Chapter 22
Patpong Night Market
Gregg walked along Silom Road dressed in a pair of counterfeit Levi jeans and a Nike sweatshirt purchased on the Bangkok streets as vendors pulled out counterfeit watches, professional sports gear, and high-end sunglasses to set up stalls for the Patpong Night Market. Gregg glanced at the merchandise and caught the attention of one of the merchants. “How do you get away with selling knockoff Rolex watches and Gucci bags?” he asked and received a blank stare as an answer.
Gregg spotted a street stall offering chicken roasted slowly while stacked as an inverted cone on a rotating plate. He strolled up to the venue and listened as a man received his order. The verbal exchange between the vendor and customer sounded strange to Gregg. “What language were you speaking?” he asked.
“It was Kurdish. Are you ready to enjoy the best doner kebab in Thailand? The wraps are baked fresh and the vegetables are first-rate. My mother’s spicy yogurt sauce pulls it all together,” said the shop owner.
Gregg paid for his lunch and walked a few paces away from the stall to a shaded area under the awning of a bar called Kiss Me Patong. The round outdoor tables and chairs positioned outside the bar were unoccupied, but he elected to stand while enjoying the kebab wraps. He waved at the vendor. “This is delicious,” said Gregg.
Gregg’s attention was drawn away from his dinner to the ground in front of him as pieces of the asphalt were being blown upward and pebbles bounced in front of him as if part of some improbable dance. The noise of the busy market streets and loud music blasting from the restaurant masked the sounds of another AK-47. Gregg watched frozen in place as the dirt and concrete in front of him exploded and progressively moved toward him.
Marron seemingly came out of nowhere and pulled Gregg behind a stand full of counterfeit travel suitcases and threw himself down on top of the amateur spy. “Stay down, you stupid shit,” he screamed and crawled to view the street from between a gap between two vendors’ carts. He couldn’t identify their attacker but dropped his body flat to the ground when AK rounds tore through the fake Samsonite luggage above him.
Marron prepared his SIG Sauer and looked over and screamed at Gregg, “Stay here.” The assassin moved like a cat from one stall to another, leaving behind his new partner as pieces of plastic and cloth torn to shreds by hundreds of AK-47 rounds sprinkled down on Gregg like confetti. Marron glanced from behind a florist’s display packed high with pink and white orchids and spotted their attacker.
The assailant had left his post with the bus tour company at the Bangkok Airport to complete the mission that he had started a few hours earlier with a phone call to his controller. His gray hair was tucked under a safari hat, and his upper body was covered with a flak jacket. He was approaching dangerously close to Gregg’s position and people were running in every direction to escape another burst from his machine gun.
Marron lifted his gun and waited for a heavy female tourist to stumble and crawl away from his sight line before extending his arms and placing the red fiber-optic dot transmitted from his weapon’s sight onto the terrorist’s forehead. The gray-haired terrorist was twenty-five meters away when Marron squeezed the trigger and removed most of his skull. He began to move closer to Gregg before the gunman’s body hit the pavement.
Marron scanned the area from behind a table stacked full of Muay Thai boxing shorts, and when another threat did not reveal itself, he waited for the first sound of sirens. The screams of police cars whined and echoed through the streets minutes later. The assassin returned to the luggage vendor’s space to find Gregg covered by a pile of travel bags and staying in place as ordered. Marron pushed the suitcases and duffel bags aside and yanked Gregg up.
“I’m really sorry,” said Gregg.
“What did you say?” asked Marron.
“I’m so sorry,” Gregg repeated.
Marron slapped him and pulled him close to look right into the amateur’s eyes.
“What are you sorry about?” asked the assassin.
“I froze under fire,” replied Gregg.
“How many damn times have you been shot at in your entire life?” screamed Marron.
“That’s the third time today,” replied Gregg.
“You get a pass on your first few dances with an AK-47. Now give me a hand, and let’s get out of here before the Thai police get here,” ordered Marron.
