The Quiet Professional

by Michael Byars Lewis

  “Sarathoon, take a seat,” Maison said. “I’ll need you soon.”

  The wiry Thai moved to the wall and chose the chair farthest from the desk. Maison appreciated Sarathoon's judgment, never sitting near him while he worked. As he powered up his computer, the door to the office opened. In sauntered a petite young Cambodian woman. She placed a glass of ice on Maison's desk, then filled it with mineral water.

  “Merci, mon chéri,” Maison said. She took several steps toward Sarathoon to offer him a drink, but he waved her off.

  Maison's computer whirred to life, and he typed in his password. "Is the warehouse ready?"

  Sarathoon shook his head. “We are having problems with the owner. He’s attempting to delay our moving in. While you were gone, Mademoiselle De Vries did an excellent job working out the contract. It seems everything is in order and legitimate.”

  "Helena is a most valuable addition to our team. Her experience in the international financial marketplace has been invaluable to our plans. Interestingly enough, she's become more than my miia gep.”

  Sarathoon said nothing about his kept woman, and Maison didn’t expect him to. He was the ideal employee: intelligent, insightful, resourceful, and dangerous.

  Maison’s face edged into a scowl. “This must be resolved today. The containers arrive tomorrow, and I need them in position. Will that be a problem?”

  “No, Monsieur Andrepont. I will take care of it.”

  Maison scanned through his morning e-mails. A self-made man who left his native France behind at the age of eighteen, he had lived in Thailand or Cambodia ever since. He transformed himself into a rich man, twice, and had no desire to do it a third time.

  Establishing himself as a successful, high-stakes gambler early in life, he used his winnings to build a casino in Poipet. He invested his earnings from the casino in real estate and the stock market. He was an impressive and intelligent businessman. At his peak, he provided jobs for almost five thousand people in Thailand and Cambodia. By 1997, his personal worth totaled nearly three-hundred-fifty million dollars, American. That was until the International Monetary Fund (IMF) decided it would start to manipulate the baht, the Thai currency. The market crashed, and in a few short months, Maison lost more than half his investments. When both the Thai and Cambodian governments felt the squeeze, they started to squeeze the businesses. For the next two years, Maison's wealth continued to rapidly dwindle. By the time the economy recovered, his portfolio had fallen to a mere ten percent of its value. The IMF and its policies had destroyed him.

  All his holdings in Thailand were repossessed by the banks. His apartment complex and travel agency in Bangkok, the shopping mall in Phitsanulok, the resort in Phuket. Gone. The casino in Poipet was the only business he had still owned. He kept it going, slowly rebuilding his fortune. Diversifying his investments much more than before, he hit big in the U.S. tech market, luckily selling his shares in early 2000, before the bubble totally burst. He invested in, and eventually purchased an armored car company and several automobile dealerships in Bangkok. Precious metals and real-estate rounded out his portfolio. Nevertheless, he never forgot what the IMF did to him.

  The phone on his desk buzzed, and Maison picked it up right away.

  “Oui,” he said.

  “Monsieur Andrepont, we have an issue on the floor,” a woman’s voice said. He recognized the voice of his floor manager for the morning shift.

  “Do you need me?”

  “No,” she paused. “Sarathoon.”

  “Alright. He’s on his way.” Maison hung up the phone. “There’s a problem on the floor that needs your attention.”

  Sarathoon nodded and moved quickly out the door. Maison didn’t have to ask the floor manager specifics. If she needed Sarathoon, it wouldn’t be pretty.

  10

  October 12, 2003

  Just beyond the colorful, yet noisy slot machines, a scraggly looking man sat patiently. The clothes hung loose on him but with purpose. His age—indeterminate. Somewhere between thirty and fifty. Gambling did not interest him, but his eyes cautiously watched every person. Arthit was a careful man. Doing business with the Frenchman gave him reason for concern. He had no moral compass, an infidel of the highest order.

