The Quiet Professional

by Michael Byars Lewis

  “My name is Lawan. I’m . . . I’m a friend. What’s your name?”

  “My body hurts all over.” He raised his hand and grasped at the tape.

  “You pulled that out yesterday.”

  “It’s a saline drip with morphine, I think. It helped the pain but messed up my head,” he said, looking up at the IV bag. “I don’t like having a messed-up head.”

  Lawan nodded. “I understand. You are hurt. I’m afraid you’ve been beaten badly. How do you feel?”

  The man sat up in the bed and gingerly lifted his legs over the side. His robe loosely covered his body, but she could tell he had nothing on underneath.

  “Hurt like hell. Head hurts, too, but that could be dehydration.” He paused, a strange look on his face. “I really need to use the bathroom. Can you help me get there? I, um . . . I don’t know where it is.”

  Lawan smiled and noticed a faint smile in return. “Yes, of course.” She helped him to his feet. “Come this way.”

  Slowly, she walked him to the bathroom doorway. He swayed with each small step he took, and she pushed against him with her shoulder to keep him upright. Balancing himself against the wall, he surveyed his new environment. On the far side of the room, a large eight-by-eight-foot sunken bathtub covered the room. To the right, another small room with the toilet.

  “I got it from here, I think.” The man closed the door.

  “I’ll wait here for you.”

  Lawan turned and briskly walked back to her room and recovered a bottle of Motrin. Preeda looked up from her cartoons without saying a word as she passed by.

  Lawan grabbed a couple of bottles of water from her refrigerator and set one on the nightstand next to the man’s bed. Opening the Motrin, she poured two in her hand and returned to the bathroom.

  The door opened, and the man squeaked a smile when he staggered out.

  “Here,” she said, handing him the pills and water. “This will help the pain.”

  “Thanks.” He took the pills and downed them with the water, draining the bottle. “I appreciate you not putting that needle back in my hand. I’d rather suffer a little pain than lose my wits.”

  She nodded, not wanting to tell him she didn’t know how to reinsert the needle.

  “Your English is much better than my Thai.”

  “I was a singer many years ago. I learned English from singing American songs.”

  “Well, if your voice is as pretty as your face, I’m sure you were successful.”

  Lawan blushed. “Come, you need to rest.” With her hand against his lower back, she carefully guided him to the bed. He rested a hand on her shoulder for balance. Halfway across the room, she heard a gasp and looked up.

  Preeda stood in the doorway, her face drawn and eyes wide. Lawan stepped back quickly to assess the danger, looking back at the man. He was grinning.

  Preeda gave him an even bigger smile. Lawan’s brow furrowed.

  "Jay-son!" she said, rushing into the room.

  Lawan turned to him, confused. He dropped to one knee; a tear rolled down his cheek. Preeda ran up and hugged him.

  “Hey, little girl.” He squeezed her, stroking her hair. “I was worried about you.”

  Lawan enjoyed the reunion from a distance, her face unable to hide her happiness. How could she not have known? She focused on her own little world, and it simply didn't register with her. Nevertheless, it warmed her heart to discover the man she was forced to care for was her daughter's guardian angel.

  Sarathoon pushed a cart through the quiet hallway. The bellman's uniform fit him snuggly, the pants were just a little too short. He acquired a decorative silver tray and covered it with a variety of pastries, Danishes, doughnuts, and muffins.

  Approaching the room, he glanced toward each end of the hallway. Empty. He knocked on the door, a moderate knock. Not too soft to arouse suspicion, not too loud to alert someone in the hall. After a second knock, he watched a beam of light appear at the floor under the door. When the shadows showed up, he knew Harris stood at the door.

  “Yeah,” a voice said from the other side.

  “Room service,” Sarathoon said.

  “I didn’t order anything.”

  He paused. “This is a gift from the American aircrew. Desserts.”

  Sarathoon stood in the middle of the hallway, looking down at the cart. A moment later, the sharp sound of the door being unlocked split the silence. Placing his hand behind his back, he patted his Tiger Claw and smiled.