“What’s wrong?” asked Gregg as Marron placed his arm over his shoulder.
“I took one in the ankle. Now let’s move,” screamed Marron.
Gregg and Marron struggled up to a line of taxis a half a block away from the night market where Marron pushed Gregg aside. He pulled himself around the taxi while keeping his injured foot off the ground. He followed Gregg into the vehicle and the taxi driver checked the rearview mirror to look the customers over. He turned around to eye Marron. “Your face is white like a ghost,” said the taxi driver.
“Start driving, and let’s get out of here fast,” ordered Marron.
The driver glanced at the Buddhist talisman hanging from the rearview mirror as he closed the driver’s door and ran his fingers over a photo of his family on the dashboard. He finally moved both hands to the steering wheel and pressed the accelerator to the metal floor with his right foot. The taxi lurched into traffic heading east toward Lumpini Park and maintained the 50 kph speed limit.
“I’ve got some first aid training, so let me take a look at your ankle,” said Gregg.
Gregg saw the dubious expression on the operator’s face and was a little surprised when Marron lifted his left leg and placed it on Gregg’s lap. His running shoes and jeans were soaked with blood, and the cloth inside of his pant leg was torn. “It’s just shrapnel or a ricochet. I’m sure I didn’t take a direct hit,” explained Marron.
“I’ll need to cut off part of your jeans to get at your wound. Do you have a knife?” asked Gregg.
Marron pulled up his jeans on his right leg to reveal an M95 Ranger knife holstered in a rubber sheath. “Be careful,” said Marron.
Gregg moved the razor-sharp Teflon-coated blade and cut up each side of the jeans on Marron’s damaged leg. He grimaced at the first sight of the injury and asked, “How were you able to walk?”
Marron shrugged his shoulders and looked out the window while Gregg removed his own shirt and cut it into strips before applying the makeshift dressings to the damaged ankle. “The wraps will stop the bleeding temporarily, but you’ll need to get better treatment soon,” said Gregg.
Marron nodded his understanding, and both looked out the back window. Their eyes widened, and without hesitation both dropped onto the floor as glass and buckshot sprayed the car. The shotgun blast tore into the driver’s back and he slumped against the wheel. The taxi bounced off the concrete center divider and flipped onto its side. It spun around, crunching glass and grinding metal before scratching to a halt and dropping back onto all four wheels in the middle of the highway.
Gregg was cut and bruised and could hardly move his right arm but remained conscious. He heard a motorcycle brake to a stop by his window followed by the unmistakable sound of a pump-action shotgun being racked. Lightly shoed feet pattered toward the taxi and time seemed to stop as Gregg desperately searched for a weapon. He never found one, but Marron’s SIG passed by his right ear in a fluid motion and fired once.
The noise temporarily deafened Gregg, and he didn’t hear the high-pitched scream from the female assassin. Gregg crawled over glass while overcoming his disorientation and shock to peek over the bottom of his window. The female assassin held her hip where a round circle of wet blood grew rapidly, and her driver helped her straddle the back seat. She leaned into the driver as the two would-be executioners escaped the scene.
***
Benetti struggled with the taxi door before he finally wrenched it open and pulled Gregg out by his shoulders. Gregg screamed, and Benetti released him to change his grip and pull him from around his waist. Lundy ran over to lend a
hand and hoisted Gregg in a fireman’s carry and moved with care to deposit the Canadian in the back of the Subaru. Lundy returned to assist Benetti with Marron who was sprawled across the back seat.
They secured the crash victims in the car and Benetti backed out expertly, clearing the debris. He spun the Subaru around and slammed the gear shift into drive, leaving the wreckage behind minutes ahead of the approaching police and Thai emergency services. “Holy shit. Did we blow up Patpong?” asked Benetti.
“We’ve got to get these guys out of Bangkok,” replied Lundy.
Lundy looked back to check his passengers. “They’ll need medical attention soon. Marron’s color isn’t looking healthy.” Benetti noticed his own hand was bleeding and held it up for Lundy to see. “Caught some glass,” said Benetti.
