THE GUEST OF HONOR
By Irving Wallace
A Gordian Knot Thriller
Gordian Knot is an imprint of Crossroad Press
Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press
Digital Edition Copyright 2013 / The Estate of Irving Wallace
Copy-edited by: Xavier Miron
LICENSE NOTES
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Meet the Author
The author with his daughter, Amy
Irving Wallace was born March 19, 1916 in Chicago, Illinois. He began writing for various magazines at age 15 and worked as a screenwriter for a number of Hollywood studios—Columbia, Fox, Warner Brothers, Universal, and MGM from 1950 to 1959, then he turned solely to writing books. His first major bestseller was The Chapman Report in 1960, a fictional account of a sexual research team's investigations of a wealthy Los Angeles suburb. Among other fictional works by Wallace are The Prize and The Word. His meticulously researched fiction often has the flavor of spicy journalism. A great deal of research went into his novels, which cover a wide variety of subjects, from the presentation of the Nobel Prize to political scenarios. With their recurring dramatic confrontations, his novels lend themselves well to screenplay adaptation, and most of them have been filmed, including The Chapman Report and The Prize. Wallace also compiled several nonfiction works with his family, including The People's Almanac and The Book of Lists, both of which have spawned sequels. Irving Wallace died June 29, 1990 in Los Angeles, California at the age of 74 from pancreatic cancer.
This book and the other digital editions in the Irving Wallace collection from Crossroad Press are published in cooperation with his heirs.
Crossroad Press Titles by Irving Wallace
The Almighty
The Celestial Bed
The Chapman Report
The Fabulous Showman: The Life and Times of P.T. Barnum
The Fan Club
The Golden Room
The Guest of Honor
The Man
The Miracle
The Pigeon Project
The Plot
The Prize
The R Document
The Second Lady
The Seven Minutes
The Seventh Secret
The Three Sirens
The Two
The Word
Crossroad Press Titles by Amy Wallace
Desire
The Prodigy
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FOR SYLVIA,
WITH DEEPEST LOVE
THE GUEST OF HONOR
Love begins with love; friendship, however warm, cannot change to love, however mild.
—JEAN DE LA BRUYÈRE
CHAPTER ONE
Wearing their light raincoats against the evening drizzle, the two of them, the colonel and the major, left their car and driver between the Temple of the Emerald Buddha and the Church of Immaculate Conception, and proceeded on foot along the concrete path toward Chainadin Palace. When they reached the wrought-iron gate set in the ten foot-high spiked wall surrounding the Spanish Colonial palace and the presidential compound, the taller of the two, the colonel, pushed the bell without a moment’s hesitation.
They had rehearsed the operation so many times that no detail escaped them. They knew what to expect and were certain they would not fail.
In response to the bell, a captain of the presidential security command and three enlisted men, each fully armed, emerged from the protective guardhouse and came forward to meet the pair.
The colonel passed their identification papers through the gate.
The captain of the security command glanced at the papers and looked up.
From his side of the gate, the colonel spoke.
“The major and I are messengers from General Nakorn, and we have instructions to deliver a confidential document by hand to President Prem Sang. You need not announce us. As our papers indicate, the president is expecting us.”
The captain of the guards shook his head. “Sorry, sir. We must announce your arrival.” He unlocked the gate and opened it. “Step inside while I inform the president’s secretary.”
The colonel showed no concern; he had been prepared for this. He went into the courtyard, closely followed by the major, and they stood beside the sleepy enlisted men while the captain of the guards ducked into the guardhouse to use the telephone.
The pair could overhear him on the telephone.
“Miss Kraisri, the colonel and the major have arrived with a confidential message for the president from General Nakorn. Are you expecting them?”
There was a silence as the captain of the guards listened.
“You say the general’s office called?”
He listened again and nodded in assent. “Very well, Miss Kraisri, I will so inform them and admit them.”
He hung up the receiver and emerged into the drizzle.
“Yes, Colonel, the president’s appointments secretary has been told to expect you. She regrets to tell you the president has no time to see you, but requests that you bring the documents to her.”
“Thank you,” the colonel replied.
“Proceed across the court to the palace entrance. Show your papers to one of the guards inside the entrance. He will direct you to Miss Kraisri’s office.”
Both the colonel and the major bobbed their heads in acknowledgment, accepted the return of their papers, and headed for the palace entrance.
One of the palace doors opened as they reached it and they went inside. A guard studied their papers and, once satisfied, pointed to the two flights of marble staircase ahead of them that were interrupted by a broad landing.
“Up those stairs, sirs. Then to your right you will see guards in front of the door to the president’s office. His secretary will be expecting you.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
The colonel preceded the major along the marble entry to the glistening staircase, paused to let his companion catch up, and then in step they began to ascend the staircase.
