The Quiet Professional

by Michael Byars Lewis

  MacIntosh pulled out a sterling-silver business-card case and handed Chris a card. Expensive looking; heavy with gold-embossed raised lettering. The elegance was in its simplicity—a name and phone number only. Chris didn't recognize the country code, and he checked the back of the card, which was blank.

  “What exactly do you do, Mister MacIntosh?” Chris asked.

  “I’m in acquisitions, my good man. I make money. A lot of money.”

  The statement drew some chuckles and smiles from the crew. Chris glanced at the crew, then back at the silver-haired stranger. He had no way of verifying who this guy was and he wasn’t about to tell him Jason was missing. For all he knew, he was a hitman sent to take Jason out. No, he was going to send this guy up the chain of command. Let the mission commander vet him.

  “Jason’s not here right now.” Chris turned and saw Jimmy start to go further. He put his hand up and turned back to MacIntosh. “I’m afraid if you want to speak to him, you’ll need to talk to our commanding officer.”

  “Fair enough,” MacIntosh said. “Who might that be, and where will I find him?”

  The gray-green canopy of trees covering the jungle hideaway blocked the sun. The result as the day went on, a hot, steamy camp. No breeze penetrated the dense jungle, and Maison could not drink water fast enough. His clothes stuck to his sweat-covered body, and he gave up hope long ago for any reprieve while at this camp.

  “I thought you would appreciate observing some weapons training before our guest arrives,” Arthit said.

  “Observe? I want to shoot. I’m paying for this, so I want to know how they work.”

  Arthit smiled and disappeared behind his men into the jungle brush. Maison followed him, with Sarathoon close behind. A few minutes later, they entered a clearing several hundred meters long. There were numerous targets spread throughout the vast open space, and Arthit approached a table set up with a variety of weapons and ammo boxes. Maison ran his hand along one of the rocket-propelled grenades, otherwise known as RPGs, that leaned against the table.

  “I’d like to start with this one,” he said with a gleam in his eyes.

  Arthit nodded, and one of his men moved forward and explained how to use it. They stayed on the range for almost an hour, shooting several RPGs and their AK-47s. Maison glanced at his watch.

  “He should be here soon.” Maison turned and walked back into the jungle, retracing his route before one of Arthit’s men ran forward to lead the way. They reached the camp, and Maison sat in a chair under the main canopy, sipping a bottle of water. He mulled over the details of this deal. It wasn’t the best plan, but it was the only plan he had—pay a twenty-percent deposit today to only see the missiles. The actual transaction would take place next week in Bangkok. Not an optimum scenario, but it would do.

  Thirty minutes after the scheduled meeting time, Maison watched a beat-up Volvo truck bounce into camp on the uneven, pothole-laden dirt road. Four Caucasian men climbed out, three of them brandishing firearms. They carried Uzis, the extended magazines protruding beneath the grip farther than the length of the barrel. The four cocky mercenaries looked unfriendly; a necessity in their line of work. Gradually, Arthit’s men filtered out of the jungle into the camp, surrounding the truck and the four men. Maison’s chuckle reeked of condescension. Surrounded by over twenty men with AK-47s can change one’s disposition. The four relaxed their postures, and the Chechen strutted toward Arthit’s tent.

  Maison left the shade of the canopy and went to meet him. He didn’t trust the Chechen, but who could blame him? The man was an arms dealer. A crooked one at that.

  His plan initially didn't involve the Chechen. It could still move forward without him, but the element the Chechen added would all but guarantee success. Ironically, it was strictly by accident Maison found the arms dealer in his casino six months ago. Maison's team had adequate arms, but the Chechen brought a new dimension to his plan. One that worked to his advantage.

  He put on his best fake smile. Best to get this deal done as painlessly and quickly as possible.

  “Bonjour.”

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Andrepont,” the Chechen said. “Did you bring the gold?”

  “Of course. Did you bring the package?”

  “Monsieur Andrepont, I do not drive so deep into this hellish jungle to talk.”

