Jason put up his hand.
“No, don’t get me wrong. It . . . it was amazing. The bath helped with the soreness. And the rest . . .”
She gazed at him pensively while she stood by his bedside.
He reached out and held her hands. “The rest helped me.”
Her eyes glowed with his words, and he pulled her to him, kissing her. She responded at first and then pulled back.
“Please. Not where Preeda can see. She is too fond of you. I cannot bear to have her disappointed.”
Jason backed off, aware for the first time of the impact of Preeda seeing them together.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be so forward. It’s not fair to her. Or to you. I won’t bother you.” He lay in his bed, sulking.
Lawan stood smugly. “Jason, I didn’t say I didn’t want you. I said I didn’t want Preeda to be hurt.”
Oh. Oh! That’s a new twist. Jason started to prop himself on his elbows, but she gently pushed him back down.
“Lay back and relax. You may want your strength later.”
He smiled. Nice to have something to look forward to. Suddenly, being a hostage was not so bad. But then again, he was still a hostage.
“We need to get out of here,” he said.
“You mean leave the mansion?”
“Yes.”
Lawan shook her head. “It is not possible. We cannot even leave these rooms without someone letting us out.”
Jason sat up in the bed and scooted back.
“How do you know so much about this place? And why are you here?”
Lawan lowered her head and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. She moved to the end of the bed and sat on the edge. She looked up at Jason, her eyes watering.
“I lived here long ago,” she said.
“Lived here?”
“Yes. I was Maison’s . . . girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend?”
“Yes, his girlfriend. His lover. His whore. Whatever you want to call it. I was what the blond girl is now—his live-in plaything.”
The tears flowed. Jason felt a tinge of guilt and leaned forward to comfort her. He yelped when his sore abs shot him back against the wall. The corners of her mouth dropped, and she started to speak, but he waved it off.
“I don’t mean to pry, but what happened? Why did you leave? I mean, this is a pretty fancy setup. Except for the whole torture thing he’s got going on in the basement.”
“He treated me no different. He beat me often. I’m sure he beats the blond woman, also. He’s a tyrant. And a killer. I am not sure why he’s keeping you here, but I’m afraid that when he’s done with you, he will kill you.”
Jason let the words sink in. His situation was real, and the events of the last twenty-four hours clouded his perspective the way the morphine was supposed to. Maison found out who he was and planned to use him as some sort of bargaining chip. He believed Lawan was right. When Maison considered him no longer valuable, he would kill him.
“We’ve got to find a way to escape.”
“We?”
“Yes. You, Preeda, and me. You’re both in danger. If he’s going to kill me, he’ll most likely kill you, too.”
Lawan glanced at the floor as she shook her head. “No, Maison won’t kill us.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Preeda is his daughter.”
45
October 16, 2003
The limousine pushed its way through the crowded streets of Bangkok, narrowly missing numerous mopeds that recklessly zigzagged through traffic. Maison Andrepont hung up the phone, grinning. He had several objectives today, and time was running short. Sarathoon had been effective, although his target still lived. He left enough clues to blame the terrorists for the attack on the Americans. It was all coming together.
He slid the phone in his pocket and admired Helena. She personified perfection, but her face reflected concern. The times like these were when he thought she was the sexiest.
“Did he succeed?” she said.
“No. Ben Harris is still alive. However, he is still in Bangkok. The American aircrew did not leave. My sources there tell me all the Americans are in lockdown, and the aircrew won’t be going anywhere for a while.”
Her concern dissipated, and her business-like nature returned. She had evolved into a valuable resource these past few years. At first, she had been hooked on the cocaine, but losing her job and moving in with him served as a wakeup call for her. She weaned herself off the drugs and worked her way into his organization. Her critical banking skills gave him an edge in more than one transaction.
“He is a small fish in your ever-growing pond, Maison. I don’t think he can do any damage over the next three days.”
“Agreed. Sarathoon said he had an armed escort taking him to the airport. This is not something I would have expected. I have no problem backing off for now. I can always reach out and touch him if I need to.”
The limousine stopped in front of the bank, and Maison and Helena walked inside. A bank executive met them at the door when they entered and eagerly greeted them. After exchanging pleasantries, they followed him to his office and sat at the desk.
“What can we do for you today, Monsieur Andrepont?”
“I need a cashier’s check for three-million dollars made out to this man.” He handed the banker a slip of paper. The name, of course, was a fake. The Chechen was more than careful in his transactions.
The banker’s eyes widened, and Helena’s head jerked to the side.
“I see,” the banker said. He began typing into his computer. Maison smiled at Helena and patted her on the knee, hand lingering.
After about five minutes, the printer under his desk hummed, and moments later, he produced the cashier's check. Maison and Helena reviewed the check, and Maison signed it. The banker inserted the check in an envelope, which he placed in a folder and then in a locked briefcase. Maison thanked the banker and steered Helena out of the office.
“What is going on, Maison?”
“All in due time, my dear.” Maison’s eyes searched the bank before falling on the familiar face he sought.
Arthit smugly strutted across the bank. Maison noticed the surprised look on Helena’s face when she recognized the terrorist organizer. Perhaps, she’d never seen him in a suit before—only jungle fatigues.
