Bangkok Burn

by Simon Royle

  “That’s it. That’s them. What is the company doing about the boat and crew?”

  “They’ve told Singapore Police and Malaysian Coastguard and Police.”

  “Good work. How did you find all that out?”

  “It was online. An article that came up when I searched Google. I called SS Marine and pretended to be Malaysian police following up.”

  “Nice work. Let Mother know. I’ll call you when I get to Phuket. Call me if anything else develops.”

  “Love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  We were just passing Meuang Prachuap Khiri Khan, making decent time. Highway four, straight south to Nakhon Si Thammarat and then across to Phuket. About another five hundred and thirty klicks to go. Six hours give or take. That would put us into Phuket at four fifteen, four thirty, something like that.

  An hour later, Cheep called. He was laughing. I could hear his boys laughing in the background.

  “How did it go?”

  “You’ll hear on the news. A surprise red shirt protest and riot. Commercial buildings burnt down. Police say arrests are imminent.”

  “Everyone get in and out okay?”

  “No problems. We’re in the clear. We had time to break the blocks down and leave no trace.”

  “Ken’s boys?”

  “We used the army to move them away during the protest. When they came back the fire was already burning good.”

  “Nice.” I chuckled. “See you this evening. We need boats, fast ones, seagoing. Can you organize?”

  “How many?”

  “Three should be enough. With drivers who know what they’re doing but not showboaters.”

  “Can do. Have you got a lead?”

  “Maybe. Talk more when I get there.”

  I was guessing Lisp would be at sea somewhere between Langkawi and Phuket. I had to find them before the coastguard did. If the Malaysian coastguard, not connected to us, caught them for ripping off the yacht, I was worried they’d kill Uncle Mike. The cruising speed of a Hatteras 53 is about 13 knots, using about 90 liters per hour at that rate. Fuel tanks hold about three thousand liters. That gave them a cruising range of about five hundred and fifty miles, assuming they didn’t carry extra fuel in drums. No one at the marina could remember filling any up, so I assumed they didn’t have any.

  Langkawi to Phuket is about a hundred and eight nautical miles. Assuming they’d stay within fifty nautical miles of the coast, that made a search area of over five hundred square nautical miles. I figured the eight am thing was a ruse. They’d either drive around in circles or want the exchange to happen at dusk, figuring, with radar, they could slip away in the dark. That’s what I’d plan on doing.

  Passing through Chumphon, we heard on the news about the red shirt protest in the Democrat stronghold of Nakorn Si Thammarat. Ken would be wondering why I hadn’t called him to tell him the hundred million had been stolen. Or maybe he’d be wondering about the money going up in flames and how he was going to explain that to the bosses back home.

  The monks stopped for a pee break in Chumphon. We took the opportunity to eat. ‘Khao Mok Ghai’, spicy chicken in rice at a roadside stall. It was delicious. Break over we got back on the road.

  At Surat Thani we cut across the isthmus of Khra and entered Phang-nga province. The sun hung mid horizon on my right shoulder. Our route, Highway 4 to the 402 and then Phuket. So far it had been a smooth trip. No surprises.

  The cell phone rang just as we entered Meuang Phang-nga. Mother.

  “Malaysian Police have found two bodies, suspected to be the crewmen of the Hatteras. A fisherman caught them in their nets and reported it in.”

  “Where?”

  “North of Langkawi. But the bodies could have floated with the current. They were fairly badly chewed up. They’d probably been dead for a few days.”

  “Okay, thanks, Mother.”

  My bet was they were planning on running to Indonesia, probably down the western side. They wouldn’t want to deal with the Malacca Strait. I spread the US Navy and Thai charts I had of the area out on the back seat. I’d been over them all before, the creases in the folds familiar. With calipers, I marked off the areas on the chart where I wanted the boats to wait. I was pretty sure we’d have to make the exchange. I was sure the exchange would be at sea. Somewhere just on Thai borders at dusk. Then I was sure they’d run for Indonesian waters.

