Ransom Drop

by Mike Sullivan

  Why had her engagement ended? Was she telling the truth about Bill Wheatley or was there something she was holding back? And what about her father, Ken Kwan? What was the reason behind their strained relationship? He felt guilty about dragging her into this mess; yet he hadn’t survived for thirty-five years on planet earth without having a few suspicions. He’d crossed the line now into a dark, dangerous place and there were still so many things about her that remained unanswered.

  He drove on in the hot, humid day with a feeling of trepidation locked into a tiny space at the back of his mind.

  * * * *

  In the bathroom, Kanoa Lee finished attaching the spirit gum to the narrow space under his nose and on his chin. Next came the mustache and the goatee, then the dark, thick reading glasses purchased at a nearby arts and crafts store. His disguise gave his broad fleshy face the appearance of a much older, much heavier man.

  Closing the bathroom door and entering the bedroom, he went directly to the small urn of water on top of a desk near the television as his soldiers gathered around him.

  “First we must lay Simok’s soul to rest before we continue on our mission.” Lee carried the bag of magic crystals around to mourn the dead. The crystals were also used as a good luck charm to ensure the success of his mission, and he never left home without them. Now he emptied the contents into his hand, put the magic crystals into the urn, and poured water over them. The water in the stone jar began to move.

  The soldiers watched in awe as Lee bowed his head. He folded hands in front of his face and began to chant over the water in a long, mesmerist wail. In his mind he saw Simok’s spirit transcend his earthly body. It soared out over the land beyond their hill tribe village into the silence and darkness of the forest.

  There a lovely young nymph extended her hand. Simok clasped it, and they both drifted back deeper into the forest.

  Lee’s eyes glittered as bright as a star. A dreamy smile came over his face as he saw her now, his dead wife Edena standing next to the young nymph. She was a tall, slender, brown-skinned woman in her early thirties dressed in a white, silk gown. She’d stepped out beyond a patch of spirit trees into a narrow clearing beside a bubbling brook and took Simok’s hand. They embraced. Edena took the young nymph’s hand in her own and turned back toward him in a glimmer of hot, white light. It lasted only a moment before she disappeared back into the forest, but it was enough to satisfy him. With a small, fleeting glance back over her shoulder, there was no doubt about the love that he saw in her eyes. I love you, he whispered as his eyes misted and he longed for the day he would be with her.

  Gradually, he felt himself return from the trance. The vision and the connection with the afterlife, so much a part of Hmong tradition, vanished from his mind as he removed the crystals from the water and slipped them back into the velvet bag.

  A moment later he checked his watch and told his men to return to their rooms. The ritual had left him feeling exhausted. He needed to rest. Three-thirty, he thought as he lay down in bed. The Financial building’s going down at three-thirty.

  * * * *

  A taxi pulled up in front of a large luxury apartment located two blocks west of the American Embassy on Wireless Road, a half a block off Sukhumvit Avenue, the main artery through Bangkok.

  The doorman dressed in a dark blue uniform tipped his hat as Jarrett Stark got out of the taxi and went inside. He headed toward a bank of elevators just off the main lobby. Crystal chandeliers and overhanging flowers in tiny wooden boxes hung from the ceiling. The security desk overlook a circular marble fountain spouting crystal clear water out the mouth of a ferocious-looking jade lion. The elevator doors opened. No one inside, Stark got on. A motorized hum and the soft, melodic sound of music filled the car as it ascended.

  Upstairs on the twentieth floor, the elevator door opened in a quiet whisper. Stark got off just as two pretty, Thai women in their mid-twenties wearing short, bright micro-minis got on.

  “Hi, neighbor,” the prettier of the two spoke to Stark in English.

  “Hi, Sunee. I saw you out walking your dog this morning.”

  “She’s my pride and joy,” the woman said pleasantly.

  “What? No man yet?” Stark teased.

  “I’m still hoping to get lucky and marry you,” the woman teased back.

