A Killing to DIE For

by P Gaseaux

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Excuse me, Excellency.”

  The setting at the prestigious Bangkok Golf Club looked as good as the weather that day. Magnificent. On the tenth hole a Thai man was enjoying a game with the ambassador of an EU nation, business mixed with pleasure. A meeting of the rich and powerful on the greens.

  The Thai golfer was annoyed at being interrupted and fumbled as he dug his cell out of his rear pocket. It was one of three he kept and the only one he carried at all times; the sole callers with that number being his wife, his immediate superiors and his ninety year old mother. He wished he could turn it off at times; it seldom rang but when it did it meant something major.

  “Hello.” He listened carefully.

  “What do you mean by ‘my little offshore project’? What’s going on? Heard anything?”

  He whispered; he knew the ambassador spoke his language and could overhear. His heart rate suddenly jumped. He listened to the caller who spoke for well over three minutes as he nodded. He replaced the phone and stared ahead for a while, leaning on his putter.

  “Everything okay, General?” asked the European.

  He turned to his VIP guest and chuckled politely: “Of course, Excellency, you know how it is, always on the march.”

  The general was a champion golfer. That afternoon he had fully intended letting the ambassador beat him but since taking the call he didn’t need to fake it. He’d read reports of street battles in Manila in a recent upsurge in violence over there. The Arcana crew, they hadn’t been in touch. He’d have to check. He knew all about them but they knew nothing of him…that was the whole idea.

  The offshore project. He hadn’t heard anything for a couple of weeks now, most unlike her; she reported in her every move, she did anything asked of her without question.

  He had to find out where she was right now. And hope nothing had happened.

  The trawler upped moorings and chugged north to Manila Harbor at dawn. They moved quietly and efficiently, attracting no attention from Customs or the navy; if they did their documents were all in order, visas and a cash float to smooth the way…it wasn’t needed. A covered van met them near the dock. Pakdee and others sat in the back on bench seats but it was covered so she couldn’t get her bearings. They’d placed hinged cuffs on her. They knew she’d been there nearly a year; she knew her way around. They didn’t underestimate her, not in the slightest.

  It was a relief when the tailgate dropped, with a crash. They had backed up somewhere and still under cover. The place was a small factory located an industrial estate somewhere in Manila that manufactured and delivered animal food supplements. The arrival and departure of the six-wheeled vans didn’t raise an eyebrow anywhere. Ideal cover for storage and transit, and keeping her out of sight…

  The warehouse was subdivided to the rear. Sealed off, that’s where she was holed up. Amenities adequate, she couldn’t complain. Somewhere to sleep, wash and sit down. A specialist posted outside to keep her on watch, at least the guard was considerate. They let her keep her timepiece. It was midday. That’s when the interrogation began:

  Getting to know you.

  She was on one side of the desk and they sat on the other side -- Lowenstein, the team leader from the boat with the raggedy blonde, van de Meuwe who steered it. The rider looked at the captive with a mixture of contempt and curiosity. People like ‘the Cat’ were predators and home-wreckers; this one would be no different.

  The running man opened the door slightly and requested some bottled mineral water be brought forthwith. He was to play the role of ‘good cop’ throughout. The Thai woman’s stoicism impressed him. He knew them well; after all he had lived there once.

  “Ms. Jaisuwan Pakdee-Chaiyochaichana,” he began. “Firstly thank you for agreeing to be with us at such short notice.”

  Did she have a choice? She only made eye contact with the guard outside. Pakdee was working on him -- the one with the big brown eyes.

  The rider spoke: “My identity is ‘Code-Blue’. Present also in the room is ‘Code-Gold’. The time is twelve-hundred hours and sixteen minutes.” She checked. “You have no rights whatsoever…in fact if you choose not to assist us you will disappear. You will never get anywhere near a lawyer, in fact if you attempt to contact anybody, you will disappear. What you do say must be of assistance to the State. If you do not assist you will disappear. If you lie to us, lots of dreadful things will happen to you. Do you understand this total lack of rights?”

  The rider tossed her head sideways. “The front of this factory is a processing plant that converts fish byproducts into granulated prawn feed and poultry products which they bag and export all over the region.” She leaned close to Pakdee with a sinister grin. “And I’ll knock you out and toss you into the boilers in a second.”

  Van de Meuwe the rider, made a pinching gesture with her thumb and forefinger. “Come out looking like coffee powder.”

  “I don’t scare so easily,” replied Pakdee. “I don’t talk to you…I talk with him.” She crossed her arms and swiveled in the chair, facing the running man with the crew cut. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” she said. “But your Russian girlfriend remains quiet. Carry on, then…”

  The running man had come into the interview prepped, still part of the psychology was to leaf through, shuffle papers. “Can I get you anything, Ms. Pakdee-Chayochaichana?”

  There were three unopened bottles of water on the table. Pakdee gathered them. “I’m thirsty. Pick one and drink half first.”

