabbed a handkerchief and wiped sweat from his forehead. “Get on the move and get in position to support them. Alert me to any other inconsistencies,” ordered Ward.
“Copy,” said Benetti and glanced at his laptop once before signing off. “One moment, sir. They’ve stopped in front of a bar near the Sala Daeng Station in Patpong.”
“Send us the coordinates and report to me once you’re in position,” ordered Ward.
“Roger that,” said Benetti and finished the call.
Ward switched lines and called his boss’s cell phone.
“What do you want?” asked Steve Brown.
“We need to talk,” said Ward.
“Meet me at my parking spot,” said Brown.
Chapter 21
Bangkok
The taxi let Marron and Gregg off in front of Sala Daeng Station. It was only 11:00 a.m. but several tourists were drinking in the open-air beer garden centered in a three-storied entertainment complex across the street. Most of the activity in the red-light facility involved custodial work and the restocking of the bars and restaurants. Some night workers dressed in shorts and T-shirts hung out in front of clubs or mingled with the early-bird tourists in the beer garden.
Marron nudged Gregg into an open-air coffee shop and surveyed the area around them. Gregg was unaware of Marron’s work as he was preoccupied with his own observation of two dancers relaxed in front of their third-floor nightclub. They were topless and seemingly comfortable with their nudity while drinking tea and smoking.
“Are those women advertising for their business?” asked Gregg.
Marron took his eyes off the streets for a split second. “They’re not women. Lots of young Thai guys invest in plastic surgery and work the bars as ladyboys. You might be the only one distracted by the free show,” said Marron.
“No shit,” said Gregg and studied the two dancers. “How did you know they were men?”
“The Adam’s apple is a giveaway, but some of the boys even have their throat modified. I’ve heard of tourists falling in love and marrying some of the transgender dancers,” said Marron.
Gregg took a final look at the two dancers before shifting his gaze to the people sitting at the outdoor bar near them. “The people at the bar are all watching the Barcelona-Real Madrid football match,” replied Gregg.
“They’ve got their priorities right. Let’s get out of here,” ordered Marron. He walked away from the red-light district, and Gregg followed for a block before they crossed a congested road going south. They stepped up and down a steel pedestrian footbridge passing several beggars lying on cardboard with hands outstretched. Marron ignored them but Gregg gave twenty baht to a woman begging in dirty rags while her toddler played with an old plastic rattle on a dusty blanket beside her.
Marron pointed at a building one block up. “Can you see the three-story building up the street with the red awning?” he asked. When Gregg nodded in the affirmative, Marron continued. “It’s a massage parlor, and you can get a shower there. Clothes are sold inexpensively at the street stalls on the way. I hope you’ve got your passport because you can’t go back to the Conrad to get your stuff. You do need a shower before going to the airport because, frankly, you stink,” said Marron.
“Is this where we say good-bye?” asked Gregg.
“Yes,” said Marron.
“Thanks for keeping me alive,” said Gregg.
“You completed your courier assignment and proved to be stand-up when the shit hit the fan,” said Marron.
“I thought I was on a paid vacation. This has been rough work,” said Gregg.
“Your status has changed from an under-the-radar courier to an untrained operative, and you’re no longer valuable. When your cover was blown you became disposable. You’ll have to be conscious of the fact and keep your head down,” said Marron. Gregg thought about the statement a moment before giving Marron a casual salute. He turned and walked toward the massage parlor.
Marron watched him until he entered the building and then he left the shadow of the footbridge to walk east to an alley, where he followed the narrow passageway for about a block to an apartment building’s back door. He paused and pulled out his communication device. “You folks have eyes on us?” he asked.
“We’ve got some drone coverage of your general vicinity and are locked onto your cell phones,” replied Benetti.
“I’ve released Westwood and will be going dark for a few minutes. Have you detected any unwanted attention?” asked Marron.
“We haven’t identified any unfriendly personalities since you left the snake farm but will be sure to alert you to anything we discover,” replied Benetti.
“Copy. You won’t be able to track me for about thirty minutes,” said Marron, and he cut the connection.
Marron entered the apartment, felt something brush against his leg, and watched a rat scurry away to hide under a black plastic garbage bag left on the floor. The area was lit by two bare lightbulbs screwed into ceiling sockets and the dirty green carpet smelled of mildew.
