“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means with pricks like you for friends, who needs enemies?”
Chris turned and stormed out the door, heading to the pub in the basement. When he arrived, Jimmy had gathered the rest of the crew, who were glued to the television playing behind the bar.
As he walked to the table, he was stunned to see Jason’s picture on the television. “That’s Jason.”
“Not according to Thai TV,” Lon said. “They think he’s Ben Harris.”
Damn. Chris shook his head. BEN HARRIS - AMERICAN FUGITIVE was plastered across the screen with Jason’s face on it. Ben Harris—or Jason, according to the picture on the screen—was wanted in connection with the shooting at Suttirat’s. This could not get worse.
Preeda stared at Jason with tired eyes, the toothless grin long gone. She opened her mouth and moved her hand toward it, indicating she was hungry. So was he. He still had no idea where he was going, let alone where to find something to eat. Nodding at her, he hoped she would take the lead for this.
She grabbed his hand and walked into what he thought was someone’s home but was actually a restaurant.
A girl of about sixteen greeted them and sat them at a table. She spoke to Preeda in Thai, again, leaving him in the dark. The teenage girl’s eyes grew wide, and she smiled at him. Preeda must have said something nice.
“Do you speak English?” he said.
She responded in Thai, shaking her head.
Preeda asked for Paht Thai, Jason understood that. He ordered Kaow paht gui, or chicken and fried rice. The girl nodded and left. She returned a minute later with two large bottles of water with straws. Jason smiled, thanked her, and proceeded to sip heavily through the thin straw. The refreshing fluid re-energized his body, and he gradually chugged the entire bottle. His eyes shifted to Preeda, who already drank a third of hers. The two looked at each other and laughed.
Ten minutes later, the girl brought two plates of steaming Thai food and another bottle of water to the table. Jason scooped a spoonful into his mouth.
“Mmmpphrrmph!”
Preeda laughed. Jason had moved too quickly; the food was hot. Temperature hot. He picked up his bottle of water and took a swig. As soon as he cooled off his mouth, he realized the second problem—it was Thai hot, too. They ate slowly, mainly because of the temperature, but when it cooled, they devoured it. Sweat formed on Jason's forehead, seeping out every pore from the neck up, but he didn't care. Preeda giggled at him. Keeping her distracted was worthwhile.
They finished their meals, and Jason pushed his chair away from the table, his hands on his stomach, looking for the girl so he could pay. When she reappeared from the kitchen, her face had a pale appearance, and her lips trembled. She glanced at Jason and pointed, talking to someone in the kitchen. He couldn't tell for sure, but he thought she said, "Ben Harris."
Jason sensed a bad situation. He placed the money under his glass and motioned for Preeda to go. By the time they reached the front door, someone from the kitchen yelled at them in broken English, "Ben Harris."
Jason turned. A Thai man stood in the doorway in a white shirt and black pants, pointing a pistol with a silencer at him.
Maison rode in the back of his limousine, fingers of his left hand drumming his knee. Helena sat next to him while he talked to Sarathoon on the telephone.
“How could this happen?” Maison said.
“I’m not sure, Monsieur Andrepont,” Sarathoon said. “I emailed the photos to our contact in the police department. Perhaps, Nimol and his men took the initiative further than we wanted and went to the media.”
“They are fools. When this is over, kill them. Contact our friend at the television station. Have this removed from the media, whatever it takes. Let our friends in the police handle this.”
“Yes, Monsieur Andrepont.”
Maison hung up his phone and turned to Helena, shaking his head.
“Problems?” she said.
“Our fools in Bangkok sent Ben Harris’ picture to the media. It has been all over the news.”
Maison noticed a change in Helena’s demeanor. She leaned back in her seat and looked forward.
“Does this trouble you, mon chéri?”
“No. I’m concerned about them making a connection to us. He bought gold from them for payment to us. The whole thing makes me nervous.”
“Do not fear, my dear. I possess a great many resources to shield us from danger. Plus, there is no connection to us.”