  We delivered the Buddha statue and the monks to a Wat just past the bridge. The abbot was a happy man with the statue and the million baht donation from Mother. We drove into Cheep’s resort, just as the sun was setting.

  Cheep’s resort surprised me. I was expecting your basic bamboo A-frame huts at the end of the steep dirt road. The bungalows were well-designed, tastefully hidden behind jungle, with pools of water beside each. The main building back from the beach, understated, white stucco, with high ceilings. A cool breeze helped by ceiling fans cooled the air. In front of me the Andaman Sea. Somewhere out there, Uncle Mike.

  Cheep had closed the resort. His boys and ours occupied the restaurant, looking out over the beach. Camouflage trousers, black t-shirts, Sak Yant tattoos, and fake Ray-Bans surrounding whiskey bottles, ice-buckets and soda bottles. Not an image you’d want on the front page of your website. The mosquito zapper lent a flare and a crackle to the atmosphere. Far away from the seedy bars of Patong, where girls, boys, and everything in between can be had for fifty bucks, here, cicadas played solo and chorus, rising crescendos that harmonized with slow lazy rolls of the waves.

  I sat apart from the boys. I wasn’t in the mood for socializing. A woman skirted the long table where the boys were, a tray in her hands. She came to the table I was sitting at. I recognized her. Cheep’s second daughter, Nong Wan, which means ‘Sweet’. She set the tray on the table, smiled, waied and started putting ice in a tall glass, all in one fluid motion. Her actions reminded me of Chai stripping a gun.

  “Sawasdee, Pi Bao,” she said. ‘Pi Bao’ southern Thai dialect for elder brother. Cheep was from Bangkok but he’d married a Phuket woman.

  “Hello Nong Wan. It has been a couple of years since I’ve seen you. How old are you now?”

  “Fifteen, ka, pi Chance.” She was gorgeous: big eyes, white teeth, dimples in her smile. I bet she would give Cheep many sleepless nights in the future, if not already. Cheep walked across, smiling at Wan, he ruffled her hair and told her to go do her homework. Another wai and she was gone.

  “She’s growing even more beautiful, Cheep. One of the great mysteries of our time.”

  “What mystery?” he said, grinning.

  “How someone as ugly as you could produce a daughter as beautiful as that.”

  Cheep laughed. It was a joke of Uncle Mike’s. We’d all shared it many times. We sat and watched the sea darken, as the sun lay down its final display for the day. Comfortable to sit in silence.

  The Best Laid Plans

  18 May 2010 Phuket 5:30 am

  Strong, hot, sweet, black coffee and an onshore breeze are enough to lift anyone’s spirits. I was enjoying both on the balcony of the master suite that Cheep had given me. The sun had not yet risen, facing due west it was dark, but the far horizon to the south already showed a dark purple sea, with a fringe of scarlet and orange.

  Someone knocked on the door. It was Cheep, an excited look on his face.

  “Last night, midnight, the Hatteras came back to Yacht Haven.” Cheep was practically quivering with the news, fingers like claws, flexing in and out.

  “Anyone on board?”

  “So far only one Farang has shown his face. He paid cash in the office for two days mooring in advance and he booked fueling for this morning. I’ve got guys watching the boat. They’ll call us if they see anything.”

  Back to Yacht Haven? I thought. That was dumb. Or maybe not. I began to see Lisp’s plan. I turned to Chai. Chai had been a Thai Navy Seal for five years.

  “We need to get a transmitter onto the boat. Somewhere it can’t be f
ound. Maybe just above the waterline by the rudder. If possible with a back-up. He’s not going to swap money and Uncle Mike. He’s going to swap boats.” Chai nodded and left.

  “How about those boats? Are they ready?”

  “They’re ready.”

  “Radar?”

  “Thirty mile radar installed on three meter poles. They worked on it all night. It’s done, working.”