  Ben peered through the peephole; the room service attendant stood behind a cart. Must be that damn navigator's doing. Maybe he feels bad for chewing my ass out about Jason. He unlocked the door, opened it partially, and headed back to the couch.

  As he reached the couch, the attendant rolled the cart into the room, turned, and shut the door, staring submissively at the floor. Ben grabbed some baht and turned to tip the man. He studied the delicious-looking desserts, then recalled a story Jason and his buddies always told about a tray of desserts and a “safety” video. He held his hand to his stomach and reconsidered the “gift.” No telling where these desserts had been.

  He glanced up at the grinning attendant.

  Oh, shit. Sarathoon.

  Ben never saw the hand that jutted out, striking his chest. He only felt the immense pain in his ribs as he was knocked off his feet and crashed into the glass coffee table.

  It shattered on impact with a loud snap, hundreds of tiny shards peppering his back. He rolled over to his side on the pile of broken glass, his fear masking his pain.

  His attacker moved around the cart and jerked him off the floor. Sarathoon paused briefly, hopped up and down, and threw a roundhouse kick toward his head. Ben attempted to block the kick, but the guy was too fast. His arm absorbed some of the impact, but he was thrown into the bar, dishes and glasses falling to the carpet.

  Sarathoon grabbed Ben from the bar and hurled him back toward the center of the room. Ben tried to gain his balance, but he tripped on the cart, flipping the tray of desserts in the air, and he slammed into the wall.

  “Aaaaaaggghh!”

  He struggled to move, and Sarathoon produced several small silver knives. Sarathoon held one in his right hand and slung it toward him. Ben’s eyes blinked when the knife impaled the wall to his left. He considered reaching for the blade when two more knives hit the wall on either side of his chest.

  Ben stopped moving. He was toying with him. Sarathoon reached behind his back and pulled out the Tiger Claw he used on Chunky five days ago.

  Shit.

  41

  October 15, 2003

  Ben dove to the floor as Sarathoon lunged toward him. He grabbed the silver tray that carried the desserts. Sarathoon landed on top of him, thrusting the Tiger Claw toward his chest. Ben held up the tray, shielding himself.

  The force of the punch bent the tray almost in half, the blades of the Tiger Claw penetrating the heavy metal tray. Sarathoon paused, giving Ben the chance to take advantage of his size, flipping the smaller Thai up and over on his back.

  Both men wheeled about and got back to their feet. Sarathoon shook his right hand several times, the metal tray eventually sliding off the Tiger Claw.

  Ben’s heart raced and searched for . . . something. A weapon, an escape route . . . anything. Sarathoon stood between him and the door. Ben edged back toward the bar. Ben grabbed a bar stool and swung it at Sarathoon, who effortlessly swatted it out of his hands.

  Ben backed against the couch as Sarathoon slinked toward him. Shit, none of this was supposed to happen. What the—

  A knock on the door distracted Sarathoon. Remi? God, I hope so. Ben turned and snatched a lamp off the end table.

  “Remi,” he yelled. “Help!”

  The knocking changed to a beating on the door. Whoever knocked was now trying to break in.

  Ben hurled the lamp at Sarathoon, who dodged it easily. Falling backward onto the couch, Ben grabbed the wooden end table. Sarathoon thrust his deadly appendages
as Ben swung the table up.

  The Tiger's Claw embedded deep into the wooden table. Sarathoon struggled to pull it loose, but Ben held onto the table tightly, maneuvering the table to eliminate any leverage he could use to free the deadly claw.

  A loud crack came from the hotel room door, and Remi and Hilts, one of his SEALs, stormed into the room.

  Sarathoon unleashed the Velcro strap that held the Tiger Claw to his wrist and turned to face the SEALs.

  Remi charged, and Sarathoon kicked his knee and threw a fist at his throat. A quick reaction by Remi saved his life, but the punch deflected to his head, landing just above the left eye.

  Hilts managed to get a punch into Sarathoon's head, but he countered with a roundhouse kick, landing his shin into Hilts' abdomen. It was not much, but it was enough. Sarathoon bolted up and out of the room.

  The two SEALs caught their breath, then Remi stood and hobbled out the door but returned soon carrying his Sig Sauer P226. Hilts went back to his room to retrieve his M-4.