Lundy pulled a towel from a backpack and handed it to his partner to wrap it. He touched his earpiece. “You’re coming in clear,” he said.
“The drone is monitoring your progress. I’ll have the Bangkok desk guide you to the safe house and you can give me a status report later,” said Jeff Ward.
“Copy,” replied Lundy.
“Good luck. You’ve got some precious cargo,” said Ward before the voice of the local agent overrode him.
“This is your tour guide. Can you read me?” asked a female voice.
“Roger, take us home, tour guide,” said Lundy.
Chapter 23
Sea of Japan International Waters, Twenty-Five Kilometers from the North Korean Coast
The ship captains had waited two nights for calm seas suitable for their work, and tonight the Sea of Japan resembled dark, flat glass. The pilots were sailing their vessels toward designated coordinates and followed instructions from their superiors with exceptional care. The smaller vessel flew a Japanese flag and bore the traditional name of Akita Maru and looked in every way like a Japanese squid-jigger. It floated high in the water, as its cargo weighed far below the maximum load limitation and outvalued a lifetime of squid harvests. The captain wasn’t Japanese nor were any of the crew members. In the event of a disrupted mission, every North Korean aboard the vessel understood surrender wasn’t an option.
The captain had maintained radio silence with communications limited to signal lamps. “Mr. Cho, request permission from the captain of the MV Salacia to approach for a ship-to-ship transfer,” ordered the captain. The signals were exchanged and permission granted. The smaller Akita Maru pulled alongside the MV Salacia and spring lines were shared and tension applied, allowing both vessels to maintain equivalent speed. Breast lines were then passed down to the Akita Maru, pulling the two ships close together, and finally the ships were secured by head and stern lines to prevent longitudinal motion.
“Keep it steady. One of the lines snaps and we’ll lose bodies,” ordered the captain.
A crane activated on MV Salacia started harvesting hundred-kilogram crates from the mother vessel and finished loading all ten packages securely in less than an hour. The ships released the lines securing them, and each vessel sailed in opposite directions. The Akita Maru would take a circuitous route to Wonsan where it would arrive, mission complete, flying the colors of North Korea as the Chong Ryu 5. The MV Salacia was destined for Tokyo Harbor where the captain and crew would be rewarded in cash worth several years’ wages.
***
Beneath the Sea of Japan
The young officer working the virtual periscope system on the Japanese Kuroshio submarine SS-596 called for the attention of his XO. “Commander, I’ve witnessed an unusual STS transfer between what looked like a Japanese fishing vessel and a container ship,” said the ensign.
“What did you find strange?” asked the commander.
“They transferred pallets while at sea, and we’re only thirty kilometers outside the coast of Korea. I’ve seen fuel exchanges out here, but this was different. It smells bad,” replied the ensign.
“It’s probably nothing remarkable, but go ahead and create a report. I’ll send it to our Naval Intelligence desk to cover our tracks,” ordered the commander.
***
Ginza
Shimano walked into the hostess bar located near the Sony building in Ginza. He found Sato and his right-hand man, Suga, sipping on drinks and conversing with a young hostess about artificial intelligence. The woman was apparently an engineering student at Tokyo University and earned extra money working at the Ginza club. Shimano sat and accepted a cold towel and a glass of Yamazaki Whisky on ice. The brainy hostess picked up her cigarettes and excused herself with a polite bow.
“We don’t have much time for civilities tonight. Please get right to business,” ordered Sato.
“The container ship is arriving at Tokyo harbor tomorrow, and our container will be off-loaded and ready for inspection in about one week,” said Shimano.
“We’ve greased the wheels to allow passage through customs and have set up activities necessary to sorting and the redirection of the cargo. Have you got the name of the vessel and bill of lading prepared?” asked Sato.
“The cargo ship’s called the MV Salacia, and the paperwork will be ready for your perusal tomorrow morning,” replied Shimano.