  It frustrated him that the Frenchman made him wait. Arthit understood the business, but he considered their objective far more important than the godless gambling that surrounded here. His men believed that Allah would surely punish those who participated in this sin. Arthit was not as much a believer. He worshiped the god of money. Like Andrepont, he understood the desire to make it. He did not understand all these fools losing it.

  Maison Andrepont meandered through the rows of slot machines, flanked by two of his men, Nimol and Ponleak. Nimol, the more “established” of the two, had a thin mustache and a section of hair missing just above his hairline, home now to a large scar. Ponleak, the shorter of the two, sported a crewcut and didn’t speak much. Arthit preferred dealing with them more than Andrepont’s enforcer, Sarathoon, who he thought was a psychopath.

  Andrepont spoke to no one, carefully observing his customers this time of the morning. He felt no need to schmooze the poor, for they spent their money willingly. It was the rich who needed his attention. They spent their money freely, too, but a little personal attention often ensured they spent a little more. After five minutes eyeing the gamblers, he decided Arthit had waited long enough and sauntered over to him.

  Arthit rose when the small group approached, pressed his hands together, and bowed. “Greetings, Monsieur Andrepont.”

  Maison reciprocated the gesture and stood with a big smile on his stubble-covered face. Arthit figured him to be in his mid-forties, but his appearance was several years younger. The fitted tuxedo he wore validated his role in the casino.

  “Welcome, Arthit. Let us go to my office,” Maison said. “I’m sorry you had to wait. I had to inspect a problem Sarathoon dealt with earlier. I’m sure you understand.”

  Arthit cringed at the mention of Sarathoon and retrieved the six-inch throwing knife tucked into his waistband behind his back. Usually, he carried a couple of guns, but experience had taught him when he came to Andrepont's casino, he was frisked thoroughly, and the repetitive removal of his weapons became too embarrassing. Now, he simply handed his knife to Ponleak while Nimol patted him down, and he was done. His guns he left in the car with his men. After going up and down his body twice, Nimol nodded at his boss, and the two stood off to the side.

  Maison peered beyond his guest. "Nimol, Ponleak, bring the box to the office." The two men hurried off in another direction. Maison placed his right hand on Arthit's shoulder and steered him toward his office. They said nothing as they walked down the long, dark hallway, and Maison punched in the cipher code.

  The door shut loudly behind them, and the Frenchman moved swiftly to the chair behind his desk, motioning for Arthit to sit in one of the chairs in front. Arthit contemplated standing but thought it might be too obstinate.

  “Do you have the final payment?” Arthit said.

  “My dear friend, of course. Nimol and Ponleak are bringing it now. They will even carry it to your car.”

  Arthit nodded and peeked back at the door. He had always been concerned with Maison Andrepont’s casualness regarding this job. Ever since he made contact a year ago, it turned into a game to the wealthy casino owner. More than once, Arthit worried that he put his Al Qaida cell in jeopardy.

  “Are the men in position?” Maison asked. “How many do you have? How will you do this?”

  “Monsieur Andrepont," Arthit said, "leave that to me. Can you assure me the information you gave us is still accurate?"

  “Yes, as far as I can tell.”

  “What about the Chechen?”

  “He will complete the delivery next week. I will be there personally to make the deal and the initial payment. I trust you received everything?”

  Arthit started to say yes when Nimol opened the office door for Ponleak, w
ho pushed a cart with a small wooden box in the center. Sarathoon slipped in the room behind them, alerting his awareness, but that faded quickly. Smiling, Arthit approached the cart. He reached for the box, then glanced at Maison, who nodded approvingly. Arthit lifted the lid and reached inside. The gold bar glistened in the pale light of the office. Sixteen ounces of .999 pure gold bullion. His smile grew more prominent as he caressed his prize.

  “Arthit,” Maison said, “take your gold and proceed with our plans. I will see you next week. I look forward to the weapons-training demonstration.”

  Arthit nodded. “It will build the confidence of my men.”

  He placed the bullion back in the box. Maison’s men took the cart out of the office, and Arthit followed his payment out of the room. Arthit peeked briefly at Maison but focused his attention on Sarathoon, who had slipped into the room and stood with his arms behind his back. This was the one he needed to worry about. A skilled boxer, he was a respected fighter but positively a feared killer.