Maison gave Arthit the briefcase without saying anything. Arthit nodded, turned, and walked out of the bank.
“Mais—” she started to say, but he put his finger to his lips and guided her to the door with his free hand in the small of her back.
“I’ve got a meeting—with him.” Maison implied a third person. “After you drop me off, take the limo back to the mansion. Sarathoon will pick me up at the restaurant.”
They climbed into the limousine. Maison grabbed a glass and poured himself a bourbon as the limo pulled into traffic.
“Maison, what the hell was that about?”
“That, my dear, was insurance.”
“Insurance? For what?”
“Arthit and his men. Their task, until now, was far greater than they could successfully complete. Now they have an edge.”
“What are you talking about? You just wrote a three-million-dollar check.”
Maison picked up his glass of bourbon from the drink holder and took a sip.
“The three-million dollars, my dear, bought us three SA-16 surface-to-air missiles. Arthit’s men will shoot down Air Force One on approach into Bangkok.”
McClendon rushed downstairs to the lobby of the chaotic hotel. One of the SEALs and a local doctor attended to the two wounded crewmembers. The rest of the SEALs formed a perimeter around the small group, restricting who could come and go. It did not take him long to notice the two figures under the white sheets.
As he walked to the bodies on the floor, he glanced around the remaining crewmembers, trying to figure out who was left, but his mind whirled. He pulled back the sheet from the first bod
y. A Thai national. Must be the van driver.
He turned around and lifted the second sheet. Damn. Captain Ken Crawford. Poor kid had not been in the country twenty-four hours and gets killed. Got a wife. Two kids. How could he explain this?
“Remi!” he shouted.
Remi jogged over to him, his H&K MP-5 at low ready.
“Yes, sir.”
“What the hell happened?”
“We were attacked, sir,” Remi said, “as soon as we rounded the corner. An RPG came from the alley and struck the first van. They didn’t know we were in the lead car. Soon after, a guy opens up with AK fire. We stopped and returned fire when we saw the RPG. Once we started to fight back, he bailed. Popped smoke to hide his egress and threw a grenade for good measure.”
“One guy did this?”
"We only saw one. Could be two or three. Not sure yet. It was over very quickly. Hilts is looking over the scene with the Bangkok cops to try and determine the number."
“Any idea on who it might be?”
“He was dressed like BIPP.”
“The National Liberation Front of Pattani?”
"Yes, sir. But this is a little out of their wheelhouse."
“What do you mean?”
Remi relaxed his pose some and studied the room.
“Sir, they are normally not so bold that they would attack a group of US servicemen. The fallout would be too devastating to them. Their M.O. is to hit smaller targets of opportunity in rural areas. In the city, the most they do is protest some political movements.”
McClendon nodded. “Okay, thanks. Glad you guys were there. This could have been a lot worse.”
“Me, too, sir.”
McClendon walked over to Chris.
“Hello, sir.”
“You all right?”
“Yes, sir. Ken Crawford is—”
“I know. What’s the status of the wounded?”
“Thomas took some shrapnel. He’s lost a lot of blood, but the medic has stopped the bleeding. He thinks he’ll be okay. Lacey is still unconscious. Some kind of head trauma from the impact. She’s breathing but needs to get to a hospital. Everybody else is okay. Just a little spooked.”
“Spooked?”
“Okay, sir. Scared shitless. Not something we’re used to experiencing. We’d feel better if we had some weapons.” He paused. “What’s the plan?”
McClendon thought for a moment. Things were happening rapidly and would increase exponentially over the next hour. The first thing he needed to do was secure his people.
"We're on lockdown as of right now. Every other hotel in Bangkok is almost full, so we can't move everyone to the same hotel. I'm not so sure it would be a good idea, anyway. It would put us in the open again and spread us out across town. What we need is more security at this hotel. JUSMAGTHAI should be able to help us with that. I want you to work with the hotel and get everybody moved to the same floor. When you finish that, give the first shirt a list of the new rooms. Double up if you have to."
“Will do, sir. Any idea’s on why they hit us?”
He looked across the room at Ben Harris, sitting on the floor next to the front desk. McClendon shook his head. “Not yet,” he said.
46
October 16, 2003
Sterling MacIntosh leaned back in his chair, swirling the bourbon in his glass. The drink was his favorite, Old Rip Van Winkle Handmade 10-Year-Old Kentucky Straight Bourbon. From his position on the far side of the room, he could see everyone who entered. Sterling considered Le Normandie the most elegant restaurant in Bangkok. He was not alone. Some would argue it was the finest in the world. Nestled in the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, the excellent French restaurant catered to a more sophisticated clientele. Chandeliers hung majestically throughout the restaurant, fresh flowers in crystal vases reached toward the ceiling, and soft classical music, barely perceptible, played in the background.
Sterling ordered the three-course lunch. The waiter brought out his risotto, a dish he thought looked too good to eat. Unfolding the napkin, he fixed the hole in one corner around the top button on his shirt. He developed the habit decades ago before he had the money to have his shirts laundered. Now, he could buy a new shirt every day, and it would not matter, but it was all about saving time. At his age and experience, time was valuable, and he only had a finite amount left in his life.
