The Quiet Professional

by Michael Byars Lewis

  "We can reach the bank in thirty minutes," Sugarmann said. "We can't get to the airport at all. All roads are closed off. Even with a police escort, you're looking at a couple of hours before getting close."

  “We?” Jason said.

  “Yeah, kid. You know what this Maison guy looks like. I can’t take her with me,” Sugarmann said, motioning his thumb toward Lawan.

  “But I’m on alert. What if I’m called in?”

  “You ain’t getting called in, kid. And if you did, you couldn’t get through. I’ll make a call. You’re temporarily on loan to the CIA.”

  Jason thought about the situation. Maison Andrepont needed to go down. He was guilty of kidnapping, torture, murder, financing a terrorist group, attempting to assassinate the president of the United States, and now stealing over one and a half billion dollars in gold. Could that destabilize the global economy?

  “Okay, I’m in,” he said. He’d worry about the consequences later. “I need to notify my crew that if we are alerted, I’ll meet them at the airport.”

  Sugarmann pulled out his cell phone and stepped to the other side of the room. Lawan looked at Jason, her face taut and trembling. “You cannot go after Maison,” she pleaded. “He’s a killer.”

  “We’re just trying to verify if the gold is still there, correct?” He glanced at Sterling.

  “Yes.” Sterling grimaced. “But it could be dangerous. His men are ruthless, and he is desperate. A man doesn’t plan something like this unless he is willing to commit everything to it. It’s a cause he’ll die for.”

  “Well,” Jason said, “everybody’s got to die of something.”

  63

  October 18, 2003

  Jason, Sterling, and Sugarmann arrived at the CSTH Commercial Bank just before closing time. The bank manager met them at the front door and locked it behind them. Jason was surprised at the interior of the bank; it looked unlike any other building in Thailand. The design resembled something from New York or Zurich. Sterling made simple introductions, and the small group marched to the rear of the bank, where the bank manager worked the various electronic and combination locks to gain access to the vault.

  Jason’s stomach felt tied in knots. His crew was still on alert status. He might be called in to fly at any moment. It was an unrealistic posture. The airport wouldn’t open for another hour, and even then, the commercial airlines that had been waiting would take priority. A massive airplane traffic jam. If they were alerted, the street traffic alone would take over two hours to get there. Still, he knew he had placed himself in a position he shouldn’t be in. He should be at the hotel with his crew, yet here he was, investigating a gold shipment with an IMF executive and the CIA.

  When the vault door opened, Jason’s eyes grew wide. The room was huge. “How did they move the gold in here?” Fifty stacks of large palletized containers covered the floor of the vault, each three pallets high.

  Sterling pointed at the back wall. “That wall is actually a safe door that opens to an alleyway. Exactly one hundred and fifty containers of gold were moved from the trucks via forklift into this vault. The plan is to keep the gold here until our facility in Singapore is complete.”

  Sugarmann knelt, examining one of the containers. “You might not need that facility now.”

  “We’ll see,” Sterling replied. He produced a paper from his pocket and typed in a code on the container in front of him. A solid click echoed in the vault, and he grabbed the handle, opening the container.

  "Whoa," Jason murmured as he walked closer. Impressive. It was one thing to see a stack of gold in a picture or in the movies. Seeing it in person was different. It was mesmerizing. He reached out and gently ran his hand along the stack.

  Sterling grabbed a bar off the top, tossing it back and forth in his hands, measuring the weight by feel. He carefully examined each side, edge, and corner.

  “If this is a fake, he’s good,” Sterling said, handing the bar to Sugarmann.

  “Was good,” Sugarmann corrected him, taking the bar and examining it in the same way Sterling did.

  Jason pulled down a second bar. It was heavy. He turned it around in his hands, admiring the smooth texture and crisp reflection. These were 400-gram bars, about twenty-seven pounds each, not the 100-gram bars he picked up for Ben.

  “I guess there’s only one way to find out if we’re right,” Jason said, rearing back and hammering the bar against the edge of the container.