  Her friend blushed. The elevator door closed behind them and they went below. Stark, a thin, handsome Irishman in his mid-forties with a lean, muscular body, dark curly hair and a diamond in his right ear lobe, walked with a swagger down to a room at the end of the hall. He used a magnetic card on the door to open it and went inside.

  The five-star luxury apartment had all the amenities; large kitchen, large bathroom with Jacuzzi, three bedrooms each with a brass bed and canopy, a spacious living room with a leather sofa, chairs and throw rugs scattered all around, and a forty-two inch plasma television console.

  The afternoon had been hectic. Stark poured a bourbon and water, and sank down into the cushions of the huge sofa occupying an entire wall, relaxing for the first time since he’d received Maran Tint’s phone call from Vientiane.

  “I’m calling in one of my markers,” Tint had said.

  “Sure, Colonel, what’s on your mind?”

  Tint faxed Kanoa Lee’s picture to Stark, who went to work. He called Hyde Greer several times on his cell phone and when Greer didn’t answer, Stark phoned Nixon Fang, one of Greer’s former drug dealers in Vientiane. In less than an hour, Fang through his network of local dealers, junkies and street informants, had targeted the Sea Breeze Motel, far out on Sithong Road as the place where Lee was hiding out. Maran Tint called in a SWAT team. It was time.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  When they reached the outskirts of Vang Vieng, the sun was hot and the sky a bright blue. To his left along the river, Seabury saw a town that didn’t look very big. It had paved roads, but no street signs.

  Strange, he thought. From signs posted along the road, he discovered the main attraction here was a network of limestone caves and tubing and kayaking on the Nam Song River west of town. He was glad they were passing through because they had a long way to go before reaching Phonsavan.

  Tory pointed toward the town. “There’s something I have to tell you,” she said.

  He swung off the highway onto the main road and drove downtown. Rows of bars, guesthouses, and restaurants lined both sides of the street. The open-air bars along the sidewalk teemed with customers. Inside, reruns of American sit-coms played on televisions and patrons watched while they drank beer from draft pitchers.

  “It’s a rest-stop town,” Tory shouted. “You stay over, buy dinner, drink and party into the wee hours of the morning. It’s a real fun place.”

  She rode in silence for another block then pointed to a bar on the other side of the street. She was careful not to draw too much attention as she made a U-turn, and stopped at a curb in front of a bar called the Big Dipper.

  “Okay, Tory, what’s going on?” said Seabury, half annoyed.

  She stared down and flashed a sheepish grin.

  “Come on, I’m waiting. What’s the deal?”

  “The deal is I’m tired and hungry and need a break,” she said, turning off the engine. She looked straight at him. “I smell terrible and need a shower and a change of clothes.”

  He looked back at her and shook his head.

  “I’m also a little scared,” she admitted.

  He turned away and put a hand up to shield the sun from his eyes. He still wore the old man’s disguise. His face felt hot beneath the scarf. The heat matched his mood.

  We’re wasting time, dammit and I don’t have time to waste. His eyes narrowed and his voice grew stern.

  “Let me enlighten you. I don’t have time to worry about how you feel, or if you need a shower or a change of clothes. I told you the situation before we left Vientiane and you agreed to go. No one twisted your arm or abducted you. Like a big girl, you made that decision yourself. Do you see where I
’m going with this?”

  “I see but you don’t have to shout.”

  “I’m not shouting,” he told her, but realized his voice had raised an octave higher. He felt the heat of anger in his face.

  “It’s risky now…on the road.”

  “Risky.” He shook his head, astonished. “For your information,” he said. “I have a deadline to meet. Not to mention a young girl’s life is at stake here if I don’t reach the Plain of Jars by three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. I’m not going to let that happen. ”

  “Have you seen the cop?” she asked, brushing off his comments as if she hadn’t heard them.

  “The one eye-balling us from up the street? Yeah, I see him. He was on my radar the moment we pulled up to the curb.”

  Tory got off the bike and bounced it up over the curb onto the sidewalk. She locked it to a metal grate alongside the bar and hoisted the rucksack onto her shoulders. Her face was dripping wet. She looked tired.

