DON'T GET CAUGHT (The Jack Shepherd Novels Book 5)

by Jake Needham

  “I know that.”

  “So… uh, what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know, but when I make up my mind, I’ll send you a memo.”

  “Now wait a minute, Jack. Let’s talk about this some more. I don’t think you ought to—”

  “Gotta go, Pete. I appreciate the information. I owe you one.”

  I broke the connection before I said something I might regret. Particularly if I heard it played back to me at an embarrassing moment. Like in a Thai courtroom.

  TEN

  I STILL HAD friends in Washington. Perhaps not all that many, but at least a few. By the time I got back to the apartment that evening it was early morning on the east coast of the United States, and I started making telephone calls to find a little help for Kate.

  Twenty minutes later, I had nothing.

  I made two calls to people at State I knew from the embassy in Thailand, one to a guy in the White House Counsel’s Office I went to law school with, one to an Assistant Attorney General who used to be a partner in the same Washington law firm where I had once been a partner, and one to a fairly senior CIA officer who owed me a favor. I spoke to five secretaries — sorry, I mean administrative assistants — but didn’t actually get through to any of the people I thought of as my best Washington contacts. In a meeting was the most popular response, but away from the office came in a close second. Apparently my name not only didn’t open doors in Washington any longer, it couldn’t even get somebody to take a telephone call. I left messages for all five people anyway. Maybe it was only my imagination, but I thought two of the administrative assistants snickered slightly at me assuming my call might really be returned. I stressed to each of them that the call was important, but I didn’t get the impression it made the slightest difference. I guess everyone always said their call was important.

  Since that left me all out of great ideas about how to save the world, or at least Kate’s part of it, I decided to eat something and see if that might help me conjure up a fresh thought or two. I made a ham and cheese sandwich, dumped some potato chips on the plate, and grabbed a Diet Coke. Then I carried it all out to a little table on the balcony where I liked to eat whenever the heat wasn’t completely unbearable.

  The view from there is one I never tire of. Downhill over the towers of Central, out across the harbor to Kowloon, and far beyond to the mountains of China, wispy and ambiguous in the distance. I not only can see Hong Kong down there, I can smell it, too. I don’t care what anybody says about the smell of Hong Kong, I like it just fine. The sour stench has even started to seem like home.

  I was lucky to have the apartment I was living in, and I knew it. I had just been fired by Chulalongkorn University for being too closely identified with the wrong sort of folks and Anita had just left me for someone else. All the commitments of my life were dying at the same time when, right out of nowhere, I heard from this guy I’d gone to law school with who was now working in Hong Kong. Freddy told me he had resigned from his law firm, bought a forty-eight-foot ketch, and was about to point its bow south toward Bali. He said he wasn’t coming back until he’d had all the adventures he been putting off since he was twelve years old.

  Half joking, I asked him if I could use his apartment until he got back. He said sure, and that was when I realized I wasn’t really joking. So I went to Hong Kong, moved into Freddy’s apartment, and started trying to build a law practice again.

  I haven’t heard from Freddy since then. Maybe he’s not ever coming back.

  I POPPED THE last crust of my sandwich into my mouth and was contemplating making another one when a strange noise from inside the apartment drifted out through the half-open sliding glass door. A sort of half-strangled gurgling sound.

  I went in and followed the sound across the living room to my briefcase sitting beside the sofa. That was when I realized what I was hearing.

  After my unsuccessful round of calls to Washington, I had tossed my telephone into the briefcase and it slid underneath a stack of files. My phone rang so infrequently that I hadn’t recognized the ring tone, particularly not when it was filtered through about five pounds of paper.

  The screen showed the number as Unknown, but it was probably Jello calling on his burner phone. Who else could it be?

  “Hello, big man,” I said when I hit the Answer button. “You already get in trouble and need me to bail you out?”

  There was silence on the other end of the phone.

  “Hello?” I called. “Are you there, Jello?”

  I heard the sound of throat clearing, but it lacked the low-pitched rumble I expected. It wasn’t Jello.

  “Jack Shepherd?” a man’s voice asked. I didn’t recognize it.

  “I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

  “Apparently.” The man cleared his throat again. “This is Jason Reilly. You left a message and I’m returning your call.”

  Who the hell is Jason Reilly?

  “I’m sorry but I don’t—”

  “You left a message for Carla Nesbit at the State Department. The Deputy Assistant Secretary is out of the country. You said it was important so I’m returning for her.”

  “You mean I actually got my call returned because I said it was important?”

  “Not really. Everybody says that. I simply had a few spare minutes and your message was the one on top of the pile.”

  Right.

  “Okay, Jason, thanks. I appreciate you calling, but I really need to speak to Carla. This concerns somebody we both worked with in Thailand.”

  “Are you referring to the former prime minister who has just been arrested? Kathleen…”

  He hesitated. He had gotten Kate’s first name wrong and either he didn’t remember her last name or he couldn’t pronounce it. Most likely both.

  “It’s Kathleeya, not Kathleen. And her last name is Srisophon.”

  Jason said nothing.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I added. “Even Thais sometimes screw up Thai names.”