  “Good work, thanks.” I spread the charts I’d worked on yesterday and more last night. “These circles here are where I think they’ll make their escape. The way I think they’re going to do this, is to have us load the money on the Hatteras. Then we’ll drive out to sea probably south, the route under the bridge to the north is dangerous without local knowledge. Once past the southern tip, we’ll head south-west towards the west coast of Indonesia, until we get out of Thai territory. Then the guy on the Hatteras, which also has thirty mile radar, will check to see what is around and call Lisp. Lisp will come in on another boat with Uncle Mike. We then swap boats Uncle Mike staying on the boat he’s on and the money on the boat we’ll be on. As soon as we’ve done the swap, we’ll want to move in but before then we’ll want to stay out of radar range. We can stay in touch without arousing suspicion by moving in and out of radar range from different directions. Also by varying speed and changing the radar signature. Did you get the aluminum foil?” Cheep nodded.

  “We’ve sent a fishing boat with extra fuel out this morning,” Chai said, his finger roving over the map. “With these distances you’re talking about, the boats will need to refuel at least once.”

  “The key thing is to stay in touch but not be seen.”

  “I got it, Chance.” A flash of annoyance crossed Cheep's eyes to accompany the bite in the tone. I put my hand on his arm.

  “I’m sorry, Khun Cheep. I’m just keyed up. Worried about Uncle Mike.”

  He nodded and smiled back. Feeling awkward that he’d let his emotions show. He was as stressed as I was. Cool heart, ‘jai yen’, fine when it isn’t blood on the line.

  ***

  The Hatteras was moored at the end of a pontoon on the outside of the Marina. We had a dredger and a pile driver working twenty meters from the Hatteras driving a pile into the seabed. I could hear the thump of the huge ball of iron as it struck the concrete piling from where I was. According to the range finder in the binoculars, that was three hundred and eighty three meters away.

  It was just after one thirty in the afternoon. I was on the third floor of an office building watching the boat from the shore. Tum, holding a Barrett .50 sniper’s rifle, was with me and one of Cheep’s guys, called Sak, shot photos with a Canon digital with a huge telephoto lens. Chai was underwater somewhere between us and the boat.

  I switched views and looked at the far end of the pier. Two of Cheep’s boys were there, drill and wood in hand. The guy on the Hatteras came out of the cabin into the cockpit area and looked down the pier at Cheep’s boys. They ignored him focused on drilling the piece of wood. Chai surfaced in the shadow of the hull near the rudder. He worked quickly, head and hands barely visible, then, he was gone. Two antennas sticking up just above the waterline marked his passage. Cheep’s boys packed up and walked off the pier. Lisp’s man went back into the cabin. Ten minutes later, Chai surfaced in the dock of the shipyard. Job done.

  Later in the afternoon we tested the GPS devices, turning them on and off for brief periods. They worked. We wouldn’t turn them on again until I was on board and we were under way. We reckoned they’d scan us for transmitters. It was unlikely they’d find the pair now attached to the boat but better not to take the risk. All we could do now was watch and wait.

  ***

  Lilly’s phone rang at exactly 8am. A shake of the head from Cheep told me it wasn’t the guy on the Hatteras. He was watching the Hatteras on a notebook, courtesy of more Japanese technology. We were back in the resort. Last night no one drank alcohol. It was a quiet dinner. Now it was all business. We were ‘Go’.

  I answered the phone.

  “Yes.”

  “You have the money packaged how I ordered?”

  Arrogant little prick, I thought. “Yes I do.”

  “Good. You will leave now. Alone. You will drive to the Yacht Haven, you have thirty minutes. Take this phone with you.”

  The line disconnected. We had already mapped out the fastest route to Yacht Haven. Thirty minutes was ample time. I felt hot under the shirt, bullet proof vest and t-shirt under that. That was why I was sweating. I breathed out.