“Good. Then the rest is up to us,” said Sato.
“There’s one more thing,” said Shimano and hesitated.
“Go ahead,” said Sato.
“Our supplier would like to ask a favor to be completed as a sign of good faith and mutual cooperation,” said Shimano.
Sato sucked air through his teeth. “Be careful what you ask for because you just might get it,” he said. The yakuza boss smiled and it unnerved Shimano.
“They’d like you to take the life of a foreigner living in Japan. Apparently, he’s caused our partners some discomfort and they want us to rock his world,” said Shimano.
Sato closed his eyes and Shimano held his breath. “Your supplier is quite intrusive, or what the Americans would call ‘high maintenance.’ Are they asking us to take out a foreign diplomat or someone connected to the military?”
“I checked him out. He’s a salary man working for a European medical company and will soon return from a vacation in Thailand,” said Shimano.
“Give Suga the foreigner’s name and other details and we’ll see what we can do,” replied Sato.
“Thank you. They feel it’s an essential part of our working agreement. We’d like to create an opportunity for continuous business. Let’s not forget the potential business resting on our table,” said Shimano.
“There’s nothing on the table until the shipment arrives and is inspected. Your promises mean nothing, and we wouldn’t be here if your two little Renoir paintings weren’t authenticated and safely stored in my safe at the Hakushika. They’re collateral, and so is the head on your shoulders,” said Sato.
The two yakuza left the bar, and Shimano lifted his drink to his mouth. His hand shook badly enough for him to abort the attempt.
Chapter 24
Yokota Air Base Intelligence Center, Building 316
A select group of people gathered at the Yokota Air Base Intelligence Center to communicate with contacts waiting in a conference room at a high-security government building in Virginia. They watched the satellite and drone feed images of their agents’ activities in Bangkok, ending with footage of the assassination attempt on Marron and Gregg on Bangkok’s Rama IV Road.
Steve Brown faced the screen built to fit the entire width and height of the conference room wall and nodded at the gray-haired gentlemen known as the “old boy.” They sat around a large boardroom table wearing severe expressions and awaiting further explanation.
“Thank you for joining this conference at short notice, and at your early-morning hour. Our team completed analytics for the visuals recorded by the drones and reviewed data input from agents in the field. I’m going to share key points for your consideration,” said Brown.
He looked up from his notes at the men on the screen. They stared back at him poker-faced. “A local team of s
pecialists moved into Patpong to sanitize the area as well as the accident scene on the Rama IV Road. We are working with local contacts in the Thai media and government to encourage reports favoring our interests.”
Steve Brown stood waiting at attention in silence. One of the men with close-cropped gray hair and ice-blue eyes at the Virginia office raised his hand but didn’t wait for permission to speak. “What is the status of Dalir Hamid?” he asked.
“The man we know to be Dalir Hamid was pronounced dead on arrival at the Bangkok Police General Hospital today at 16:47, Bangkok time,” replied Brown.
The men in Virginia nodded, and the man with the cold blue eyes asked a second question. “Do we have DNA evidence proving Hamid’s identity?”
“We did extensive testing and research before launching the mission, but as a safety measure we’ve delivered bio samples and photo evidence to Washington as well as our laboratories in Japan. We will soon confirm the accuracy of our work,” replied Brown.
“Did you identify the bastards who targeted your operators?” The question came from a large bald man sitting on the right side of the screen. Brown recognized him as a retired marine general officer.
“The hefty bounty for Dalir Hamid offered on the dark web would be attractive to a number of governments and private agencies. We uncovered evidence of North Korean interest and know they’ve created a cost-effective network with bike taxis allowing the opportunity for surveillance throughout Bangkok. We think they became disruptive when Dalir Hamid was terminated and their opportunity to receive the ten-million-dollar bounty was eliminated.”
“You’ve got one hell of a cluster on your hands. What’s the casualty report?” asked the general.
“The contracted agents suffered traumatic injuries and are being treated at a medical center outside of Bangkok,” said Brown.
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