The Quiet Professional

by Michael Byars Lewis

  The three men escorted him to another room and sat him in the lone chair centered in the room. The room mirrored the one he'd been beaten in. Was it time for round two? Part of the psychological warfare to break his spirit? His chin fell to his chest, and he stared at the floor. Jason knew his will would last, but his body could only take so much. His mind raced through the options when the door opened.

  He heard the door close and lifted his head to—

  Well, this was a surprise. The three Cambodians were not here. Before him, stood a beautiful, blonde. A sheer, cream-colored shirt tucked neatly into an evergreen miniskirt that matched her high heels. What the hell?

  “Why are you here?” she said.

  “Nice to meet you, too.”

  "Don't be cross with me. Why are you pretending to be Ben Harris?"

  "I never pretended anything. Your three goons kept calling me Ben Harris. If they had asked, I would have told them who I was. Hell, they had my identification. Not my fault they're stupid."

  She let out a deep breath, her exasperation showing. Was it directed at him or her three goons?

  “You must be the French guy’s girlfriend,” he said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You’re not wearing a wedding ring,” he said. He noticed a subtle change in her disposition. “And you’re dressed too high-end to be an interrogator. So, you must be the girlfriend.”

  “Monsieur Andrepont is having you moved upstairs to a secure room. A doctor will visit you and treat any wounds you have. I recommend you not try anything drastic. I’m sure you will be released soon enough. Trust me, you do not want to press him. He’s a killer. If he’s changing his treatment of you, there’s a reason. I don’t know who you are, Jason Conrad, but know this . . . once he determines you are of no value, or you are a threat, he will kill you.”

  38

  October 15, 2003

  Ben flipped the laptop open and moved his mouse. The screen blinked, bringing the computer to life. Connecting to the Internet, he methodically combed Thai news websites for any updates on the shooting or the missing suspect.

  Now, for some reason, it was challenging to find out information. That first day, Ben cobbled together what happened. A shooting occurred while Jason was at Suttirat's Jewelry. Jason left the store, presumably with the gold. Chris told him that his driver had been killed a couple of miles from the store, and Jason was not in the van. The jeweler was dead, his wife and daughter missing. Jason's face was plastered all over the news initially, but the story had disappeared as quickly as it showed up. And everybody thought Jason was him.

  By the third day following the shooting, Jason was still unaccounted for. Ben felt the ass chewing he received from Chris earlier was probably deserved. He convinced Jason to go to the jewelry store, but it was not his fault all the other things happened. Or was it? The guilt crept over him, and he shifted the blame to where it belonged.

  Maison Andrepont.

  The casino owner’s fingerprints were everywhere on this incident. He had been told the guy was a ruthless killer. Perhaps he underestimated him. Clearly, he had the jeweler shot and kidnapped his wife. Jason had the jeweler’s daughter, and they were on the run. Could Maison have them, too? If so, it was possible Jason was dead now. Ben’s head hung low. He never meant to put his friend in danger.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

  Ben glanced through the peephole and opened the door. Lieutenant Colonel McClendon walked into his room. Technically, he had the authority to do that, though Ben considered it bad form. McClendon moved across the room toward the window.

  “I wanted to give you an update on your status,” McClendon said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The plane is fixed, and our new pilot will arrive tonight. He’ll be put in crew rest with the crew, and you’ll be headed back to Okinawa tomorrow. If I had somebody to send back with you, I would’ve sent you commercial days ago. But you don’t belong to me, and the wing won’t let me send you back alone. They think you’re a flight risk.”

  Ben lowered his head. “Sir, I’m not going to cause you any trouble.”

  "You already have, Captain Harris. You've been a royal pain in the ass that I have neither the time nor the manpower, to deal with. Now, I have a missing pilot to contend with while I'm shoring up presidential support for the APEC. I need you gone before the president arrives. I don't need to be babysitting you with this going on. If you hadn't pulled this bullshit stunt, that crew wouldn't be here, and Conrad wouldn't be missing."

  “So, you’re saying this is my fault?” The comment came out a little louder and more forceful than he intended.

  McClendon glared at him, his face tightening. "Damn straight, I am. Let me tell you this . . . if I can't get you on that airplane in the next two days, I'll pull some strings with the air attaché, so I can send your ass back on an airliner with one of the crew."

  Ben backed down, realizing he pushed too far. McClendon stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. His mind raced. Less than two days. He had a lot to accomplish. Once back in Okinawa, there was no telling what would happen to him. Most likely, he would be locked up for a few days. Days he—and Jason—could not afford.

  Sliding back to his laptop, Ben typed in a URL he had memorized. The screen popped up instantly. Ben sighed deeply as he stared at the screen.

  CSA Financial Holdings Ltd, Zurich, Switzerland.

  After searching most of the mansion, Maison found her in the exercise room. He wanted to reveal his plan for Jason Conrad but seeing her in the tiny bike shorts and sports bra distracted him. Standing in the doorway, he stared at her while she pumped feverishly on the elliptical trainer. Her muscles, taut; her skin glistened with sweat. Helena always worked hard to keep her body in shape, and Maison liked that. Her body? Perfection. Her mind was sharp, too. She had been doing exceedingly well in his operation. Yes, after all these years, Helena DeVries impressed him with more than her body.