  “Your buddy is gone.” Remi limped toward Ben.

  Hilts stood in the hallway, his weapon at the ready before he slid back inside. Ben realized he still held the nightstand with the Tiger Claw firmly embedded. He shook his head as if waking from a dream. A harrowing dream. Ben set the wooden table on the couch next to him when Remi approached. He reached out a hand to help Ben up. Remi turned his attention to the wood table and the weapon deeply embedded. After four or five good tugs, Remi pulled the Tiger Claw free. He studied the weapon, admiring the blades and handle. The blades folded flat, and Remi wrapped the Velcro around them.

  “This is a nice piece of custom weaponry,” Remi said. He turned to his partner. “Go check the hallway and stairwell. Make sure that guy is gone.” Hilts nodded and left the room.

  “I’m glad you guys came when you did. Otherwise, he would’ve killed me,” Ben said.

  "It's a good thing you made so much noise. We figured something was up," he paused. "So, a friend of yours?"

  Naming Sarathoon would not help him now. It would only open him up for more questions. “I guess it’s like the news. Everybody thinks Jason is me. Maybe now someone thinks I’m him. He dragged that little girl around everywhere. Maybe he’s that girl’s father.”

  Remi squinted when he listened to Ben’s remarks. He didn’t think Remi believed his excuse.

  “The little girl’s father was killed in the jewelry store,” Remi said. “This guy that attacked you—he’s a pro. You’d better call McClendon and explain to him what happened.”

  “Yeah, I’m not looking forward to that phone call.”

  Remi walked to the door. “I’ll be in my room, but I’m going to talk to McClendon also. Things are gonna get crazy here in a few minutes.”

  “Yeah, thanks again,” Ben said as Remi left.

  Ben shuffled to the nightstand and picked up the phone, his hand hovering over the receiver. Shaking his head, he moved to the desk where his laptop sat. Flipping the top open, he logged onto the internet and typed CSA Financial Holdings Ltd, Zurich, Switzerland.

  Lawan and Preeda sat on the bed in their room. Lawan felt overjoyed that the man who saved her daughter still lived. He grew stronger throughout the day. Removing the morphine drip helped him think straight, and the Motrin she gave him eased the pain. Jason was right—the morphine had been intended to keep him sedated.

  She insisted he keep the needle taped to the top of his wrist, which paid off several times; Maison’s men dropped in every hour to check on him. Jason and Lawan managed to work out a routine: she would come in his room and act as a lookout while he stretched and walked around. When someone approached, he would jump back in bed and attach the needle.

  "Mommy, he's a nice man. He wouldn't let anyone hurt me." Preeda recounted their adventure, told in Thai. The story of the car chase, being cornered in the alley and scaling the wall. She laughed when she told the story about the dog. Only an American would expect a dog in Thailand to understand English.

  Lawan smiled while Preeda talked. The man sounded brave. And kind. She snuck food to him throughout the day. A handsome and rugged American, his strength gradually returned. Her main concern was what Maison would do to him when he decided he no longer needed him.

  McClendon and the first sergeant looked around the room. It was a disaster area; totally trashed. The two company grade officers stood nearby while McClendon assessed the situation.

  “Contact the hotel manager,” he said to the first sergeant. “He’ll call the local police. I’ll notify JUSMAGTHAI.”

  “Yes, sir.” The first sergeant turned and hustled out of the room.

  McClendon turned to the two young officers, his initial concern hardening by the second. He hovered in front of Ben, his eyes narrowing.

  “You want to explain this one, Captain Harris?”

  “S-Sir, honestly . . . I’m not sure what happened. This guy showed up, claimed to be room service. Brought in a tray of donuts, said it was a gift from the Jakal crew. I-I figured it was legit because I’d gotten in an argument with Chris earlier.”

  McClendon noticed Remi glance toward Ben. No doubt the SEAL thought the same thing he did. If this attacker knew there was a Jakal crew here and that Harris had a pissing contest with one of them, they had an OPSEC problem. Glancing at the floor, donuts and Danishes were strewn everywhere, a silver tray bent almost in half with some serious holes in it, and the room service cart upended on its side.