  The two men retreated under the canopy Maison had previously sat under. Sarathoon stood behind the wooden crate, which lay upon a poorly crafted table. The Chechen's eyes glistened when they approached. He glanced at Sarathoon, then back at Maison. The lid was propped open, revealing a row of gold bars. A smile crept over his face when he pulled one out. He held it gently as if it would crumble in his hands.

  Turning it over, he examined all sides, reading the writing on the front, feeling the texture. Four hundred Troy ounces . . . that was over twenty-seven pounds. He tossed it back and forth in his hands, judging the weight of the bar. Maison shook his head. The fool had no idea what he was doing.

  “This bar is almost one-hundred fifty-thousand dollars,” Maison said. “The other nineteen bars will be paid upon delivery.”

  The Chechen smiled and placed the gold bar back in the crate. “There has been a change in plans.”

  “Change? There is no change.”

  “Yes, there is. I’ll need the rest of the payment in cash. I can’t move three-million dollars in gold bullion. I have people to pay, and I don’t have time to convert gold into cash.”

  Maison rubbed his hand along his chin. He wasn't expecting something like this. The money wasn't a problem, but he planned to pay the Chechen with gold. It cut into his overall profit margin, but he could make it work. He needed the missiles for Arthit's men, and if the Chechen walked away now, he would lose face amongst the BIPP.

  Maison nodded. “I can write you a check upon delivery. Once the check clears, you hand over the missiles. Oui?”

  The Chechen smiled, stepped to the tent entrance, and whistled at his men. The loud shrill got their attention, and he motioned for them to come. Two soldiers left the truck and ran to the tent. The third stayed by the back of the truck.

  “I find it amazing that you showed up like this,” Maison said.

  “Like what?”

  “You and three men. I have over thirty men here. We could take you and the cargo down and keep our gold.”

  The Chechen’s smile faded as his two men arrived at the tent.

  “Don’t worry, I brought five men.”

  “Five?” Maison’s forehead wrinkled.

  “Yes, two are in the jungle. Their rifles are trained on you at this very moment. If anything goes wrong, you will be the first to die.”

  For the first time, Maison became uncomfortable. Typically, he was the one to have an insurance policy. He did his best not to show his fear, but the way the Chechen smiled, he knew he had.

  “Ha, ha,” the Chechen said. “Come, my friend. Let’s not dwell on this anymore. This is a business transaction. Let us look at what you’re buying.” He directed his men to carry the crate of gold back to the truck.

  Maison followed the Chechen to the back of the Volvo. The Chechen’s men moved the large Pelican cases from the rear of the truck and spread them across the ground. Maison and the Chechen stood in front of the cases with Arthit. Maison glanced at the Chechen, who nodded.

  “Open the cases,” the Chechen said. The three men unlatched the cases and simultaneously lifted the lids.

  Maison smiled and moved closer. “Perfect,” he said to himself. Three SA-16 man-portable surface-to-air missiles would change everything.

  31

  October 14, 2003

  Lawan wandered around the mansion for an hour before settling on the patio outside the living room. She was furious at these men who had kidnapped her. No doubt they worked for Maison Andrepont; the man who held her captive in his home. It had been almost six years since she lived here. She was just a girl then.

  The cascading waterfall dancing over the rocks
drowned out any sounds in her immediate area. The water drained into a small pool that ran the length of the patio, replete with water lilies in various states of bloom. The magenta flowers opened their petals, exposing the fiery yellow inside, surrounded by the oversized green leaves that lay flat upon the water’s surface like a green carpet, highlighting the flowers’ beauty.

  Her gaze shifted beyond the concrete walls encompassing the compound. Preeda remained out there, somewhere, lost or kidnapped. And where the hell was Maison? His stooge, Sarathoon, wasn’t here either. She knew better than to try to leave the premises. Maison installed cameras, warning systems, and armed guards not easily seen. The mansion had been designed for keeping people in, as well as keeping people out.