  Maison realized, in time, his tastes would require a new “woman of the house.” That would not be any time soon. His tongue traced his upper lip as he observed her muscles twitch with each cycle on the machine, her body glistening with sweat and her breathing heavy. The stirring within him grew the longer he watched her.

  Within three minutes, the machine beeped, and Helena slowly stopped. She stepped off and turned toward him.

  “Oh, Maison. I didn’t know you were here.”

  “I’m sorry, my dear. I need to talk to you, but as I stand here, I am once again captivated by your beauty.”

  She snatched the towel from the machine and wiped her face, apparently unimpressed by his compliment.

  “What did you want to talk about?”

  He studied her. She was changing. In earlier times, his complements led to immediate sex, regardless of the time or place. Perhaps her involvement in his business affairs was a mistake. She was necessary, of course. Her banking skills helped him recover his lost fortune and more, but he was unsure how she would fit in his organization in the future.

  “Jason Conrad. I want to discuss our options.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’re aware who his father is. We could negotiate a ransom. The potential payoff is enormous. No doubt, he would eventually lead them back here, so he will not be able to live.”

  “Maison, you’re starting to sound like a street-level crook. You’re too smart for that. Surely you have a better use for him.”

  That infuriated him. She talked down to him, as she often did. The little bitch would shift into her condescending banker mode.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know, I haven’t thought about it. But holding him for ransom would not be an option. He would bring the authorities—and the Americans—here. You would be found out and lose everything.”

  "Then, I should kill him?"

  She paused, patting the towel across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.
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  “No. He will be good insurance for our operation. The next two weeks are critical. If we run into complications, we can leverage him against the authorities.”

  Maison’s gaze drifted from her to the far side of the room. It was a thoughtful gaze. She was right. Again.

  “I agree. But when we are done, he dies.”

  Helena tossed her towel on the table and started to walk off.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he said. It was both a question and a command.

  “I-I was going to take a shower.”

  He could tell she sensed his dominance. It aroused him. She continued to edge toward the doorway; his eyes locked on hers.

  “Get back over here,” he said. The sharpness of his voice caused her to shiver.

  She shuffled back to him, her arms covering her chest, her hands clasped under her chin. She approached him, her eyes now staring at the floor. He reached up and grabbed her hands, separating them. Her head remained down as he stared at her. With each breath she took, her chest heaved up and down.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  Her head tilted up, his eyes piercing hers. Maison had hoped to see some sign of encouragement, but there was none. It did not matter. He released her hands and squeezed her upper arms, pulling her toward him. When he kissed her hard, she did not respond.

  Spinning her around, he glanced in the mirror and saw her looking at him.

  She wasn’t smiling.

  39

  October 15, 2003

  Helena threw up in the shower, disgusted by Maison’s vile actions toward her. She remained curled up in the corner for almost an hour, hoping to rinse the filth from her body. It did not help. After Maison finished assaulting her, he gave her specific instructions. Stepping out of the shower, she dried off, staring at the stranger in the mirror. What had she done to herself? At one time, she was successful; the world was at her fingertips. Now, here she was, a whore for a thief and a murderer.

  That would all change soon.

  She fixed her hair and quickly put on her makeup. It only took her a moment to get dressed. She called Nimol to gather the men she needed, and then she met them in the basement. Nimol informed her the doctor had arrived and given the prisoner a sedative. At best, he was semi-conscious. She ordered him brought upstairs anyway. Nimol picked up Jason Conrad, and she led the small group from the basement to the second floor. When they reached the secure room, she paused. The sound of someone singing in the next room floated through the door. Beautiful singing.

  While Nimol and his men put Jason on the bed, she wandered to the doorway on the other side of the headboard. Peering into the next room, she saw Lawan sitting on the bed, singing to her daughter. She smiled and subconsciously placed her hand on her belly. Helena always wanted a family, but her circumstances would not allow it. Maison did not want, nor like children. He told her this repeatedly, and at this point, she was happy Maison never gave her a baby.

  Lawan noticed her and stopped singing.

  “Hello, Mrs. Suttirat. My name is Helena De Vries.” She is beautiful, Helena thought.

  “Hello.” Lawan slowly stood from the bed. Her posture was defensive, sliding in front of Preeda. A mother’s instincts.

  “I’m not here to harm you, Mrs. Suttirat. We need you to watch after the man in the next room. He was injured. The doctor will be leaving soon. Can you come talk to him?”

  “I-I’m not qualified to take care of anyone,” she insisted.

  “Of course, you are. You’re a mother. That makes you uniquely qualified.”

  Lawan glanced at Preeda. “You stay here,” she said softly, and she moved toward Helena. The two women stood facing each other, Helena two inches taller.

  “You must be her,” Lawan said.

  So . . . it starts now, Helena thought. “Yes, I’m her.”

  “Maison’s plaything. How much longer do you have until he tosses you out?”

  Helena didn’t bite. Quite to the contrary, she wished Maison had let her go years ago.