  Half way up the block, the cop started down the sidewalk. Another minute he walked up to Seabury and flashed a toothy grin that emitted the stench of a sour, whiskey breath. The guy was as fat as a pig and his flat, disapproving gaze caused Seabury to drop his eyes and turn away, as he continued to play the role of a weak, vulnerable old man.

  The smell of extortion hung in the air like a dark cloud. Seabury knew the routine. The cop would ask to see his ID, check it over and notice something wrong. Tell him it looked expired, even though it wasn’t. He’d threaten a trip down to the police station and maybe a few nights in jail for breaking the law. Why go through all that trouble if there was a way to solve the problem. Seabury could walk if he handed over money in U.S. dollars, or in Kip.

  Seabury swung his gaze to the cop in time to hear something said in Lao. When he didn’t respond, a red flag went roaring up the flagpole. Out of the corner of his eye, Seabury saw Tory reach into her pants pocket. She pulled out 8,000 Kip, approximately ten dollars, and slammed the money into the cop’s palm. The cop looked up and down the street to make sure no one was watching, and crushed the money down into his front pocket.

  That should have sent him on his way instead he hunched his shoulders, shook his head and, in the sweltering heat, looked at Seabury. He moved closer. His head tilted back. His eyes focused on Seabury’s face, concentrating hard, staring him up and down, as if some vague recognition shimmered there in the darkness behind his eyes.

  In the silence, Seabury felt Tory tug at his arm, in a desperate attempt to get him out of there. As the end of the scarf slipped back from Seabury’s mouth, the cop inched closer. A hard gaze filled his eyes. His chin jutted forward. He stared at Seabury like a child focusing hard on a picture puzzle.

  Seconds ticked by like a time bomb waiting to explode. Anxious, unnerved, Seabury’s emotions ran high. Would he get caught? Was the game over? And what about the promise he’d made to Robert Hong? Was that about to end in failure here in the seclusion of a remote town in central Laos? His stomach churned in fear and anxiety as time raced by and he strained to avoid the cop’s eyes.

  All at once, a voice shouted behind them. It boomed like a bullhorn across the sidewalk from out the front door of the Big Dipper.

  “Tory…is that you? Oh, my goodness!”

  The cop turned around and looked at the woman standing inside the door of the bar. She waved down to him. He waved back.

  “Hello, Officer Vanlao,” she said. “Nice to see you again.”

  He grinned and turned around. Seabury saw him trudge off down the street.

  “Wow! That was close,” said Tory, grabbing Seabury’s arm. “For a minute there I thought we were toast.”

  * * * *

  Kanoa Lee crawled out of bed, yawned and stretched. He was on his way into the bathroom when he heard the noise outside. Tires bumped up over a curb at the front of the motel, screeching into the parking lot, and grinding to a stop in front of his room.

  At the window he pulled back a corner of the curtain and looked outside. Dark helmeted men with assault rifles poured out the back of two armed transport vehicles. They raced across the narrow space in front of the room, crowded both sides of the door, his room and the one next door.

  A razor-thin man with a hawk’s lean, tapered face got out of a patrol car with a bullhorn pressed up to his mouth. He used the car as a shield between himself and the front door of the motel room.

  “Lay down your weapons. Come out with your hands up,” Colonel Tint shouted into the bullhorn.

  Lee raced into the bathroom. Above the bathtub, a glass cinderblock window fused into the wall provided no way out. He walked back inside the room, heard his men stirring next door, and the bullhorn start up again.

  “You have ten seconds.” The sound boomed into the room from outside. “Nine, eight, seven…”

  Lee cocked his semi-automatic pistol, heard the seconds ticking down, “Six, five, four…”

  He punched a few numbers into his cell phone and spoke quickly to the voice on the other end. “Yes, now—General Racha. You need to transfer the money. Now!” He snapped the phone shut and cracked open the front door.

  Two men waited outside. Lee held his hands up, saw a line of rifle barrels pushed into his face. The SWAT team motioned their weapons back and forth drawing him back outside.