  The bank manager shrieked at the impact. Jason was not sure if it was from the noise or the act itself as if scarring the precious metal decreased its value. He examined the bar at the point of impact.

  Sugarmann scooted closer, looking at the bar. “I’ll be damned.”

  Jason looked at him blankly, then turned to Sterling, handing him the bar.

  "Oh, my God," he mumbled. A sizable chip appeared on the edge of the bar, where the gold coating chipped off, revealing the gray metal underneath.

  “Is that lead?” Jason said.

  Sterling shook his head. “Tungsten, most likely.”

  “Tungsten?”

  "Yes. Tungsten is the closest metal in weight and density to gold. You need a digital scale to tell the difference." Sterling's gaze drifted up toward the other containers. "This is an incredible undertaking. It must have taken—"

  “Years,” Jason said. “Lawan said they had been working on this for years. But how could Maison Andrepont have known the transfer would take place?”

  “Oh, there are so many ways. He could put the pieces together, obviously. The announcement of the new facility. The construction of this vault . . . it could be a number of things. The logistical trail for a project like this starts years in advance. Somehow, he found out and positioned himself to own the only armored car company big enough to do the job.”

  “Still, he had to have someone on the inside. Somewhere. Right?”

  “I suppose so. Perhaps his beautiful assistant.”

  Jason jerked his head back toward Sterling. “Who?”

  "Maison has an assistant—girlfriend—whatever. She was, at one time, a bright, promising international banker."

  “What’s her name?”

  “Helena De Vries. Beautiful creature. Talented banker. Fell into the wrong crowd with Andrepont. Never quite recovered.”

  “You sound like you know her,” Jason said.

  “I know of her,” Sterling nodded, and he moved to another container, punching in the combination. “It’s my job to know the talent in my field. Especially when the talent looks like her.”

  Jason pondered his words as the silver-haired executive opened the second container, pulled out a bar, and smashed it too. Another chip. He moved throughout the vault, opening container after container. Jason and Sugarmann checked a few bars of gold in each one, finding nothing but counterfeits.

  The bank manager stood pale and shaking. He continued to apologize for the situation, but Sterling went out of his way to reassure him his bank wasn’t responsible.

  Jason checked his watch and grimaced. “It’s going to take days to figure out what you’ve got here.”

  Sterling glanced at Jason, then returned his gaze across the vast vault. “Yes, I suppose.”

  "I've got to get back to the hotel. Technically, I'm on alert. I should be there."

  "Yes, I understand. Don't worry about me, I'll have my limo sent over. I appreciate your assistance in this matter. Your father will be quite proud of you, I'm sure."

  “I wish I could help more, but I think I’ve done all I can do.”

  “Forget the limo,” Sugarmann said. “I’ll give you a lift.”

  “Ahh, the CIA finally doing their money’s worth,” Sterling quipped. Sugarmann, to his credit, chose to ignore the comment. They said their farewells, and the bank manager led them to the front and let them outside.

  The two climbed into Sugarmann’s car and drove back to the Landmark. The streets were noisy, but the chaos of the morning traffic had dissipated. Jason
gazed out the window, his mind churning over the facts.

  “You okay over there?” Sugarmann kept his eyes on the road.

  “Yeah, just thinking . . .”

  “Okay, I’ll bite.”

  “No . . . I mean, did he seem that upset to you?”

  Sugarmann stared through the front windshield of the car, the lights of downtown Bangkok reflecting off the glass. “He seemed a little distraught. The guy has been around the block. I’m sure he hides his emotions well.” He glanced at Jason. “I don’t know. It’s not his money.”

  “No, but he is responsible for it. Sterling knew a whole lot more about Maison Andrepont than he let on.”

  “True. But if you’re going to hire a company to move one point five billion dollars in gold, you’re going to research them. Right?”

  “Yeah, maybe. But something else is troubling me. How does he know so much about Helena De Vries?”