  The door closed behind Arthit, and Maison returned to his computer. The picture of Helena on his desk spoke to him the way a favorite song brings back particular memories. He picked up the frame and turned away from the monitor. His pulse quickened when he thought of Helena; her beauty surpassed all his previous women. They had all been beautiful, but she was so much more. She was sexy and alluring and, above all, intelligent. He questioned if she was the one who finally captured his heart.

  “I will check on her Monsieur Andrepont,” Sarathoon said, stepping toward the desk.

  “What makes you think I want you to check on her?” Maison replied. Why would he ask that? Of course, he wanted him to. He always wanted to know what she was doing. Helena de Vries was by far the most beautiful woman in Cambodia and Thailand. A blonde in a world of raven-haired beauties had its advantages and disadvantages. Men continuously lusted after her, and he had to forever monitor her actions.

  Sarathoon didn’t answer his question but edged closer to the desk.

  “I need to discuss something with you, monsieur.”

  Sensing the seriousness in his voice, Maison turned.

  “Ben Harris—the American who still owes you from his gambling debt.”

  “Yes.”

  “He made part of his payment the other night. We met him outside the marketplace. Mademoiselle de Vries gave him four days for the rest. I found him in the elevator and let him know the penalty for being late.”

  “I’m aware of all this. Four days is a bit much, but she’s learning.”

  “The next day, the Americans moved from The Hotel Metropolitan to the Landmark Hotel. They think they are being targeted by terrorists, and that’s why Ben Harris was attacked.”

  “Very good. We still know where he is. If he doesn’t deliver tomorrow, go get him.”

  “The problem is not the location, sir. When we went to store the gold he brought us, we found this. It’s like all the rest.” Sarathoon, from behind his back, produced a 100-gram bar of gold. Maison grabbed the gold bar from across the desk.

  His eyes raced over the smooth surface, studying each side of the bar. Gradually, his jaw set, and his brow furrowed. His grip tightened around the small bar in his hands, then he suddenly dropped it on his desk with a loud, flat thud.

  His eyes narrowed, and his teeth clenched as he stared at the glimmering gold bar, unable to tear his eyes away.

  “Find him.”

  11

  October 12, 2003

  Jason left the comfortable confines of the hotel and walked through the maze of chairs and recliners that littered the crowded pool deck. Although it was only midmorning, his sunglasses instantly fogged up. The sun already baked the Westerners taking advantage of the cloudless sky. Sweat poured from his skin as the humidity took hold of his body. Jason wiped his sunglasses with the bottom of his shirt and set them back on the bridge of his nose. He tugged the sides of his sweaty, short-sleeve, button-up shirt and wished he had packed more clothes. His long pants didn’t help either, but at least he dressed casually—which didn’t stop the heat from breathing on him like the devil himself. Jason meandered through the crowd, shielding his eyes, blending in with the tourists.

  The sound system from behind the bar blared a ten-year-old Madonna song Jason could not remember the name of. Scanning the crowd, he found Ben across the pool, wearing swim trunks and sunglasses and basking in the sun. Ben appeared more like a college kid on spring break than an Air Force officer. A hearty grin formed on his face when he approached his friend.

  “This is a hell of a prison sentence you’re serving here,” he said.

  Ben glanced up, startled, tilting up his sunglasses as if he couldn’t see through them.

  “Morning, Jason,” he said. “It’s not Johannesburg but close enough.” He sat up and set his legs over the side of the chair with caution. “Didn’t you bring any shorts?”

  “No. Didn’t expect to stay.” Jason noticed Ben’s ribs were no longer taped.

  “Your ribs heal that fast?”

  “No. Didn’t want tan lines. But they’re starting to feel better.”

  Figures. Narcissist. Jason shook his head.

  “You eat breakfast yet?” Ben asked.

  “I ate the buffet. Damn tasty.”

  "Oh, yeah. I had it yesterday. What are you up to? When are we going home?"