  “Tell your men to step outside, hands raised above their heads,” Tint shouted over the bullhorn. “Everyone stay calm. There’s no need for anyone acting stupid.”

  Lee took a few steps to his left and rapped on the door to the next room. It creaked open. Malak pressed his face up to the door and looked at Lee with fear in his eyes. “We’re coming out…please…tell them not to shoot.”

  “Come out… slowly,” Lee told him. He turned around and shouted at Tint. “Why are you here?” He bellowed angrily. “Why have you come to spoil my day?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Hyde Greer made the call to General Racha at the Police Officers Club in Vientiane from his mountain hideout. The General sat in the lounge working on his third martini after a hefty lunch of boiled crab, steaming white rice and a large bowl of somtam.

  “Do you remember me, General?” Greer spoke quickly into the phone. “I’m Joe Greer’s son.”

  “Oh, my. A voice from the past. Yes, yes,” the General said, his voice slurring from the martini’s.

  Greer brought him up to speed on the situation involving Kanoa Lee. “Can you help?”

  “Your father was a good friend of mine. We did business together during the war. I’m not sure what help I can be in this situation.”

  A hundred thousand dollars richer, Greer thought. Aloud he said, “I’ll transfer cash to your Zurich account right away if you can help me. My father told me you banked at the same bank during the old days.”

  “Ah, that we did,” the General chuckled. “That we did.”

  Wanting to speed things along, Greer said, “Can I have your account number, General?”

  “Okay. Let me see what I can do.”

  Greer took down the account number, thanked the General and rang off.

  * * * *

  As they raced across town to police headquarters, Kanoa Lee stared down at his watch. The minutes ticked by. The Financial building would blow up in a pile of smoke and rubble ten minutes from now. Time was ticking, ticking by.

  The sun had lowered in the west, casting the long dark shadows of trees onto the street. People walking on the boulevard flashed by the car window. Tick…tick…tick…

  Lee watched the second hand move up past the number twelve and swing down the other side, on its journey around the dial, aware now that another minute had gone by.

  Tick…tick…tick…

  In the front seat of the police cruiser, Maran Tint sat up as straight as an arrow, staring out through the windshield. Beyond the iron bars of the metal grate that separated the front and back seats, Kanoa Lee sat next to Malak. Lee noticed Malak staring down at his own watch. He followed the hand around the
clock with a look of astonishment in his eyes. They exchanged glances and the dark little secret held fixed in their eyes. Lee stared through the bars of the metal grate at Tint, who sat as stiff as a wooden plank up front in his green military uniform.

  This foolish man, Lee thought, this hopelessly inept little man immersed in his own ego. Lee tried to hide his bemused smile. It won’t be long until he panics like a frightened child when the bomb takes off the roof of the Financial building and brings the whole place down.

  A guard rolled back a long metal gate and they drove into the parking lot outside police headquarters. The building was a single-story, L-shaped structure built from cinderblock and painted a ghostly white. Kanoa Lee and his men were pulled out of the car and shoved through the front door, down a dark corridor to interrogation rooms in back. Malak was marched to the room on his right with another soldier, while Lee was led into the room straight ahead. Tint moved around the other side of a wooden desk, sat down and motioned the guard over. He shackled Lee’s wrist down to the 0-ring on the floor, then Tint motioned him into position at the front door.

  Turning back, he paused briefly, allowing his eyes to lock onto Lee’s. Finally, he said, “What brings you to Vientiane?”

  “Business.”

  “Business, hah!”

  Tint leaned over the top of the desk, staring down at the prisoner. The metal ring was clasped so tight around Lee’s wrist that the veins had ruptured. His wrist swelled and turned purple. Tint leaned over further, with the hint of a nasty smile. Lee stared up at an impossible angle, trying to keep his eyes on Tint.

  “Don’t play games with me,” said Tint, “We know all about you. You brought down the Telecom building this morning. This act of cowardice will end in the death penalty. I’ll enjoy seeing you executed along with your men.” Tint held up a sheet of paper. “You will sign this now.”