  64

  October 18, 2003

  The sun had just disappeared behind some buildings. Lawan rose from the couch, dropping her magazine where she sat. Preeda happily perched on the bed watching television. She didn’t have the heart to make Preeda go downstairs for dinner. The poor child had been through so much.

  Room service at the Landmark had a reputation for being very good but very slow. She felt the rumbling in her stomach and glanced at the clock. It had already been forty-five minutes.

  Preeda looked up from the television. “Momma, when is supper?”

  “It should be here soon, sweetheart.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “I know. Me, too. I’m sorry, it should be here soon.”

  She walked into the bathroom and washed her face at the sink. Drying her face with a towel, she stared at the reflection in the mirror. What would she do? When this mess ended, she would have to see what was left of the jewelry shop. No doubt it has been looted since Deng’s murder. She had no idea if they had any money in the bank. There was still the safe Deng built underneath their bed, but she hadn’t opened it since he installed it.

  Then there was the American, Jason Conrad. What would she do about him? He was handsome enough, although she never pictured herself with an American. True, she had slept with him, twice now. The first time was out of mercy. She was grateful for what he’d done for Preeda. The mood seemed right. The lavish bedroom, sunken tub, candlelight. The second time was her own selfishness. He awoke a desire in her that fell dormant during her arranged marriage to Deng. Now it was time to move on. She and Preeda needed to build a new life. Hopefully, he wasn’t too attached.

  A knock on the door snapped her out of her thoughts.

  “Preeda,” she said, walking out of the bathroom to the door. “This must be our dinner.”

  “Yay!” Her eyes still glued to the television.

  Lawan peeked through the peephole and saw a man in a hotel uniform standing outside. Where was the food tray? Perhaps there was a problem.

  She unlocked the door and turned the handle. Before she could open it, the door shoved open. Two men barged in and knocked her to the floor as two more raced in behind them.

  Lawan landed on her back, and Preeda screamed.

  “Leave my daughter alone!” she yelled. Two men pinned her to the floor while two more grabbed Preeda and pulled her off the bed. One of them placed a gag around Lawan’s mouth and lifted her to her feet.

  When they spun her around, she tensed. Preeda stood between two men, a gag in her mouth, tears running down her face. One of the men held a pistol to her head.

  Jason stared out the window on the drive to the hotel, grateful the pager in his pocket remained silent. The sun had set minutes ago, and once again, Jason’s stomach rumbled. It had been a while since lunch.

  His eyes scanned their surroundings. Soldiers and military vehicles lined the streets. Since the foiling of the terrorists’ plot, the Thai authorities were on high alert.

  “So, you think Maison Andrepont is going to get away with all this?” Sugarmann said, shifting his white hat back on his head.

  “I don’t know. You’re the CIA guy. You tell me.”

  “Hey, I’m part of the terrorism task force. I track people and weapons. Billions of dollars of gold bullion is a little out of my field of expertise.”

  Jason stared at Sugarmann blankly. He didn’t think so. If you wanted to supply terrorists with weapons, you needed money. What better way to pay them off than with gold?

  Sugarmann continued. “What do you think his motive is?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. You’ve had more contact with the guy than anyone else on our side.”

  Jason shifted in his seat. “Well, I can’t say for sure, but after spending time as both a prisoner and ‘guest’ at his mansion, he doesn’t seem to possess a terrorist’s ideology. The opulence he lived under, to me, says this is all about—”

  "Money," Sugarmann chimed in. "I agree. We've been following his connections with a Chechen arms dealer, in addition to some small-time arms dealers in Cambodia. We missed the jungle camp he set up, though. And the hit on the president was nowhere on our radar."

  “I think it was meant to be a distraction.”

  “Maybe.”

  “No, think about it. It’s too convenient for the gold to arrive just before the president. If you have a threat against the president, everyone is looking over there while you’re stealing gold on the other side of the airport.”

  Jason could see Sugarmann contemplating his analysis. “The date for the president’s arrival was scheduled months ago. His arrival date was most likely announced within the last week. It would take nothing to bribe someone in the Thai airport system to find the exact time of Air Force One’s arrival. With that information, you simply file the flight plan for the jet to deliver the IMF’s gold just prior to the president landing.”