Both men found the going awkward, aware of what they were carrying beneath their raincoats.
Reaching the gilt console atop the landing, they turned and ascended the second flight more rapidly.
At the head of the flight they saw a lieutenant in full uniform, a rifle slung over one shoulder, awaiting them outside the reception room.
They went directly to him.
“We’ve been instructed to hand Mademoiselle Kraisri a personal document from General Nakorn for President Sang,” the colonel said.
“Yes,” the lieutenant replied. “Let me take you in to her.”
He opened the door and led the colonel and the major into Miss Kraisri’s reception room. A green metal desk and word processor dominated the room, but there was no one at the desk.
“Miss Kraisri must be inside working with the president,” the lieutenant said. “If you will turn the document over to me, I will see that President Sang or his secretary gets it.”
“Let me give it to you,” the colonel said, beginning to unbutton his raincoat. He moved to the guard�
��s left, and dug inside for the document.
The lieutenant turned fully left to face the colonel and receive the document. As he did so, one hand outstretched to receive the document, the major moved behind him.
As the guard waited for the document, the major at his back reached inside his own coat, tugged the long dagger from its sheath, pulled it free, lifted it high, and aimed it at the guard’s back.
In an instant, with great power, the dagger flashed downward while the major’s free palm clamped over the guard’s mouth to muffle his outcry.
Inside the vast presidential office, Prem Sang, president of the nation of Lampang, having sent his secretary upstairs to read the latest draft of his agrarian reform bill to his wife, once more hunched over the pile of papers on his oversized desk.
He was a small man in his forties, with brown hair, sunken brown eyes, a prematurely lined face, altogether worn with fatigue by his three difficult years as chief executive. His smallness was accentuated by his cramped position on the breadth of the large desk.
His spine ached, and he decided that it was time to stand up and stretch. In doing so, he was able to survey the elegant office, from its parquet floor covered by Iranian carpets, to the mahogany wall paneling punctuated by gilt-framed mirrors and a mural of farmers at work in a field, to the gold wall sconces and crystal chandeliers.
Through the windows to one side, near the presidential seal hanging on one wall, he could see the bulletproof enclosed balcony that encircled the building. There were three doors: one to his reception room, another to his downstairs dining room, and the third door that led to the staircase to the private apartment above that he and his wife shared. There was a fourth door, not visible, concealed by an extension of the mahogany paneling over its solid-steel entrance. This door opened onto a passageway that led to the garden where the presidential security command had its barracks.
Lowering himself into his leather swivel chair, Prem. Sang focused upon the only object on his desk beside the pile of documents. This was a silver-framed photograph of his wife, Noy, and their son, Den. Then his eyes fell on his papers, and once more his mind was occupied by his work.
As he had been for months, President Prem Sang was absorbed by his dilemma. His domain consisted of three islands in the South China Sea off Thailand, Cambodia, and the southern tip of Vietnam. The main island, and by far the largest, was Lampang proper, where Sang resided in the capital city of Visaka. The two adjacent islands, Lampang Lop and Lampang Thon, were much smaller, with almost impenetrable jungles and hills, and there the Communist insurgents resided in troublesome number.
President Sang’s immediate problem was how to satisfy both opposing sides of his population. On the main island of Lampang, where the ordinary people—who were democratic, Catholic, English-speaking—had elected him on a platform of just distribution of land and wealth, he clung to his slim margin of popularity. On the nearby islands of Lampang Lop and Lampang Thon, the Communist guerrillas ruled under the leadership of Opas Lunakul, a pawn of the Vietnamese Communists who infiltrated daily.
The Communists had been propagandizing effectively that President Sang and Lampang were puppets of the United States, from whom they received considerable economic assistance. Lampang’s independence was being eroded by this foreign dependency, they claimed. Only under communism could Lampang be truly free and economically sound.
But the Communists weren’t President Sang’s only problem. He had an internal one as well. The head of his army, his dose friend General Samak Nakorn, was in total disagreement with him about the Communists.
The general wanted any money that might come from the United States to be spent on troops to wipe out the Communists. President Sang wanted the money to prop up his domestic economy, which he felt was the best way to defeat any Communist threat.
President Sang sat reviewing the columns of notes on his desk once more. Unemployment in Lampang was eighteen percent. For the employed, life was hardly better, the average family of five with an income of $110 a month. Dismal. If that could be improved, and land distributed, the Communists could be beaten peacefully.
There was a knocking on his entrance door.
He half remembered. General Nakorn had sent a message to be turned over to his secretary or the guard:
With his secretary upstairs, President Sang called out, “Come in, Lieutenant.”