  He opened one, drank at length and passed it back. He then dumped three sheets of paper on the table. “Miss, I am presenting an airway bill from a shipment of goods that was sent from Manila to Cairo this year. From a company listed as Aseancon Freight Forwarders with whom you worked. Cell phones and digital cameras; read it please. Care to explain?”

  She took a glance. The same ones. “If I can correct you there I was the manager,” said Pakdee. “These goods were Chinese knockoffs, shockproof and waterproof -- ideally to for a parent to give to a child to stay in touch. They just don’t have all the functions.”

  “Going to Egypt, right?” The running man and the rider exchanged looks. “Why there?

  “Guess the Arabs care for their kids, too…you know that? They were dirt-cheap. Not too many sheiks or petrodollars in that part of the world.”

  “Dirt cheap…not according to the letter of credit. I don’t think so, Ms. Pakdee-Chayochaichana-”

  “Anna,” she interjected. “Less of a mouthful…”

  “Anna,” he continued. “I’ll cut to the chase. Do you know anything about the trade of illegal arms, either here or in the Middle East? Take a moment to think about this.”

  Pakdee didn’t need a moment. She was laying the bait and they’d bitten. Time to make them think I’ve come clean.

  “That’s exactly who I was working for,” she said. “Arms traffickers, who are domiciled in my country. They sent a death-squad to get me…get me and William Robert Hatfield, the victim. They once supplied the Tamil Tigers; that’s how they got established. I have no idea why they moved into electronics though. Maybe you could enlighten me.”

  The running man kept firing questions for the next two hours non-stop and Pakdee laid the whole thing out. Except for whom she really worked for and exactly what was in those goods. She knew it was something bad; it was something everybody was after. She knew lots of things but she was careful how she fed it to them. The land unit could well be her ticket out.

  They kept on pressing her about the pallet of bogus cell phones and toy cameras. She kept playing ignorant, in part this was true. It was early evening when the running man and the rider sat themselves down once more. They played a digital recording taken from the hospital entrance…the gun-battle…the stainless M9. A helmet-cam from one of the extraction team. Looked good; better than a lot of action seque
nces.

  “Impressive,” said the running man. “Where’d you learn that?”

  “Competition shooting is an interest of mine,” replied Pakdee. “We have access to such sports in my home…if you have the money or time.”

  “You’re a financial trader and auditor, I’m told. So tell me this…” He leaned close to Pakdee. “How does a nice young thing like you manage this? Against mercenaries, if what you say is true.”

  “Practice when I can,” replied Pakdee.

  The running man didn’t believe a word of it. She’s working for someone else.

  “Look, I’m going to send for some rice. Hungry?” he asked. He opened the door and spoke with the specialist then sat down again.

  “So tell us about yourself. Which part of Thailand? I’ve was there for some time.”

  “I can tell you’ve been around…and for what it’s worth, I was born in the far north -- halfway between Chiang Mai and Laos,” replied Pakdee. “I was adopted at age eleven after I ran away from home…Protestant missionaries. They were Dutch. Raised me as one of their own. Educated me. Helped me. Saved me from the pimps when I was young. They still live there. I send them money for the orphanage. And the chapel. And the authorities-”

  The rider interrupted in a sarcastic tone: “Spreken Nederlands my liewe?”

  Pakdee spoke fluent Dutch. This person spoke it rough.

  “Clearly better than you do…liewe?!”

  Not Russian and certainly not from Holland…but they weren’t speaking in Afrikaans earlier on. Pakdee now had some idea who she was dealing with. But she kept quiet. The raggedy blonde glared at her…if looks could kill. Then they left the room.

  “Watch it, Ms. Blue.” Lowenstein nudged van de Meuwe as they walked out. “She’s trying to suss us out. We ask the questions but please be careful what you say…after all everybody knows it was us but always after we’re long gone. And nobody can prove a thing.”

  Lowenstein needed to report to headquarters. In the communications room was the signaler -- C41 -- except this was modern day skills, not Morse code. Aside from world-class communications skills and computer hacking the young expert had two other interests in life: on-line gaming and cage-fighting. C41 had the highest possible clearances. He could never be captured alive. He was a bit of a loner…a geek who knew how ruin somebody’s whole day, be it with a timely signal to a sniper, a press of a button or a booby trap stashed in a car.

  Access to C41’s task and equipment was also restricted, the land unit knew that.

  “Code Blue, go check on ‘the Cat’, please,” ordered the running man. “See if she needs anything or has anything else to say.

  “Yes, sir.” She clicked shut the door of the communications room and returned to the captive.

  The rider returned and dismissed the specialist outside the door. She entered the room alone and glared at Pakdee. Death-stare.

  That was her first mistake.

  “You realize what you’ve gone and done, don’t you? Aiding and abetting a terrorist organization -- you’re in deep shit, lady. Two of our best chopper pilots are dead, no thanks to you.”

  “I don’t see how sending a bunch of ‘phones somewhere is channeling aid to terrorists,” replied Pakdee. “Are you going after every single exporter of cell phones and digital cameras out here? Good luck-”

  “Cut the crap, damn you. These things were used to manufacture weapons components…”

  The rider’s second mistake.