  Jason cleared his throat one more time. “I’m not worried about it,” he said.

  Right again.

  “Look,” I said, “I have some information I want to pass along to Carla. I’m told there is going to be an immediate trial and then a conviction. Kate will almost certainly be sent to prison unless international pressure is put on the Thai government very quickly to call off their show trial.”

  I made a snap decision not to mention Jello’s claim that Kate was being set up to be killed in prison. I didn’t know this guy, and I was hesitant to say something that would cause him to picture me wearing a tinfoil hat. Better to keep it right down the middle. State Department guys liked right down the middle. Right down the middle was how they got to be State Department guys in the first place.

  “The cable that came to the desk this morning didn’t say anything about a trial,” he said. “Only that the woman had been arrested.”

  The desk Jason was referring to was the Southeast Asia desk at the State Department in Washington. Carla had jumped over several more senior Foreign Service Officers, been made Deputy Assistant Secretary for Southeast Asia, and placed in charge of the Southeast Asia desk. If you liked Carla, and I did, you said that was because she was smart and tough. If you didn’t like her, you said it was because she was a woman and black. My own guess is that all those things figured into her promotion.

  I had known Carla when I lived in Bangkok. She was the Deputy Chief of Mission at the American Embassy and we got to know each other because we had a lot of common acquaintances, including Kate. If anyone would share my concern for Kate’s safety, it would be Carla.

  “Do you know how I can reach Carla immediately, Jason?”

  “When I send her a summary of the cable, I will add a note about your concerns.”

  “That’s not exactly an answer to the question I asked.”

  “Mr. Shepherd, I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t know you. I’m sure you can app
reciate why I can’t give out details of the Deputy Assistant Secretary’s itinerary and schedule to just anyone who calls up and asks for them.”

  I could appreciate that, of course I could, but appreciating it didn’t get me any closer to a solution to my problem. Or rather to Kate’s problem.

  “When will you be sending Carla your summary of the cable and the note about my concern?”

  Jason paused, and there was something in the way he did it that made it clear what was coming next.

  “The Secretary is presently dealing with a number of high-priority matters involving tensions in the South China Sea and the coup in Indonesia. I doubt this will be brought to her attention immediately.”

  “So you’re saying Kate’s arrest is not a high-priority matter?”

  Jason said nothing.

  “Or are you saying nothing that happens in Thailand matters all that much to the State Department anymore?”

  “I wouldn’t have put it like that myself.”

  “But now that I’ve put it like that…”

  “You don’t hear me arguing with you, do you, Mr. Shepherd?”

  I sighed. “Well, Jason, if nothing else, I appreciate your candor.”

  “I’ve said nothing other than that I will pass your concerns along to the Secretary.”

  “Yes, I get that. You will pass them along… eventually.”

  “Yes, sir.

  There wasn’t much left to say after that. Thailand was yesterday’s news at State. I had hoped for a little warmer response from Carla, but she seemed to have moved up the food chain further than I could reach, which left me trying to get to her through a screen of assistants. I wasn’t good at finessing my way past assistants, really not good at all, so I thanked Jason again and ended the call.

  I rummaged around in my briefcase until I found the card on which Jello had written the number for his burner phone. I walked back out on my balcony, sat down, and punched the number into my telephone. Jello answered so quickly I wondered if he had been holding his phone waiting for me to call.

  “I struck out,” I said. “I’ve still got a few calls in, but my guess is Washington is going to look the other way even if the National Peacekeeping Council does put Kate on trial.”

  “And that surprises you?”

  “Not really. But I’m still allowed to be disappointed, aren’t I?”

  “So what now?” Jello asked.

  “I don’t know. Are you absolutely sure that Kate—”

  “Yes, I’m absolutely sure.”

  I thought about that for a moment, but it didn’t get me anywhere I hadn’t already been.

  “I just don’t know what else I can do,” I said.

  “I can think of something.”

  “Oh?”

  “You still living in that apartment up in the Mid-Levels?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So you can get to the Mandarin Hotel in… what? Twenty minutes? Half an hour?”

  “Why would I want to get to the Mandarin Hotel at all?”

  “Because you’re going to buy me a drink there, and in return I’m going to tell you the way to fix this shit. The Clipper Lounge. Look for me in that small section over away from the stairs.”

  “Look, Jello, I don’t see—”

  “Thirty minutes,” he said.

  Then he hung up.

  ELEVEN

  THE CLIPPER LOUNGE has been a Hong Kong institution for more than fifty years. From upholstered easy chairs and low mahogany tables scattered across the mezzanine of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, patrons look through low, smoked-glass walls down to the granite and marble lobby a floor below and observe the comings and goings of Hong Kong. The name of the place dates back to the time when Pan American World Airways owned the hotel, those days when America dominated international aviation and Pan Am Clippers circled the globe offering matchless sophistication, luxury, and comfort to world travelers. Every time I fly anywhere these days, particularly on an American airline, it feels to me like that must have been one hell of a long time ago.