  Jason sat on the recliner next to Ben’s, removed his sunglasses, and tucked them into his shirt pocket. “McClendon’s at the airport working with the Thai Air Force to see if they have anything we can use. He doesn’t think they do, but it’s the quickest solution if they did. They keep minimum supplies, and given the current situation, they’re keeping most of their assets close hold.”

  “So, you’re telling me I’ve got a few more days in this hellhole prison?”

  Jason chuckled. “Yeah. Looks like you’re gonna suffer.”

  “Don’t laugh. I mean, it sounds like I’m just living the dream, but everything I told you last night is legit. These guys from the casino . . . they’ll kill me.”

  His face tightened. He was surprised Ben would want to discuss this again.

  “This wouldn’t be an issue if I didn’t run out of credit cards.”

  “No, this wouldn’t be an issue if you didn’t go to the casino.” Jason wasn’t a gambler. He was raised by his late mother, who had managed her finances well. He had the tendency to be tight with what he had.

  “The only thing left was my government travel card. I go to this jeweler in the north part of Bangkok and use the government’s dime to buy the last thirty-grand.”

  “And Uncle Sam gets involved.”

  "Yeah, as soon as the transaction goes through, all the bells and whistles start going off. This shit went down a hell of a lot faster than I expected. I figured a week, maybe five days. Within twenty-four hours, McClendon gets a call from Okinawa, and I'm under arrest." Ben made the visual quotation marks with his fingers. "Luckily, I paid most of it back the night before."

  “What do you mean most of it?”

  “I owed thirty-grand. The shop owner only had twenty-grand worth of gold on hand. Said he needed another three days to get more. I dropped off the twenty; the Frenchman’s thugs gave me four days to pay him off. Today’s the third day. The gold is at the jeweler’s ready for pickup.”

  “What does your wife say about all this?” Jason said. His eyes studied Ben’s face carefully.

  “She understands. I screwed up and got myself in a fix. Sometimes you do what you have to do. We’ll recover.”

  Ben’s expression never changed. Jason let out a deep, frustrated sigh. Ben lied. She was freaking out back on Okinawa. She was in tears, beyond disappointed in her husband. Jason was disappointed in him, too. They had too much history and too many experiences for it to come to this.

  “Ben, I talked to your wife before I left the island.”

  It was not the reaction he expected, but Jason watched Ben’s emotionless response. The blank look
gave the impression he spoke about someone he never met. A waitress sashayed up to the two men. More filled out than the rest of the waitresses, she attempted to distract from her weight by showing more cleavage.

  “Drink for you?”

  Ben shook his head.

  “I’ll take a water, please.” Confusion crossed her face. “Naam.”

  She smiled and nodded her head as she wrote on her notepad.

  “You can put it on my tab,” Ben said.

  Jason grinned at the waitress. “Ben Harris,” he said slowly. “Room 1109.”

  The waitress scratched down the name and room number then turned back to the bar.

  “I thought you two weren’t speaking to each other.”

  “She called me,” Jason replied. He was, again, surprised Ben reengaged the topic of his wife so quickly. “Apparently, she had a lot to unload. She started with an apology. Smart move.” Ben’s wife had lied to Jason about his ex-wife cheating on him when they were in college. One drunken Friday night at the officers’ club last year, she blurted out facts that made Jason realize what she’d done. He drifted apart from her and Ben, ever since.

  “Well, what did the bitch say?”

  “At first, she was pissed off. Said you spent all your money. Wiped out the bank account. Maxed out all the credit cards. Then she burst into tears. Started bawling her eyes out.”

  “You didn’t fall for that, did you?”

  Jason shook his head. “No, didn’t bother me in the least. She said you haven’t contacted her since you’ve been over here, and she isn’t aware of what’s going on.”

  “I never contact her when I’m TDY.”

  “Understood. She’s only reacting to the situation.”

  Ben's eyes wandered across the pool, and Jason shifted his gaze in the same direction. The waitress returned and handed Jason a bottle of water. He unscrewed the cap and took a sip.