The Quiet Professional

by Michael Byars Lewis

  “Took ‘em a while, didn’t it?”

  “Yeah, the Thai maintainers don’t do this sort of thing often. We found the C-130 maintenance exchange officer who was helpful. We monitored them every step of the way. Took a long time, but we’re fixed.”

  “Now all we need is a pilot,” Lon said.

  Everyone’s head held low. Gone were the hangovers and stories from the night before.

  “Anybody got any ideas?” Chris said, looking around the table.

  "I'm stumped," Martinez said. "Chaow was our best shot at finding him, and he's dead. I tried tracking down who hires our drivers. JUSMAGTHAI knows for sure, but they aren't releasing any information. To me, anyway."

  “What else can we do?” Lacey asked. Her face, long and drawn as she slouched across the table.

  “We can’t do shit,” Thomas said. “And we shouldn’t do shit. I’m not going to get busted doing something illegal to look for someone who got lost doing something they shouldn’t be doing.”

  The rest of the crew stopped and glared at Thomas. The silence said it all. Jimmy’s eyes narrowed, and his fists tightened.

  “He wouldn’t stop looking for one of us,” he said, teeth clenched. “Asshole.”

  Thomas’s head jerked toward Jimmy, his face turning red. “You can’t talk to me that way, Lieutenant.”

  “Oh, okay. I’m sorry, Captain Asshole.”

  Lon burst out laughing across the table.

  “What’s so funny, you prick?” Thomas said.

  “That’s Technical Sergeant Prick to you, Captain Asshole,” he replied.

  Thomas’s face grew redder, and the veins in his neck began to show. “When we get back to Kadena, I’m gonna Article 15 your ass so fast it will make your head spin.”

  “I agree, Captain Thomas,” Martinez said. “You can file that with the commander right after I file the report about you grabbing Airman Schmitt’s ass.”

  Thomas paused, his head tilted, and he looked at Martinez. He glanced at Lacey sitting next to him, then back at Martinez. "What are you talking about? I never grabbed her a—I never grabbed her." He turned again to Lacey, who smiled and fluttered her eyelids.

  “And nobody here called you Captain Asshole.”

  “Bullshit, Martinez. I’ve got witnesses.”

  “Really? Where?”

  Thomas searched around the table. Everyone’s eyes wandered in another direction until his eyes fell on Chris.

  “Are you going to back me up?” Thomas said.

  “For what, being an asshole?” Chris had enough of this conversation. “I can’t believe you. Our pilot—our leader, our friend—is missing. He’s been kidnapped, captured, or possibly dead, and you are more concerned about filling out a hurt feelings report? You are an asshole.”

  Thomas started to reply until Chris held up his hand.

  “Let’s get back to business,” Chris said.

  “Sir,” Lon said, “before we start, I just want to say if I was gonna grab someone’s ass here, it would be Airman Schmitt’s. It’s a nice ass.”

  “Thank you,” Lacey said with a smile.

  There were a few chuckles around the table. Chris felt the tightness in his face conveyed to the crew the time for levity had passed. They needed to find Jason. The crew sat in silence for a few minutes. Finally, Jimmy lifted his head.

  “Hey, has anybody talked to the guy who got us in all this mess?”

  “Who?” Martinez asked.

  “Ben Harris.”

  Helena sank into the plush couch, reading Napoleon Hill’s classic, Think and Grow Rich. She had read it several times over the years; it was one of her favorites. She took a sip of Chardonnay and glanced at Maison. He seemed agitated and snapped his phone closed and stuck it in his pocket. He stood, not acknowledging she was in the room. His mind drifted elsewhere.

  “Where are you going?”

  “It’s Sarathoon. There’s a problem with Ben Harris.”

  Helena set her book on the coffee table, leaning toward him.

  “What kind of problem? Where is he?”

  “He’s downstairs.”

  “What?” Her jaw tensed as she rose from the couch. More secrets. “Downstairs? How did this happen? Are you aware of the danger of having a U.S. military officer held prisoner in your home?”