  Maison Andrepont liked to collect people. If he didn’t keep you here, he wanted you to know you were owned. That’s what disturbed her when he appeared at Suttirat’s Jewelry two years ago and made Deng a business proposition. It wasn’t about Deng’s skill as a jeweler; it was about her.

  Detecting movement in the room, she noticed Nimol heading to the courtyard. She rose from the couch and moved across the courtyard, away from the crashing waterfall.

  “Where is your boss?” she said.

  “What? No ‘hello’?” he said. “It has been a long time since you’ve been here, Lawan. I see you still know your way around the mansion.”

  “Where’s Maison?”

  “Flying back from Singapore. I’m on my way to pick him up at the airport in Bangkok.”

  “Why so far away?”

  “He had a meeting before he left.”

  “What kind of meeting? What does Maison want with me?”

  Nimol laughed. “Monsieur Andrepont and the . . . lady of the house will be back tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll answer any question you have at that time.”

  Nimol grinned. He thought the comment would make her jealous.

  “Where is Maison’s current tramp?”

  “Bangkok. I’ll pick her up before Monsieur Andrepont.”

  “I see nothing has changed. You’re still his lapdog.”

  Nimol’s face contorted into a scowl and he turned to leave the room.

  Lawan was Maison’s “live-in” lover six years ago. They met when she was a singer in a hotel nightclub in Phitsanulok. She was only seventeen, and her family had no money. She sent money back home initially, but that stopped once her life here evolved into a “normal” pattern. Maison’s mansion was a glorious prison, and she became one of his collection pieces. Now that she’d come back, she wondered what her role would be.

  At some point since Jason’s “arrest,” the police turned him over to a couple of guys who flashed a badge. One of these guys threw a hood over his head, and they brought him here. Wherever “here” was. It felt like he sat in the chair for hours. Of course, he had no idea how long he had been there. His shoulders began hurting a long time ago, his wrists secured in handcuffs behind his back. The hood helped distort his sense of time. One thing was certain, though—the police thought he was Ben. Why? What did Ben do that caused the entire country of Thailand to search for him?

  Preeda. What happened to Preeda? Did she make it back to her family? Perhaps they let her go, but what if they didn’t? Did they kill her? Or sell her to Thailand’s burgeoning sex trade?

  After counting to himself for about twenty minutes, the door opened, and several men entered. The light switch clicked on and white light flooded through the hood. Almost immediately, one of them removed the hood, and the single bulb illuminating the room blinded Jason.

  Squinting, his eyes struggled to adjust to the abrupt transition. He discerned at least three men in the room. His mind reeled, searching for options. Without warning, his head snapped violently to the left when the man in front slapped the side of his face. It hurt, but it wouldn’t have stopped him in a fight. He had experienced a lot worse.

  The men spoke to each other in their native tongue, and it didn't sound like Thai. The man slapped Jason across the face, and his head jerked to the right. The other two men laughed. He clenched his teeth and struggled to escape his chair. His effort was wasted, they had him firmly strapped in.

  The man who slapped him grew angry when Jason struggled against the chair. He stepped forward and punched him in the stomach. The awkward punch had minimal effect, and the man hit Jason a second time. Once again, the blow looked worse than it felt, but Jason screamed as if in pain. He figured if he put on a show, they'd continue to beat him where it didn't hurt so badly.

  He scanned the room, hoping to take in any details he could, but every time he turned his head, the “interrogator” slapped him. In between blows, he determined the room was simple cement walls and floor. Water leaked through the walls, and the floor was damp. He couldn’t tell what the ceiling looked like because of the bright light.

  One of the men laughed louder now. Jason could tell, even in a foreign language, he mocked his partner. The second man pushed the one hitting him out of the way. Jason lifted his head to study the man, who had a thin mustache outlining his upper lip. He noticed a clump of hair missing from his hairline, replaced by a permanent scar. The man started talking to the interrogator, giving him instructions. Pointing at the side of Jason's face, a fist flew into his cheek, snapping his head back.