  “T-The next thing I know, he jumps me and starts beating the hell out of me. He would have killed me if Remi hadn’t broken in.”

  A quick glance confirmed Remi nodding. “Well?” McClendon said to the SEAL.

  “Sir, we were next door when we heard the noise. Sounded like a fight. We knocked on the door, but after another loud crash and Ben hollering, we breached the door. Our timing was just about right. The guy was on top of Ben about to skewer him with this.” Remi pulled out the Tiger Claw. “This guy wasn’t angry over a tip. He’s a pro.”

  McClendon took the weapon in his hand, his eyes widening. This was a deadly piece of steel. He handed it back to Remi. “Don’t lose that. We may need that as evidence.”

  Remi nodded, folded it, and tucked it in the small of his back.

  McClendon turned back to Ben. “Gather up your things. You’ll stay in my suite tonight. I don’t know who the hell you pissed off, but you’re leaving this country tomorrow.”

  42

  October 15, 2003

  The mansion was quiet this time of night. Preeda slept in the king-sized bed. Lawan slipped into a robe and walked into the room next door to check on Jason. She smiled when she saw he was awake and handed him two Motrin.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Better, thanks to you. I’m getting my strength back. My body is still sore. The bruised ribs don’t help.” He picked up his glass of water and swallowed the two pills.

  “I was thinking,” she said, glancing behind her. “No one will be around this time of night. Perhaps a warm bath would make you feel better?”

  His eyes lit up. “Is it safe? Won’t they know?”

  Lawan shook her head. “Maison doesn’t have the manpower to keep track of us all the time. That’s why we’re locked in here. He knows we can’t escape.”

  Jason started to swing his legs off the bed. “Sounds good to me.”

  “No,” she said. “You stay in bed. Let me set it up for you. I will come get you when it is time.” She put his legs back on to the bed. He lay back on the pillow, and she gently ran a hand along the side of his face. Her heart beat faster as she touched him. Their eyes locked, searching deeply into each other. The man saved her daughter’s life. For that, she would be forever grateful. She regretted they came from two different worlds and might never see those worlds again. This might be the only time they ever have together.

  “Are you okay?”

  His comment startled her, and she snapped out of her daydreaming.

  “Yes,
yes. You wait here. I’ll be back.”

  She walked to the door and locked the interior lock. A minor precaution, but it would buy them more time if someone were to show up. These secure rooms could be locked from both the inside and outside. The lock from the outside required no key, but the one inside did. She hoped if anyone tried to come in, they would not expect to find the room locked and would have to go find the key.

  She glided across the room to the bathroom. A quick glance at Jason confirmed his eyes followed her every move. Her cheeks flushed, and warmth radiated over her. Closing the bathroom door behind her, she leaned over the tub and turned on the water. She adjusted the temperature to what she thought would be right and closed the drain. Water pooled in the bottom of the enormous walk-in tub.

  Lawan moved to the closet and pulled out a carton of Epsom salt, a small bottle of fragrance, and a bottle of bubble bath. Returning to the tub, she poured the contents into the running water. She sat along the edge of the tub, watching the bubbles build, the fragrance tickling her nose. A smile formed on her face.

  Chris and the rest of the Jakals sat in The Huntsman, grabbing their last beer. The new pilot arrived earlier that day, and McClendon notified the crew they had a 1300 departure the next day. They spent most of the afternoon and early evening working on the flight plan and diplomatic clearances back to Okinawa.

  The new pilot, Captain Ken Crawford, was one of the group commander's executive officers. They must have been scraping the bottom of the barrel if the group commander let him go. Not that he was a bad pilot. He wasn't. He was an excellent pilot. But the group commander didn't usually let his people go TDY.

  Ken had talked to the crew earlier in the day when he arrived. Chris told him to catch up on some sleep—the crew would do everything. They could all meet later that night.

  Just after eleven in the evening, Ken walked downstairs to The Huntsman. The crew huddled in the back of the bar, away from the stage and prying ears. Sarathoon’s visit made them more cautious than ever.