  We had all the bases covered. Chai would be with one of the two boats on the southern route. That was the most likely route they would take. If the signal was lost, all three boats would converge on the last signal at thirty-five knots. On the southern route, that would put them only five minutes away at any time. I ran through these details once more as I checked my weapons.

  Cheep grabbed my arms.

  “Good luck.”

  “Thanks, Cheep. See you soon.”

  Cheep, Chai, Tum and the rest of the boys filed out. They would join the boats at different locations and be in radar range of the Hatteras within fifteen minutes. Two of the cars would check the route until the main highway, when one would branch off east and one would check the route north.

  The rain from last night had burned off and the morning was bright and clear, a hint of the heat that would bake at noon tempered by a cool sea breeze and a blue sky. I climbed up into the cab of the seven ton truck. Painted as a food delivery vehicle, and grubby looking, the engine was top grade and the tires new. I over revved and then settled down, getting the feel for the clutch and accelerator.

  After a jerky start I got the truck running smoothly, heading north, a running commentary via the encrypted comms channel of the team's progress in my ear. Past Nai Thon beach, the road empty, I picked up the speed. The 4031 would take me to the 4026, which cut north and then east, then I would join the 402, straight north. But on Thai roads, anything can happen, so make time while you can. Now that I was alone I could wipe my sweaty palms on my trousers. I passed a couple of kids on a motorbike, but otherwise there was no traffic on the 4031. Through Sa Khu I turned right onto the 4026 - six and half kilometers and just another four to the main dual carriageway.

  I eased off the speed as I came around the sharp left corner, too late to stop for the spikes lying across the road. The front tires blew out. The truck slewed across the road, as the back tires blew, a huge plume of sparks in the side mirror. In front of me a container truck blocked the road. Braking hard I stopped with a meter to spare. Static in my ears. They had blocked radio signals. The ticking over of the trucks’ engine, the air-conditioner in the cab, all the sounds I could hear. Quiet.

  Glock in hand I climbed down from the cab. A glance at my cell phone confirmed the blocked signal. I was on my own. A spike of pain in my leg - I looked down - a dart with a bright orange cap hanging out of my leg. My legs went out from under me. I lifted the Glock in the direction of the bush but it was too heavy. Vision blurred. Thinking how long before Chai and the others would realize. I’ve screwed up…

  A Crazy Plan

  Date, Location, Time unknown

  I woke up in darkness, lying on a metal floor, a hood over my head. It stank, stale sweat and wool. It itched. An itch I couldn’t scratch. My hands were bound behind me with what felt like a cable tie. My feet the same. I was naked. The hum of tires, muted bumps, metallic thumps, and echoes. I guessed I was in the back of the container that had blocked the road. Moving, the metal ridges of the floor digging into my shoulder blades as we hit bumps in the road. I pushed with my feet, and jerked my body, looking to sit up. My fingers felt swollen and painful but I used them to try and get purchase. I pushed and jerked and hit something with my head.

  I turned my body around. No mean feat, when you’re bound arms, hands, and feet. My fingers were my eyes, feeling. Hard plastic, rough wood. The money on the pallet.

  I fell over countless times. Enough tha
t I taught myself how to brace for each fall. My knees, face, shoulders, everything hurt. There wasn’t a part of me that wasn’t protesting. I was like Bangkok. Bruised, battered, with every part fighting against the other. Thirsty, breaths coming with a rasp, the smell of my sweat now a close cousin to the hood’s previous owners.

  I had searched the container. Old frayed rope, cable ties, a metal ramp, a forklift, and one hundred million dollars, the fruits of my labor. Not bad for an hour’s work. I was exhausted but there was more work to do.

  They’d driven the forklift straight in with the money. It’s rear to the doors of the container. They could only be opened from the outside. I’d searched higher parts by running my face, particularly my nose over objects until I could picture them in my mind. I was thankful for the hood and hated it as the cause of my suffering.