  Pakdee said nothing; now she had some idea: why the cargo was so valuable, why Hatfield was dead and why her controllers in ‘Bangkok RHQ’ were interested in the things. They were computers or circuits of some kind. She also had some idea who they were.

  The rider got up and moved around to face ‘the Cat’ and spied the little necklace she was wearing…a talisman of some Buddhist relic in a casket. No bigger than a thumbnail. The rider was breathing heavily, wired up and incensed. She grabbed at the chain.

  “I’ll be taking this. You could use it to self-harm or attempt escape-”

  Big mistake.

  The commotion lasted about ten seconds. Sounded like somebody inside had let loose with a sledgehammer. When the specialist who’d been guarding the door returned to investigate he was barricaded out; somehow the lock was jammed. He raced around the side and saw ‘the Cat’ pounding the living daylights out of Code Blue through the one-way-mirror and screamed for help. He was joined by two others who smashed the metal door in with the help of a fire-axe and a heavy CO2 fire extinguisher. Took all three of them to subdue the captive and drag the rider out. Just in time.

  Lowenstein was furious when he found out after the long-distance discussion with Colonel Hirsch; he poked his head in the first aid room before checking on ‘the Cat’ who was trussed up.

  “Put her in the next strong room,” he yelled at the specialists. “Two bodies watching her, at all times -- no exceptions!”

  He returned to the sick bay. By this time he had cooled down. The best way to show his displeasure at the rider: he roared laughing, in her face. She was on a bed getting checked over by the Special Forces medic.

  The rider was doubled over but she’d live. She was stunned; she was five-ten, an unarmed combat specialist who could floor most opponents. Despite being smaller ‘the Cat’ had dropped her easily, stopping just short of maiming her. The rider gave the running man a wounded apology.

  “Forget about it, Ms. Blue. But don’t go near her again, that’s an order. Get some rest.”

  The rider lay back on the bed, sore and sorry. She could settle up with Suzy Wong at a later date but for now she’d need to swallow her pride and carry on as ordered. It had been a good learning experience.

  Lowenstein locked the door behind him and held three whiteboard markers, all different colors. He laid out his notes on a large table and started marking the whiteboard, it was a big one and he’d need the space. After an hour and a lot of rubbing-out he was done; he stood back and peered intently at the diagram he had in front of him.

  ‘The Cat’ located, William Robert Hatfield deceased.

  The death squad…two killed by his specialists and the remainder, headed up by a UK national. Most likely on the run by now. They had a good description of the ‘Englishman’ but no name to match the face.

  The remainder of the Syndicate in Thailand, somewhere. Their structure: one naturalized Canadian, Sri Lankan by birth. A Nigerian who had graduated from the underworld into partnership with the Canadian. A Chinese national, location unknown -- possibly Bangkok. He was the one supplying the missile components, he was the brains.

  And the triggermen? Arcana were still waiting upon the fingerprints but from what Anna told them they were Nepalese…they looked just like Filipino, Thai or Malay but nothing could be further from the truth. They were Gurkhas, possibly a dozen who took orders from the UK national. And that meant a dozen big problems. It would be the first time in his country’s history they had faced these sturdy and fearless killers. None of the others knew much about them but Lowenstein did, he knew his military history.

  At the bottom of the whiteboard were three names: those of the FBI agents Tanaka and Jackson along with Jesse James Hatfield. They were easy to take care of, Hirsch and the others back at base would lean on their contacts in the CIA and have the investigation shut down. Operation Arcana was their baby. Lowenstein took a green marker and placed a tick next to these names; he did the same next to ‘the Cat’.

  Slowly and in a respectful way, he drew a line through Billy-Bob Hatfield’s name, with the green marker. He took a different marker, found the word ‘Chinese National’ and circled it in red. Finally he stood back and read the board before taking a digital shot on his Blackberry. Then he erased everything before soaking his own handkerchief in rubbing alcohol and cleaning every trace.

  And the circuits? Defense R&D had one sample locked up somew
here out in the desert where nobody could get it except their engineers. The rest of that particular shipment had been located and destroyed in Cairo.

  Any others in existence? For all anybody knows there could be an entire warehouse full of the things out there. Or they could be in the wrong hands already…

  Pakdee rubbed her arms and wrists; still sore. She stretched before checking out her new accommodation. The other one was wrecked and the door gone. This one looked exactly the same. Outside, the two Special Forces including one from the boat; the one with the gentle face and soft eyes. They were having a joke about something -- most likely her -- they’d be making all sorts of insinuations about her and what she’d done.

  She didn’t have the luxury of writing materials right now. She didn’t need them, only a time-line inside her head…a chain of events that imploded in the middle of the year when that pallet of goods went through, minus just one of the units. It hadn’t gone unnoticed.

  Pakdee bent over and let out an audible noise. Why did you remove the box? Why did you show it to the FBI? What have you done?

  She hadn’t been in touch with the general. He’d be worried. She had to make contact with her controllers somehow, any way she could. Right now she was going nowhere fast.