  “Relax, my dear. The man downstairs is not Ben Harris. Sarathoon called. Nimol and Ponleak apparently grabbed the wrong man. I’m going to see for myself.”

  Her posture remained rigid and unflinching. “But they got the little girl. And Ben Harris was the one with her, right?”

  She could see Maison thinking. Finally, something he didn’t tie together as quickly as she did.

  “Yes.” He paused. “Let me go see what we have here. Somehow, this man was mistaken for Ben Harris. I need to find the connection.”

  "Maison, your mansion is turning into a petting zoo for wayward souls. Do you forget we have a greater goal planned?" The sarcasm in her voice was evident.

  His body tensed. Yes, she pushed him too far. He stepped toward her and slapped her across the face. Helena fell back to the couch, more a result of attempting to dodge the slap than the actual force.

  “Don’t talk to me that way, bitch,” he screamed. “I know damn well what my plan is. This is my house. I will dictate who stays here—and who leaves.”

  Maison turned and left the room without giving her another glance. She touched the side of her face. Her pride hurt worse than her cheek.

  She stood and walked to the mirror. Her cheek held the red impression where his palm hit. It stung but barely. Staring at her reflection, a single tear rolled down her cheek. Who was she? How did she let herself get in this position? Life was all about choices. She knew that. The choices she made put her here. Every time he hit her, she second-guessed her life choices.

  36

  October 15, 2003

  Jason eyed the newest addition to his captors. Who was this guy? He was not like the other three. They were thug-level—particularly the little bastard with the scar in his hairline and the thin mustache. This guy was different—he worked directly for the boss, whoever that was. He was the right-hand man—better dressed, more . . . sophisticated. More lethal. Jason could see it in his eyes. They were cold and heartless, yet alert, like a tiger.

  The new guy brought him a chair and a wet towel before stepping out of the room. Jason wiped his face, and now, a bit refreshed, re-assessed his physical condition. Nothing was broken, but his abdomen hurt like hell, the result of the constant beating with phonebooks. His joints still functioned. Fingers and toes—check. Other than a severe headache, most likely from dehydration, and the general soreness of his torso, he appeared functional. They didn't want him hurt—yet.

  Jason flinched from the light bursting into the room as the door swung open. The right-hand man walked in, followed by someone else. This must be the boss. He held something . . . a card. A military I.D.

  “Your name is Jason Conrad,” the man said, looking at him.

  Jason chuckled. Finally, someone had the sense to check his I.D. card. The three low-level thugs couldn’t read or speak English.

  “Why did you say you are Ben Harris?” he continued.

  Jason said nothing.

  “Sarathoon can pick up where the others left off. Trust me, you don’t want that.”

  Glancing back up, Jason sized up the “boss.” He was a big man only in importance; he didn’t appear that tough. Average size, well-dressed, expensive rings, the French accent. Okay, clearly not from around here. At least originally.

  “Who are you?” Jason said.

  “My name in Maison Andrepont.”

  “Where am I?”

  “You are in my home. In Cambodia.”

  Cambodia? What the hell am I doing here? This is how Ben’s trouble started. Jason studied the man, trying to gain a glimmer of information.

  “Why did you kidnap me?”

  Maison Andrepont smiled and moved to the s
ide. Jason’s eyes never left him.

  “I did not kidnap you, Monsieur Conrad. You are a fugitive, wanted by police.”

  Jason shook his head. “No. No, I’m not. Ben Harris is wanted by the police.”

  Maison waved his hand. “Semantics. The real question is, why are you pretending to be Ben Harris?”

  This guy wants Ben. Has to be him.

  “Let me guess—you run a casino.”

  The man's head tilted to the side. A smile crept across his face.

  “You seem to know a lot more than you let on, Monsieur Conrad.”

  “Just excellent powers of deduction,” he stammered. “You’re too refined. Too much money. Plus, you’re French. Not many other ways to make money in Cambodia.”