He finished his bourbon when he noticed the manager greet a man at the entrance and point in his direction. The Frenchman weaved between tables and servers until he arrived at his table.
“Monsieur MacIntosh, I presume?”
Sterling rose from the table and stepped to the side, shaking his hand.
“Yes, and you must be Maison Andrepont,” he replied. Sterling knew exactly who he was. He had studied the dossier his people had put together on the man. “Please, join me.” Sterling motioned to the chair across from his own.
“Are you enjoying your stay in Bangkok?” Maison said, sitting at the table.
“It’s fine. Not without its complications, though.”
“Meaning?”
“Oh, just some personal issues. Not for discussion here.” Sterling reached for his bourbon and took a sip. “Drink?”
"No, thank you. Shall we proceed?"
Sterling smiled. He was not sure if it was because of Maison’s inexperience or impatience. Either way, it benefitted him. He would eventually figure him out and exploit him.
“I like that. Tell me about the transportation.”
Maison appeared confused.
“Monsieur, the paperwork is signed, and the arrangements set. What else is there to discuss?”
“There are no decisions that need to be made. I just want to take this opportunity to hear about your armored cars. It is your company, right?”
“Of course, of course. We have twenty-five armored cars available. They are large, armored, dual-rear-axle trucks. Built upon heavy-duty chassis of American trucks, they allow the transportation of heavy payloads, such as yours. The drivers and the guards are all my own men. Very reliable. We are contracted with several banks in both Thailand and Cambodia.”
"What inspired you to start the armored car business?"
Maison leaned back in the chair. “Ah, I see. This is the interview. Very well. Monsieur MacIntosh, surely you understand what it’s like to run a business. I am a casino owner. I’ve made a lot of money, and I’ve lost a lot of money. After the financial crash a few years ago, I took steps to minimize my losses. I centralized control over the movement of my money. Hence, I purchased my own fleet of armored cars. I have my own drivers and security team.”
“And it is a business that has prospered nicely for you.”
“Yes, indeed. We’ve grown and now lease our services to many banks in Thailand and Cambodia. And now we have the pleasure of leasing them to you.”
“Indeed. And everything is ready?”
“Of course. The vehicles will pre-position in the warehouse at the airport tomorrow, awaiting your shipment.”
Sterling moved forward, his elbows on the table, his hands pressed together, just touching his lips. And he smiled.
On the drive from Bangkok to the mansion, Helena's mind raced with the issues before her. Is Maison crazy? He now planned to shoot down the U.S. president's plane? And what of Jason Conrad? Not only was he an American officer, but he was also the son of a high-profile businessman. A former presidential candidate. Maison treaded in water way too deep but refused to acknowledge he was in over his head.
But that was his way. He enjoyed being the big fish in a small pond. But big fish tend not to recognize when they swim in a bigger pond. Maison was swimming in an ocean. He took no advice at all; it would be his downfall.
She dozed for a portion of the ride, waking only when they reached the border. A regular payment by the driver allowed them easy passage, and they soon arrived at the mansion.
Helena walked up to the second floor to check on Jason Conrad's condition. He'd been heavily medi
cated, and his injuries should be healing. Maison let Lawan act as his nurse, another foolish decision. She had a tinge of jealousy knowing his ex-girlfriend stayed in the house, even if a prisoner. Still, there was more than a romantic rivalry to worry about. What Helena could not understand was, why? Why did he bring her here?
She opened the door to Jason’s room and stopped. He was sitting up in bed, talking to Lawan and Preeda. All three looked up. Lawan whispered into Preeda’s ear, and the little girl ran into the other room.
Something did not seem right . . . he should still be sedated. She glanced at the IV. The tube was still attached to his hand. Unless—
She moved quickly to the other side of the bed and grabbed Jason’s hand. She ripped the tape from his hand, and the needle came up with it. Her eyes narrowed, and she glared at Lawan.
“Please,” Jason said. “You’ve got to help us get out of here.”
Helena turned back to Jason, her eyes glaring. “What makes you think I would help you?”
“Because,” Lawan said, standing defiantly, “if Maison treats you like he treated me years ago, you want out, too.”
Helena's composure relaxed, and she faced Lawan on the other side of Jason's bed. The two women had more in common than she wanted to acknowledge. Maison did beat her, and she hated it. She hated him.
“I came to the mansion six years ago, after Maison found me singing in a nightclub in Phitsanulok. It was wonderful a first. Then came the drugs, the sexual abuse, the beatings. I could not leave fast enough, but I could not get out at all. I can see it in your eyes. Maison hasn’t changed at all, has he? You are living my life. You know what he’s like, he’s—”
“You know what he’s like, too,” Helena said. “When he’s done with you, he’ll kill you. And your daughter.”
Jason touched her on the arm. Helena turned her head toward him now.
“He won’t kill them,” he said. Jason paused and glanced at Lawan. Her eyes watered, and she nodded slowly; he turned back to Helena. “The little girl is his daughter.”
The Quiet Professional Page 21