The door opened. The president had anticipated seeing his lieutenant. But there was no one. And then there was. The lieutenant lay sprawled in the hallway, a knife in his back.
That instant, two uniformed men, unknown to Prem Sang, stepped over the body of the lieutenant, each carrying a rifle.
As they raised the rifles, Sang was able to identify the weapons.
They were automatic Kalashnikov rifles, standard Soviet assault rifles, and they were being aimed at him.
Bewildered, President Sang jumped up from his desk, shouting, “What is this? Who in the devil—?”
In response, both rifles chattered hideously.
The muzzle velocity of each, the impact of the bullets, tore away part of Sang’s face; ripped through his heart; penetrated his stomach.
The firepower momentarily lifted him off his feet and flung him backward against his chair, where he stumbled and slipped to the floor and collapsed to the carpet in death. As a pool of blood began to form, the two assassins gently closed the door and disappeared.
Upstairs, in the dressing room, the president’s wife had been applying cream to her face as she listened to Prem’s secretary, when suddenly she was startled by the sounds below.
She paused and listened.
Firecrackers, she told herself. Or maybe more. She snatched her silk robe from a hook, pulled it on, and made her way to the stairs. Hurrying down the stairs, puzzled, apprehensive, she burst into her husband’s office.
She saw no one, and then, moving closer to the desk, peering behind it, she saw her husband’s crumpled body. Then she saw its condition, riddled with bullets, and the dark pool that must be blood.
She gasped, and then she screamed. She screamed and screamed.
What followed was a kaleidoscope of people.
Miss Kraisri and the servants came on the run. Then the palace guards, led by the captain of the guards. Soon the police, and doctors, and ambulance attendants.
Someone had guided her to a straight-backed chair nearby, and there Noy Sang sat paralyzed by shock.
She had been seated there a long while before General Samak Nakorn and his officers arrived. Even here the stocky Nakorn was in uniform, replete with ribbons and medals.
Nakorn was questioning the doctors as Sang’s body was being carried out on a stretcher. Next, Fakorn was questioning the captain of the guards. “Two of them, you say? The president’s secretary had told you I had informed her to let them in and expect a message. It’s a lie! I never spoke to the president about such a thing. I never had a message for him. It’s a Communist plot. Then the coroner removes the bullets, you will see they are of Russian origin. This is terrible, unbelievable, horrible.”
Only later did Noy Sang realize that General Fakorn was standing over her, addressing her. Normally a gruff, hoarse man, his voice was oddly subdued.
He was trying to tender his condolences.
“I am sorry, very sorry, Madame President,” he was saying.
Only then did Noy Sang realize that not only was she a widow, but as her husband’s vice president she was now president of Lampang.
In the glass-enclosed control room in TNTN (the National Television Network) bureau on M street, Hy Hasken settled his lanky frame in an armchair beside the one occupied by his editor, Sam Whitlaw.
The visit of Whitlaw from New York to Washington, D.C., was to be of short duration. One of the initial matters on his brief agenda was a talk with Hy Hasken, the network’s White House correspondent.
After Hasken’s broadcast stint had ended, Whitlaw had telephoned him in the White House pressroom. “Hy,
I want you to come over and join me in watching the seven o’clock news.”
Hasken had arrived just in time for the evening news and prepared to observe himself on the television screen in front of them.
Waiting for his own segment, Hasken tried to make small talk with his superior. But Whitlaw’s concentration was on the news, his life’s blood. So Hasken waited in silence.
At last he saw himself on the television screen, microphone in hand, planted in Lafayette Square the front facade of the White House in the background.
Hasken tried to see himself as the millions of viewers out there saw him doing his stand-upper. Actually, he saw himself as his audience—longtime acquaintances—in a living room might see him. He was slender with sandy hair brushed to one side, a high forehead dulled by studio makeup, alert blue eyes, a long nose and small mouth, and a staccato, resonant, faintly prosecutorial voice and tone.
Watching himself, Hy Hasken listened.
“The most significant news to come out of the White House today is that President Matt Underwood is preparing to meet with Madame Noy Sang, president of the island of Lampang, a nation crucial to the immediate interests of the United States.
“Just one year ago this week, President Prem Sang of Lampang was assassinated by persons unknown, thought to be hit men representing the Communist insurgents who have been growing in power on two neighboring islands that fall under the jurisdiction of Lampang. The assassination of Prem Sang brought his vice-president to the presidency. His vice-president happened to be his youthful wife, Noy Sang. If this seems odd to Americans, it must be understood that the politics of Lampang carry over a social structure known as the extended family. A president always has, as his running mate and heir, his wife or son or another close relative. In a way this makes sense, for no stranger ever ascends to the presidency, but instead the replacement is always someone close to the president, one whose thinking is presumably compatible with the president’s own..
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