  Even now, the Clipper Lounge is still the place where middle-aged Chinese women married to wealthy men gather at lunch to take a break from the rigors of shopping and going to spas. They pile their Chanel and Van Cleef and Arpels shopping bags beside the tables and flap about the place enthusiastically air-kissing other women they can’t stand. In the evenings, when such women presumably have even more stylish places to be, the Clipper Lounge is left mostly to businessmen staying in the hotel.

  Jello was exactly where he said he would be, off to the side in the less conspicuous of the seating areas. He was sprawled over one of a pair of brown tweed chairs that faced each other across a low table, although Jello’s bulk made the chair invisible and left him looking a little as if he were suspended in mid-air. He had a bottle of Tsingtao beer on the table in front of him as well as an untouched beer glass. Jello was a bottle kind of guy. I couldn’t even imagine him drinking beer out of a glass.

  It was well after nine and the Clipper Lounge was as quiet as I had ever seen it. There wasn’t anyone else within twenty feet of Jello. Or maybe there was a particular reason for that. I noticed he hadn’t changed his shirt since he was in my office that morning.

  “This is the most expensive bottle of beer I’ve ever had,” Jello said as I sat down in the chair opposite him. “I hope you can afford it.”

  “I’d be willing to pitch in for a fresh shirt, too, if that’s the only one you brought with you.”

  For a moment Jello looked hurt, and I was almost sorry for saying anything.

  “I’ve got lots of shirts,” he said. “I just like this one.”

  An elderly Chinese man wearing a white jacket and black necktie materialized next to the table and waited deferentially for me to order.

  “Vodka martini with a twist, please. No olives.”

  The man nodded and moved away without speaking a word.

  “Wow,” Jello said. “A martini and a beer in the Clipper Lounge. You must have hit the lottery.”

  “Hey, pal, this was your idea. I ought to stick you with the bill.”

  “I’m only a poor civil servant. You’re a rich lawyer. You’re paying.”

  Jello and I sat quietly for a bit after that, each waiting for the other to start talking, but since I really didn’t have that much to say I waited longer.

  “I’m not surprised none of your Washington friends were any help,” Jello finally said, breaking the silence. “Thailand doesn’t count for much there anymore.”

  “I think most Americans would tell you we consider Thailand our main ally in the region.”

  Jello snorted. “I think most Americans would tell you they couldn’t find Thailand on a map with a gun to their head.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I shrugged. “That’s probably true, too.”

  “We were your ally during the Vietnam War, back when you thought that Southeast Asia would be the next domino to fall after Korea and you were making a stand against Communism. But then you lost and went home, and you haven’t given a toss about us since.”

  “We didn’t really lose—”

  “Bullshit. You lost. You got your butts kicked by a bunch of farmers in pajamas. Now Southeast Asia is yesterday’s deal. These days you’ve got Syria and Iran and North Korea to worry about. You don’t give a damn about what happens to Thailand anymore.”

  I considered arguing with Jello, just for form, but my heart wouldn’t have been in it. The truth was he had that about right.

  “Who’d you call in Washington?” he asked, taking me off the hook.

  “A couple of people at State, one in the White House, one at the Department of Justice, and one at CIA.”

  “And how many of them did you actually get on the phone?”

  “Uh… I sort of talked to one.”

  Jello snorted again. He was good at that.

  “Remember Carla Nesbit?” I asked. “She used to be Deputy Chief of Mission at the embassy in Bangkok.”<
br />
  “Good looking black woman?”

  “That’s her. She’s now Deputy Assistant Secretary for Southeast Asia.”

  “And she’s the one you sort of talked to?”

  “Uh… yeah.”

  “How do you sort of talk to somebody?”

  “Her assistant returned my call.”

  Jello shook his head, but he didn’t say anything.

  “None of the others called me back at all,” I added, although I knew that was obvious to Jello by now.

  “Look, Jack, you should have known you wouldn’t find anyone in Washington who gave a shit Kate has been arrested, let alone anyone who might be willing to try to do something about it.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that, but fortunately the waiter arrived right then with my martini and rescued me from having to say anything at all.

  The martini looked perfect, as it certainly should in a place like the Clipper Lounge. The traditional cone-shaped glass was wreathed with tiny ice crystals, and an elaborately carved spiral of lemon peel floated in the vodka.

  Jello pointed at his Tsingtao bottle and raised his index finger. The elderly waited nodded and once again vanished without a word.

  I took a sip of my martini. It was so good I immediately took another. Then I put the glass down, folded my arms, and waited for Jello to tell me why we were here.

  “I want you to come to Bangkok and find a way to get Kate out of the country,” Jello said after a while.

  I almost laughed out loud. Surely Jello was joking. I examined his face for some trace of a smile, but he only looked back at me expressionlessly.

  “You can’t be serious,” I said.

  “I’m completely serious.”

  “I’m Jack Shepherd. I think you have me confused with Jack Reacher.”

  “Who’s Jack Reacher?”

  “You don’t read books?”

  “No.”

  “Of course not. I forgot for a moment there that you’re a Thai.”

  “Joke all you want, Jack, but this isn’t going to go away. General Prasert is going to put Kate on trial, he’s going to see that she’s convicted, he’s going to send her to prison, and then he’ll arrange to have her killed. He’s got no choice.”