  Maison nodded. “For three days, you pretended to be Ben Harris. You have not tried to convince anyone otherwise. Where is he?”

  Jason grinned. “He’s long gone by now. Back to Okinawa, then back to the States on the first plane available.” It was a lie, but it would give him time.

  “Why did you take the little girl?”

  His eyes narrowed. Preeda.

  “Where is she?” Jason started to get up, but Sarathoon pushed him down by his shoulders, keeping him in his seat.

  Maison's face showed a keen understanding. "You care about her. That is good. Where she is, does not concern you. Why did you take her?"

  “I didn’t take her. She hid in my van. When the shooting started, and we were chased by . . . by your guys, right? That’s when we found her.”

  “We? Who was with you?

  “My driver. He was killed by your men.”

  “How did you come in possession of my gold?”

  Jason’s eyes glared. “It’s not your gold. It belongs . . .”

  “Yes, it belongs to Ben Harris, who owes it to me,” Maison said. “It is becoming clearer now. You are Ben Harris’ errand boy. It seems your associate has thrown you in over your head.”

  Jason breathed heavily, ignoring the stench in the room. Ben’s gold was meant for Maison. What happens when he finds out the gold is fake? Will he kill me, as well as Ben?

  “You got your gold. Why don’t you let me go, and we’ll call it even?” Jason said.

  Maison laughed. “Monsieur Conrad, you amuse me.” He pulled out a silver case and removed a cigarette. Returning the case to his coat pocket, he placed the cigarette between his lips and his henchman slid over to light it.

  “Ben Harris is an Air Force officer. Obviously, so are you. Therefore, you don’t work for him, which means you must be friends, no?” Smoke billowed from his lips as he exhaled.

  “We’re friends.”

  Maison shook his head. “And a good friend you must be, Jason Conrad, to endure all you have endured. The beatings, the lack of sleep, the starvation. This crucible is a testament to your loyalty. He is lucky to have a friend like you.”

  Jason watched Maison blow smoke in his direction. It was a test of endurance. How much could he take for his friend? How much should he take for his friend? It was Ben’s bad decisions that put him in this situation.

  “Still nothing to say?” Maison moved toward the door, holding Jason’s I.D. card. Sarathoon several steps behind him. “I don’t believe you, Monsieur Conrad. Ben Harris is still in Bangkok. You will tell me where, or you’ll never leave this house alive.”

  Chris found Ben sitting alone by the pool, the small table next to him covered in water bottles, pain pills, and sunscreen. Each item neatly arranged for easy access without looking. He approached without Ben seeing him and pulled up a chair.

  “Oh, well, won’t you join me?” Ben said, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

  “I thought McClendon placed the pool off-limits to you.”

  “Yeah, he did. But I’m already getting kicked out of the Air Force when I return to Okinawa. What are they gonna do—punish me for sun tanning?”

  “You’re not making this any easier on yourself.”

  “Look, McClendon and the first shirt are sleeping this time of day. I get my R and R when I can.”

  Chris shook his head. He picked up Ben’s sunscreen from the small table, reviewing the label. He set the bottle down near the edge of the table. Ben leaned over and stood the bottle back up in its original spot.

  “I need you to tell me what you know about Jason.”

  Ben lifted his sunglasses, conveying a condescending message. Chris could never see why Jason associated with this prick. He was an arrogant son of a bitch Chris could never like.

  “Like, in the Biblical sense, or something more?” Ben grinned.

  “Smartass. Jason is still missing. You know more than you’re telling anyone. Don’t make me beat it out of you.”

  37

  October 15, 2003

  Maison prided himself on being a step ahead. He sat in front of his computer monitor, his left elbow propped on the desk, his fingers curled into his cheek, and his index finger tapping against his cheekbone. His right hand scurried the mouse over the mousepad, clicking feverishly away at the various articles. Amazing the amount and type of information one found on the Internet. It cost him a small fortune to wire the mansion two years ago, and it had paid off numerous times. But never like today.