“I’m worried. And you’re leaving the country.”
“Afraid I won’t return?”
There was a pause, and she turned to face him.
“I am.”
Maison swelled with pride, his ego in full bloom. “My dear, don’t worry. I havve too much in Cambodia not to return. This trip is a business trip. I’ll only be in Singapore for three days.”
Her gazed locked onto his. “A lot can happen in three days.”
The first shot hit the window behind him, shattering the glass. Jason dove to the ground and picked up the round table at the base of the table stem. The second shot glanced off the top of the table when he stood. It must be a .22 caliber pistol. Anything stronger would have gone through. Using the table as a shield, he charged the shooter, slamming the table into him and sending him hard against the wall.
Racing back to the front door, he grabbed Preeda and the backpack and bolted outside. More gunshots came from inside, and they disappeared into the crowd. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the shooter had friends. At least two that he could see. Jason darted and dodged as he weaved his way through the crowded street, carrying Preeda on his hip. He needed to go to the hotel or the American Embassy. They would get the little girl back home. He knew her parents would be worried sick by now.
Reaching an intersection, there were numerous cabs and tuk-tuks to choose from. The cab drivers ignored him. One of the tuk-tuk drivers, however, seemed to recognize him.
“Mister Ben, Mister Ben,” he hollered, waving both arms frantically.
Jason and Preeda climbed on the tuk-tuk.
“Landmark. If you can get us there in a hurry, I’ll double your fee.”
The driver pulled away from the curb and down the street. Jason peered out the small window in the back. Two men carrying handguns skidded to a halt in the street, looking in every direction. He lost them.
They had only driven for five minutes before Jason wanted to shut his eyes and go to sleep. Preeda sat next to him, yawning.
Jason jerked forward. How could he have missed it? The tuk-tuk driver called him “Mister Ben.” Why did he think he was Ben Harris? How the hell does he know Ben Harris? They needed to bail out of the tuk-tuk now.
The moment the driver stopped in congested traffic, Jason hopped out, lifted Preeda out, and handed the driver a twenty-dollar bill. They lost themselves amongst the crowded streets, and Jason zigzagged every block, trying to make his movements unpredictable.
Darkness fell, and they continued to wander the streets of Bangkok for hours. Jason found himself carrying Preeda much of the time. The little girl was exhausted. The two meandered through the streets until they came to the end of the street that stopped at the river. It was too late to find somewhere else to go, and he was too tired to try. They walked along the edge of the river until he found a deserted building. Inside, they gathered some dusty blankets—torn-up sheets really. Jason shook them out. The two sat in the corner. Preeda curled up next to him and drifted to sleep. Jason closed his eyes, and in a few minutes, fell asleep.
29
October 14, 2003
Jason stirred as the sounds that come with sunrise introduced themselves. His neck was sore. Sleeping while sitting against the wall did not help his back, either.
Preeda remained curled up next to him, her tiny body moving with each breath. Jason wondered what he was going to do. They were lost. Worse, someone wanted him dead. And everyone thinks he’s Ben Harris. Why
?
The only connection he could make was that he used Ben’s receipt to pick up the gold. That explains the identity crisis. But why does everyone seem to know who Ben is? And why are they trying to kill him? He glanced at Preeda again and figured they must think he kidnapped her. It made sense. They must have a picture of him in the newspaper or on TV. His stomach tightened. His picture was plastered all over the news then, too.
His situation was precarious at best. He needed to find a police officer and turn himself in. That was the only way out of this mess. Someone from JUSMAGTHAI should be able to sort this out. Jason was sure he hadn’t committed any crimes, other than the fight in the street with the four punks yesterday. But that was self-defense.
“Preeda,” he said, nudging her gently. “Preeda, wake up.”
The little girl yawned, and her eyes fluttered open. She smiled, and her tongue poked through the gap in her teeth as she sat up and stretched. They stood and dusted themselves off. Jason was thirsty and needed to go to the bathroom. From the way Preeda moved, he could tell she did, too. She looked around, then darted behind some crates. Jason found some crates in the other direction to shield him while relieving himself.