A large cockroach scuttled up the wall to rest in an upper corner of the ceiling where the wallpaper had peeled away. Marron walked to the second apartment door on the left side and knocked. He heard footsteps and the door’s peephole darkened for one second before he was welcomed by the sound of several bolts unlocking.
The door was pulled open, exposing a short woman with long gray hair wearing a perfectly tailored black silk suit. A thick gold chain with a large diamond pendant hung from her elegant neck and matched diamond earrings also set in gold. The door itself was made from solid steel and the room behind her was decorated in luxurious fashion.
“I’m aware of your bodyguard behind me, but I did not see this one coming,” said Marron.
Marron glanced over his shoulder to assess the middle-aged Thai man armed with a machine gun. “The Beretta PMX submachine gun is a practical choice,” he said.
“Why did you come to my office?” asked the woman.
“I’ve got some paperwork for your perusal. If it’s legitimate, we’ll mutually benefit from the transaction,” offered Marron.
The woman pulled a box of Treasurer cigarettes from her pocket and placed one in her mouth. She handed a lighter to Marron who snapped on the flame and touched it to the tip of her cigarette. The gray-haired woman sucked deeply and blew the smoke into the hallway. Marron passed the lighter back to the woman, and she turned and said, “Come in.”
Marron stepped into the entrance way and took off his shoes. He put on slippers prepared for guests and followed the woman to a lounge furnished with a sofa and several comfortable chairs while the bodyguard locked the door and stood guard behind them. A Persian carpet covered most of the room and a sculptured glass table sat in its center. Incense burned on a marble stand, spreading a pleasant jasmine scent throughout the room.
The woman sat down on the sofa and put out her cigarette in a large ashtray. “Sit down and pass me your documents,” she said. Marron reached into his bag and pulled out the manila envelope to hand over to the woman. She pulled out the stack of bearer bonds and spread them out in front of her on the table and touched them lightly while concentrating on the details.
“Hello, President Grover Cleveland, I haven’t seen you and your 1981 bearer bonds for several years,” she said.
She took out her iPhone and took several pictures of an assortment of the financial instruments. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll return with a decision,” she said and left him alone in the room. The atmosphere seemed to cool in the woman’s absence, and Marron stood when she reentered the room.
“I can transfer payment less commissions in three banking days,” she said.
“What kind of commission are you expecting, madame?” asked Marron.
“My usual 10 percent,” she replied, and her eyes sparkled with a keen intelligence as negotiations began.
“Three business days seems a little long to cash untraceable bearer bonds. The securities have adde
d value for anyone requiring financial privacy. What would you need to have the money transferred to me in eight hours?”
The woman whistled and pulled out her cigarettes to light one of the Treasurers herself. “I’d need a 20 percent commission,” she replied, and both remained silent for a painful duration. The room was quiet except for the loud clicks of a clock centered on the table.
“The deal’s yours for 16 percent,” said Marron, and the woman nodded her acceptance.
“The money will be transferred before dinner tonight. Please go now, as I’ve got work to do. My guard will show you out,” she said and left the room with the document.
***
The female assassin felt her burner phone vibrate in her pocket and pulled her motorbike to the side of the road. “Yes,” she said.
“Everything’s turning to shit. They hit Hamid this morning and the two American agents got away from two of our best gunmen,” said the voice.
The female assassin closed her eyes and thought carefully about her next statement. “They weren’t the A team. Do we still have eyes on the Americans?”
“One of them. Gregg Westwood just left a massage parlor in Patpong. We’ve got a few contractors following him,” said the male voice.
“And the other one? The professional?” she asked.
“We’re not sure. Our intel came one day late, and the reward money is no longer on the table. Pyongyang is embarrassed and wants us to make amends.”
“Amends? We didn’t screw up. Intelligence didn’t find the target on time, and now they’re making it our problem,” she said.
“We need to terminate Gregg Westwood. I’ve got the old man on the job and he may need some back up,” said the male voice.
“So much for the A team,” she replied.
“I won’t put up with any further insolence. Get your ass to Patpong and deliver me Gregg Westwood’s head,” ordered her controller.
The Courier Page 9