  He leaned forward in the high-backed leather chair staring at the screen. Is this the same Jason Conrad? Yes, of course, he is. He scoured through the articles one more time, reading each of them twice. The photographs matched. There was no doubt. The man tortured downstairs was the son of a former U.S. senator and presidential candidate. His father, the multi-millionaire Jonathan Bowman, was now the executive vice-president of one of America's leading weapons manufacturers.

  He pressed a button on the side of his desk and grabbed his phone. Pressing the quick dial and speakerphone buttons, he heard an audible ring and the phone picked up.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Sarathoon, come in here. We have a development.”

  “Right away, Monsieur Andrepont.”

  Maison clicked the phone off as the door opened. Nimol stepped one foot into the doorway, unsure whether he should step farther.

  “You buzzed me, Monsieur?” Nimol said.

  “Yes. I need you to move our ‘guest’ out of the basement. Clean him up, check for any wounds, give him a fresh robe, and transport him to the secure room on the second floor.”

  “Sir?”

  Maison’s face grew taut. “Was I not clear?”

  “No, sir. I-I mean, yes sir. I will clean him up and move him as you said.”

  “Don’t move him alone. Use your team. I believe there is more to our guest than we realize.”

  Nimol nodded and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

  Less than a minute later, the door again opened. Sarathoon entered and sat in one of the chairs in front of the desk.

  Maison looked up from the computer screen. “Jason Conrad is a little more than your average military officer.”

  “How so?”

  "His father is an important man. Therefore, we must adjust our treatment of young Conrad. He will be our guest until I figure out a plan on how to best use him."

  “Ransom?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “How will you explain beating him? They will find us and come after us.”

  Maison nodded. “Don’t worry about that. He’ll never make it back to the United States. I’m not sure how we’ll handle this yet. Nimol is cleaning him up and moving him upstairs. I need you to arrange for the doctor to come here to check him out.”

  “Yes, sir, at once. But sir, the secure room—that is next to Madam Suttirat’s room. A door connects the two rooms.”

  “I’m aware. She will need to nurse him back to health for the next few days until his condition improves. If necessary, we can always take him back downstairs.”

  Sarathoon’s eyes drifted to the floor. Maison’s posture went erect. “Is there a problem?”

  “Sir, I’m concerned.”

  “Abo
ut?”

  “It seems we are collecting people in the mansion at a time when we should be focused on other things.”

  Maison's face tensed. Helena said the same thing earlier, and he lashed out at her. If the words were from anyone else, he would kill him. But Sarathoon was confident, and he was right. As was Helena. He took a deep breath before speaking.

  “You’re right. We’re reacting to what is happening around us. Lawan and Preeda—they can leave anytime. She won’t say a thing.”

  “You trust her that much?”

  “Yes,” Maison said, the fingers of his two hands spreading out with the fingertips touching their match on each hand below his chin. “But I want them here for now. Jason Conrad will remain until he is no longer needed. There is a purpose for him here. I just haven’t figured it out yet.”

  “I understand.”

  “And Sarathoon, when you are done, I need you to go to Bangkok.”

  “Bangkok?”

  “Yes. Go back to the hotel, find Ben Harris, and kill him. He is no longer useful.”

  Jason was confused. The three men who beat him . . . however long ago, now moved him to what looked like a community shower stall. They told him to take off his clothes, gave him soap and shampoo, and told him to clean himself up.

  The warm water made him feel better, and he smiled as the stench attached to his body washed down the drain. He scrubbed his body vigorously. Bending over made breathing difficult when he tried, and so he let the warm water soothe his battered muscles. Shampooing his hair a second time, he let the suds drip down the length of his body, embracing the scent of the soapy mixture.

  Jason stayed in the shower for what he guessed to be twenty minutes when one of the men came in and told him to get out. When Jason left the shower, he found a couple of towels, a robe, and slippers on the bench outside. He dried off without bending. The robe fit, but the slippers were small. He squeezed his feet into them anyway, realizing they may be all he had. What the hell happened? Nothing like this was ever covered at SERE school.