They left the building just in time; an elderly woman arrived and opened the building. They evaded detection and walked along the winding river. Numerous women washed clothes at the water’s edge. In other spots, children bathed. On the riverbank, young girls gathered water lilies, and men laid out fish they caught on metal screens to dry in the sun.
After twenty minutes, they left the river and turned south, as best as Jason could tell, heading back into the heart of the city. The morning echoed with the sounds of a city waking, and the rising sun stirred the unpleasant odors of the area. Jason didn't notice how bad it smelled last night. Amazing what a little heat can do.
After a few minutes, they found a busy street and quickly waved down a tuk-tuk.
“Tham Ruat,” Jason said. Police. He hoped his Thai was accurate. Preeda looked at him and nodded, indicating he did something right.
They climbed aboard and rode for five minutes before the driver found three Thai policemen standing on the side of the road. The driver pulled up and said something in Thai. The officers appeared disinterested until they stepped out of the tuk-tuk. Jason helped Preeda climb out, and when he turned to face them, their eyes grew wide, and their jaws dropped.
“Ben Har-ris,” one said, reaching for his pistol.
Uh-oh. Jason put his hands out front.
“No, there’s a mistake. I’m not—”
One of the officers wrapped his arms around Preeda, and she screamed. Jason started to move toward her, but the cop with the pistol slid in his direction. Jason stopped; the gun pointed squarely at him. The third cop approached Jason from his blind side. He grabbed one of Jason’s wrists, twisting it behind his back, and kicked one of his feet from under him.
Jason didn’t resist. Aside from the humiliation of being arrested on a public street, the situation should be painless. Once on his knees, the cop behind pulled back more on his arm. That hurt. One of the cops stuck a knee in his lower back and pushed on his shoulders. Jason fell forward with nothing to break his fall. He hit with a loud smack, turning his head to the side and lifting just before impact. Despite his effort, his momentum caused the side of his head to impact the ground.
Dazed, he could hear Preeda scream. He tried to search for her, but his vision blurred. They put handcuffs on him, and two of them jerked him to his feet and shoved him into a car.
It had been a long, sleepless night. Chris met the crew downstairs after a quick meeting with Lieutenant Colonel McClendon. Martinez was talking to them when he walked up.
“What’s the word, sir?” Lon said, looking away from Martinez.
Martinez stopped talking and turned to face Chris.
“We’re still on lockdown. Nobody leaves the hotel,” Chris said.
“Damn,” Lon said.
“We knew that was coming,” Jimmy said. “Martinez has some info for you.”
Chris looked at Martinez, his eyes sunken.
"I did some digging this morning. I tried to track down our driver, who took Jason to the jewelry store."
“Good thinking,” Chris said.
“Well, it did not turn out so good. Chaow was found dead yesterday in the north part of Bangkok. His van was riddled with bullet holes. No sign of the captain.”
“Damn.”
“I’m not sure if the mission commander knows about this little development.”
“He didn’t say anything when I met him a little while ago. I’d better go back up and let him know. He’ll only be more pissed.”
“Only in Thailand,” Lon said. “I remember back in the day, it was only drunk crew dogs we had to worry about. The GWOT sure has changed things.”
Chris nodded. The global war on terrorism had changed things. Significantly. The crew headed upstairs for the breakfast buffet while he went to the front desk to call McClendon’s room. No answer.
Chris found the crew in the restaurant. They’d moved a couple of tables together, so they could eat together, and like a bomb burst, went in all directions. Thomas went straight for the pastry section, Lon and Chris headed for the eggs, Martinez, Geoff, and Lacey went for the Thai section. Jimmy settled for coffee. Once again, he had had a little too much Mekong the night before.
The crew settled in, desperate for something else to talk about. Chris saw Jimmy stop sipping his coffee and look across the restaurant. It was so abrupt that he turned to see what captured Jimmy’s attention. Walking toward their table was a silver-haired man, probably in his sixties, wearing a seersucker suit with a bright yellow bow tie and white bucks. A Southern gentleman in Bangkok?