  “I don’t have time to catfight with you, Mrs. Suttirat.” She turned to go to the next room. “Come with me.”

  She introduced Lawan to the doctor, who pointed out the injuries of the barely conscious man on the bed. The doctor explained the IV; how and when to change out the bag. Helena watched Lawan during the instruction; she envied Lawan's life now. The life she had with her daughter.

  Lawan scowled at her, a look Helena had seen many times since moving to this part of the world. A blonde in Asia is a princess; not to be liked or trusted by other women.

  Jason blinked his eyes, the small beam of sunlight blinding him. Gradually, his eyes adjusted, and he stared at the ceiling. His head sunk deep into a pillow. He wasn’t sure how long he’d be here, nor did he care. All he knew was that for the first time in days, he felt better.

  His mind struggled to work through his situation. He had been cleaned up, brought upstairs, and a doctor looked him over. No permanent damage, he recalled. Nothing broken. The French guy's thugs did a thorough job beating him without leaving too much evidence. Damn, Ben must have really pissed these guys off.

  He pushed himself up and swung his legs off the side of the bed when he felt a tug on his wrist.

  IV tube.

  Didn’t notice that before. Must be why I feel so good. Probably a morphine drip to keep me under control. He pried the tape off his hand and pulled the needle from his skin, tossing them to the side.

  When he first tried to stand, the reality of his condition hit him, and he stumbled back toward the bed, his hand knocking over a glass on the nightstand. On his second attempt, he stood and shuffled to the foot of the bed, balancing himself on the bedpost.

  “What are you doing?” The soft voice stopped him from moving any farther. He turned and faced the Asian woman standing in the doorway next to the bed.

  “I just thought I’d get a beer,” Jason mumbled.

  “You are in no condition to go anywhere. You must remain in bed.”

  “I don’t think so. I think I’ll go—” his head was spinning. He stumbled again and caught himself on the edge of the bed. “I think I’ll go back to bed.”

  The woman rushed to his side and helped him lie down. Moving to the other side, she checked the IV tube dangling toward the floor.

  “What have you done?” she said, terrified at the situation. “The doctor only showed me how to change the bag, not replace the needle.”

  He didn’t resist as she pulled the covers back over him and reattached the tape to the top of his wrist, the needle resting on top of his skin. His eyelids grew heavy, and he drew a deep breath.

  “What is your name?” she said. Her voice sounded like a deep echo.

  His vision faded, and he mumbled in her direction before drifting back to sleep.

  Sarathoon covered the grounds of the Landmark Hotel several times. While he had seen numerous American service members moving about, he had yet to see Ben Harris. Perhaps Jason Conrad was not lying when he said Harris had gone back to Okinawa.

  He spent most of the morning in the restaurant nursing a cup of coffee. His eyes darted back and forth every time a new farong entered the room. Nothing. After one-thirty, he left the restaurant and made another circuit of the hotel grounds and twice around the pool. Still, no luck.

  Entering the lobby, he headed downstairs to the pub and ordered a cup of coffee. The place was empty except for a pudgy farong with a gray beard sitting at the bar and two more young ones sitting at a table, drinking beer.

  Within the next five minutes, four more farongs joined the two. Clearly, they were service members. Like most American servicemen in a bar, they spoke freely and loudly. Sarathoon strained to listen to them, the music in the bar blocking portions of their conversation. Fortunately, the Americans grew louder the longer they sat there. As they argued back and forth, he recognized key words, building a picture of who they were and what they were doing.

  He managed to pick up two
essential pieces of information. One, they were leaving in less than two days with their "precious cargo." Two, Ben Harris was still here. From the tone, Sarathoon determined that Ben Harris was their precious cargo.

  That meant, in two days, Harris would be gone.

  “Hey!” The sternness and volume of the voice startled him. He glanced at the Americans, and they all looked at the other side of the bar. Sarathoon followed their gaze to the pudgy farong across the bar who was staring at him. The farong’s eyes cut right through him.

  “You guys ought to talk a little quieter over there,” he said. “You know—OPSEC and all.” The pudgy man’s eyes never left him. A quick glance at the crew, and he saw their attention shifted back and forth from the bearded man at the bar to him.

  He had been discovered.

  Sarathoon maintained his composure. Taking a sip of his coffee, he tossed some change on the bar and casually walked out. Their eyes drilled holes in him, but he did not care. He could kill them all if he wanted. His task was more important.

  Reaching the top of the stairs, he walked to the reception desk. He slid the male clerk five hundred baht and winked at him. “What room is Ben Harris in?”

  40

  October 15, 2003

  Lawan dipped a towel in a bowl of cool water and pressed it gently against the man’s face. He shivered in his bed; his body covered in sweat. His head jerked back and forth, and he mumbled. He must be dreaming. That’s good, isn’t it?

  She brushed the hair from his face, and the realization hit her. The swelling hid his features, but she was sure it was him. This man from the jewelry store. Ben—Ben Harris. . . he came in to pick up some gold, just before Maison’s men killed Deng and turned her world upside down. Is he the one who kidnapped Preeda? She said the man who saved her was Jay-son.

  Suddenly, his eyes opened, and he gasped. “Who-who are you? Where am I?”