  That hurt. Jason wobbled in his chair and realized his situation was about to get worse.

  “Ben Harris,” the man said, “where is the rest of your gold?”

  He said nothing. A second punch resulted in a busted lip, blood dripping down his chin. Jason dropped his chin to his chest. The left side of his face throbbed. That was a solid punch.

  “Don’t worry, Ben Harris,” the man with the mustache said. “It’s only a flesh wound.”

  Only a flesh wound, my ass. Think. Got to think. They still think I’m Ben . . . and they want Ben’s gold . . .

  “Ben Harris, we can talk now, or we can talk later.”

  Jason lifted his head slowly as the one in front hopped around slightly from side to side. Uh-oh. He knew what that meant. A moment later, a roundhouse kick flew toward his head. He missed and hit his neck just above his shoulders. The sloppy kick had enough force to knock Jason’s chair over, carrying him to the damp floor. He tilted his head to the side to avoid impact with the concrete.

  The other two men rushed to lift him off the floor. No sooner than they set him upright, the door opened.

  A fourth man entered the room, pushing a dolly. On the dolly sat a car battery. The man wheeling it in chuckled to himself.

  32

  October 14, 2003

  It had only taken moments for the four men to release Jason from the chair and push him against the gritty gray concrete wall. One of them stood back and held a gun on him. Another unlocked the handcuffs from behind him and re-secured his hands over the pipe running along the center of the ceiling.

  The handcuffs cut into his flesh, and he had to stand on his toes to alleviate some of the pressure on his wrists. One of them ripped Jason's shirt off. Throughout the ordeal, they kept referring to him as "Ben Harris." Jason decided if they thought he was Ben, he wouldn't tell them otherwise. One, if they figured out he was not Ben, they might kill him since he was of no use to them. Two, they wanted Ben for something. Every minute they thought he was Ben, was another minute that helped Ben get out of the country.

  The man wheeled the dolly holding the battery closer and parked it next to Jason. He checked the connections and lifted the cables. His deep black eyes stared lifelessly at Jason. The corners of his mouth turned slightly upwards, his lips open and wavy. This man enjoyed his work far too much.

  Jason struggled to hold his head up as the man approached. When the man moved close enough, Jason lunged up, grabbing the pipe with his hands. He swung his legs up, kicking the cables out of the man’s hands and wrapping his legs around his neck. Squeezing with all his strength, he tried to kill him, but the other three were on him in a flash.

  Almost instantly, the
man with the mustache punched his kidneys while another struck the side of his head. After a moment, his legs loosened their hold, and the man escaped. Jason lost his grip on the pipe when his feet hit the ground.

  “Aaaaaggghh,” Jason yelled when his body weight fell on the thin metal handcuffs securing his wrists. Clenching his teeth, he struggled to maneuver his feet under him. He hung helplessly by his wrists as the three men landed blow after blow with what appeared to be old phonebooks.

  “Very foolish, Ben Harris,” the one he attacked said in broken English, his hands rubbing the side of his neck. “We talk later. Now you pay.”

  The man picked up his cables while the other three beat him with phonebooks. Jason struggled to breathe as the onslaught continued. They must not want to do any permanent damage . . . for now. That was good. The pain in his wrists far exceeded any punch these guys delivered. Jason was not sure how long he could maintain consciousness. The continuing blows took their toll, but the battery . . . he didn’t know how much pain he could endure. He wanted to make a joke about how many Rambo movies they watched, but they wouldn’t have understood, and he didn’t have the strength.

  The man holding the cables said something Jason didn’t understand, and the three assailants stopped punching him and stepped back. Sparks flew when the man touched the two ends of the metal rods together. The noise and the flash got Jason’s attention, and he forced his head up. He’d always heard anticipation of death was worse than death itself. The man extended the cables toward his stomach, and Jason wondered how long until he wished he were dead.

  “Who the hell are you again?” McClendon looked at the dapper Southern gentleman standing in his suite, his brow furrowed.