The man stood at the end of the table, and the rest of the crew turned to face him.
"I've traveled all over the world, and one thing is certain . . . Americans are always easy to spot. And the American military is even easier."
“Thanks?” Martinez said, turning back to his breakfast.
“I apologize if that came out negative. It was meant as a compliment. I take it you, gentleman and fine lady, are in the Air Force?”
“How’d you know?” Chris said.
"Like I said, experience. T-shirts, sneakers, blue jeans with no belt. American aircrew. You wouldn't be the C-130 crew from Okinawa, would you?"
Chris set his fork on his plate and pushed his chair back. Even Martinez stopped eating to look up. This was not good.
“What if we are?” Chris said.
"We can skip the subtle games, gentlemen and lady," the silver-haired man said, nodding toward Lacey. "My name is Sterling MacIntosh. I'm looking for Jason Conrad."
Maison sat uncomfortably in the beat-up truck, watching Sarathoon weave his way through the dense jungle. The BIPP had set up this camp two weeks ago, and it was the first time he'd been to this location. He hated being in the jungle. Here, he was a man out of his element. He didn't like that.
The humidity drained him; they rode with the windows down. The air-conditioner in the truck lacked Freon and blew warm air, and his shirt stuck to his skin. Outside, the surrounding jungle teemed with life. Rubber trees on the side of the road shot skyward, enveloping the sky in a canopy of emerald green and cloud-like grays. Flocks of birds fled the tops of the trees as the noisy diesel truck bounced along the jungle trail.
Today was important, and he needed to be here. It was weapons training day, designed specifically for the arms dealer.
The truck pulled into the makeshift camp, and several of the group emerged from the jungle and tents. Arthit stepped out of his "command" tent to greet him. "Monsieur Andrepont, welcome to our camp.”
“Thank you.”
“I trust your journey went well?”
“As well as can be expected.”
“What time is the Russian going to be here?”
“He’s not Russian, he’s Chechen.”
"It's all the sam
e to me."
“Don’t say that to him. He will be arriving on the hour. What about the Chinaman?” Maison asked.
"He is gone. The Chinese don't want too much visibility in our operations. He trained them enough to act as a team. They're ready."
“How many men?”
"Thirty-two. We will break down into six groups of five. Two will remain back to cover our escape."
Arthit introduced him to the group, who seemed less interested in him than in what he was there to do. When Arthit explained he was the man paying for their food and weapons, they lightened their mood and gradually filtered back into the jungle.
Sarathoon grabbed the wooden crate from the back of the truck and slid it to the tailgate. Arthit joined him, and the two of them carried it into the tent. Maison glanced at his watch and followed them. It was getting close.
30
October 14, 2003
The Jakal crew stared at the man in the seersucker suit standing at the end of the table.
"Who the hell is Sterling MacIntosh?" Lon said. It was a statement more than a question.
“Cool it, Lon.” Chris turned back to the stranger. “Sorry, sir, we’re all a little touchy.”
The silver-haired man in the seersucker suit stood smiling at them. It wasn’t a friendly smile. It was one of those smiles you experienced in a business deal. A smile that said you were on the receiving end of a bad deal. The bartender walked over and handed him a drink without him ordering one. Chris immediately realized this was no ordinary individual. “Who are you again?”
“My name, good man, is Sterling MacIntosh. I’m a friend of Jason’s father. I happened to be in town on business, and Jason’s father asked me to pop in and say hello.”
Chris studied the man. Sounds legit. Chris was aware of Jason’s background. His father ran for president for Christ’s sake. Now, he was executive vice president of Century Aero-Bot, one of the world’s leading weapons manufacturers. Clearly, this Sterling MacIntosh is the kind of guy who would run in those circles. But how would Jason’s father have found out about the trip to Bangkok so fast?
The Quiet Professional Page 14