  Sugarmann pulled up to the sidewalk in front of the Landmark Hotel. “So, you think this Sterling MacIntosh is in on it?”

  “I don’t know.” Jason grimaced. “He sure knows a lot about Maison. And even more about Helena De Vries.”

  “Hey, looky there.”

  Jason looked toward the lobby. A light-blue van with a white top parked by the front door and five Caucasian men hustled toward it. They accompanied a woman and a little girl. Only they weren't accompanying them. They were carrying them. Jason recognized them at once.

  Lawan and Preeda?

  Two men held Lawan by her upper arms. She struggled against them without trying to make a scene. Because the two men in front of her held Preeda the same way, only her feet scurried like pedaling a bicycle, two feet off the ground.

  “We’ve got to stop them,” Jason said, climbing out of the car.

  “Wait,” Sugarmann said. “You won’t reach them in time. Let’s follow them.”

  No sooner than Jason stopped then the van door slammed shut and the vehicle peeled away from the hotel. Jason hopped into the car, slamming the car door, and Sugarmann threw it in gear.

  “Who are those guys? They’re not locals. They’re all white guys.”

  “I’m afraid things are about to get a lot worse,” Sugarmann said. “I recognized one of them. He’s the Chechen who’s been selling arms to Andrepont.

  65

  October 18, 2003

  Jason and Sugarmann followed the Chechen’s van through the dark streets of Bangkok, to an abandoned warehouse on the east side of the city. The building stood three stories tall, isolated away from the road. Around the top of the warehouse, just below the roof, a row of windows ran around the circumference of the building. The yellow glow in the middle indicated someone was inside. The light-blue-and-white van turned off its headlights as it entered the darkened gate and drove across the empty parking lot straight to the front door, about a hundred yards away.

  Sugarmann hung up his phone with his contact with and stopped short of the gate. He turned his lights off and backed up to hide the car behind the building on the corner.

 
; “Why are they bringing them here? We’ve gotta get them out of there.”

  “I say we move in on foot,” Sugarmann said.

  “Okay. What next?”

  Sugarmann reached up and pulled the bulb out of the interior light of the car. “We go snooping,” he replied.

  The two climbed out of the car and peered around the corner of the building. Light outlined the edges of the painted windows of the warehouse, casting broad shadows across the ground on either side of the warehouse. The men pulled Lawan and Preeda out of the car and walked them inside through a door in the center of the building.

  They edged their way to the gate. About 150 yards away stood the warehouse. Jason looked at Sugarmann, who gave an approving nod, and the two scurried through the gate toward the shadows. The starless night concealed their movement. He reached the shadows quickly, but the elder CIA man struggled to keep up.

  Jason paused and knelt, waiting for the portly CIA man to catch up. “You all right?”

  “Yeah. I’m not thirty anymore. Slow it down some. We don’t want to alert anyone with my heavy breathing. Let’s go this way,” he said, pointing toward the end of the warehouse. “We don’t want to walk into the same door they did. Maybe there’s another entrance.”

  “Okay.”

  Jason slowed his pace. They crept to the warehouse, hugging the wall. The stillness in the air made Jason uncomfortable. Jason tried the door at the end of the building. Locked. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a five-piece lock-pick set. Maneuvering the tension tool in the keyhole, he slid the pick in the opening. After a few strokes, the tumblers clicked, and the door opened.

  “You’re an interesting guy,” Sugarmann said.

  Jason smiled at the comment. “I have my hobbies. Follow me.”

  “I’m CIA. Don’t you think I should lead the way?”

  Jason picked up the sarcasm in the old man’s voice. “No.”

  The two men stepped into a dark room. Any ambient light from outside no longer existed, making the blackness they traveled in deeper, the farther they went. Jason pulled out a small finger light and strapped it to his left index finger. He punched the end, and a green beam illuminated their small space.