by Sam Powers
“I called your office and said “just tell him I have urgent information on the Apsonsi.”
“So… you lied.”
“Possibly. It depends if anything I know is useful or not, I guess.”
“You were supposed to be on another plane by now. What happened to Mr. Liersch?”
“Yeah… he took it upon himself to go wandering, I guess. Hell of a thing, that.”
“I could’ve left you to that snake bite, you know.”
“Yeah, but we both know that’s not the kind of guy you are, Walter. You’re more a ‘do the right thing’ type. It’s why I like you. It’s why I want to help you.”
“Joe, for the love of God, man… I have things under control, all right? Your situation is good. There’s nothing official being noted against you, despite the colonel.”
“Despite!? The man was a drug dealing, weapon selling, people-smuggling pimp. You’re going to have a hard time convincing anyone rational that he was a loss.”
“Again, you’re confusing morality with doing my duty. When people do that, things go off the rails. Larry never should have dragged you into this…”
“Like you said, Larry was exactly who he appeared to be…”
“A nice guy…”
“Yeah.”
“And one of the Agency’s most veteran Asian undercover hands.”
Brennan was silent for a moment. It appeared Nguyen had been one of the man’s motivating factors, Lang thought. Maybe now…
“You’re full of shit,” the younger man suggested. “He was just a photojournalist…”
“No. She wasn’t lying to you about him. I’m sorry for misleading you,” Lang replied. “I was planning on approaching you in Pattaya; I didn’t expect you to head up country. But when you did, Larry thought it would be smart to see how you handled finding your friend.”
“You expect me to believe you didn’t know she was also…”
“I didn’t. Whether you believe me or not doesn’t change that,” Lang said. “Joe, this game can get exactly as dirty as you expect. The people near the top, they’re always there for the benefit of their moral ambivalence; when hard decisions need to be made, they will make them, even if it hurts people.”
“Yeah… no argument.”
“Sometimes, that’s a good thing. Often, it’s not, because despite their arrogance and the value people place in fame, wealth, even accomplishment, none of them guarantees intelligence. All of these things can be obtained by people who are not particularly bright, or realistic, or -- due to their insular wealth-driven confidence – respectful of other people and their abilities. And those are the people who fight to lead. The very arrogance that makes them think they should provide the solutions also guarantees that much of the time, they will fuck it up.”
“What does that mean to us?”
“It means the more we stick to tried-and-true process, to what we know works and benefits others – to protocol and review – the more we mitigate that arrogance and those poor decisions. We need to work together, or nothing works at all. And that doesn’t come from the top. It comes from the average person who gives a damn, who shows up when people need them and says ‘what can I offer?’ That’s what I’m trying to live up to every day. Now, I have this situation locked down, under control. Whether it’s tonight, or tomorrow, or whether I have to wait until next week, The Apsonsi will go down.”
Brennan was silent, and Lang wondered what he was going through; he obviously took his responsibilities incredibly seriously, which was a good thing. He also didn’t seem able to drop it and take orders, which really wasn’t. Maybe his resentment about his friend’s death in the SEALs had soured him to a command structure. It wasn’t the primary concern for the kind of player they’d expect to spend nearly all of his time undercover. But it would be an issue eventually, perhaps when it mattered most that he retain control.
“So… they’re going to give you backup, resources, eyes in the sky, that kind of thing?” Brennan asked.
“Not in this case. Like I said, it’s my mess to clean up…”
“But… what about what you just said? What about ‘we need to work together’? What about us each asking what we can offer? Where does my contribution fit in there?”
“Look… we can keep going over this, but it’s not going to change anything. Get on a plane, Joe. Go home.”
Brennan sighed loudly. “Okay. Alright. But… just tell me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Where are you right now?”
Lang shook his head with disappointment… and ended the call.
***
Brennan looked at the flip phone and smiled, then clicked it closed and put it into his jeans pocket.
The restaurant was busy with mid-morning diners, most from the region, the odd foreigner sticking out by height more than anything. It was a big room, with big round tables, bamboo wall hangings and multiple fans.
Each side of the restaurant was open to the street outdoors via giant wall shutters, not that the din outside made it much louder than the din inside. Brennan had already eaten, a curry with some tea. The waitress came around and said something that seemed disapproving, but he couldn’t make it out. Then she poured him another tea and hustled off.
His lunch guest arrived a few moments later. Herbert Volkker was sweating profusely in the city heat, his white dress shirt sticking to him, his tie knot loosened; but the man not giving up his brown suit jacket, nonetheless. He had an attaché case in one hand and he scanned the room nervously as he walked in, spotting Brennan and heading his way.
“Mr. Brennan. I was most surprised to get your call…”
“Yeah…” Brennan stood up and shook the man’s hand. “Grab a bench there, Herb. Have you eaten?”
“Regrettably, I do not have much time, Mr. Brennan. Perhaps…” he sat down and removed his jacket. “…Oh! Meine schmerzenden füse… My apologies, my arches are quite painful right now… Perhaps you could express to me what you wish to discuss. My offer from Pattaya is still very much in the open.”
“And that’s why I’m here. I’d like to make you a counteroffer, Mr. Volkker.”
“Yes?”
“Your company, you have resources here in Bangkok?”
“We maintain one of our Asian offices here, correct.”
“Good. That’s good. I’m not going to accept your offer, Herb, not outright. What I will do is offer you a trade.”
“I… am not so certain that I understand…”
“You want me to handle dangerous tasks, things your rank-and-file recruits aren’t likely to pull off. I have no problem with that… with conditions. And I want something in exchange, on top of double whatever you pay contractors typically.”
“Double…”
“On top of that. I want you to loan me some gear for a couple of days, Herb. In exchange, I’ll agree to up to five assignments for your firm, no more than one per year, over the next five years. You will agree to pay me double the going rate as determined by other payouts in that calendar and… this is extremely important… I get to turn down anything I find morally odious. And…”
“And?”
“I won’t take any assignment that threatens the United States or its interests.”
Volkker looked disappointed. “That… is an awfully large list of conditions given the type of work…”
“Take it or leave it. You either have immoral scumbags who are dangerous to others and need wacked, or you find some other chucklehead to handle it.”
The German shrugged. “Then we will most assuredly take it. Don’t underestimate our broader interest in your abilities, Mr. Brennan. This could blossom into a permanent arrangement, yah?”
“It could,” Brennan said, taking a sip of tea. “But I wouldn’t count your knockwurst before it’s sliced, Herb. Some guys think being a Merc is the shit. I just think it’s shit. Now, join me in a cup of tea, at least?”
Herb nodded gratefully. “Yah, sure why not? As
I mentioned, my feet do ache so. If you do not mind my asking: for what purpose… the equipment you mentioned?”
“Oh, yeah, that. You know how it is, pal: breakups can be a bitch.”
***
SakCorp’s offices were depressingly impressive, Lang thought. In his romanticized mind’s eye, an import-export business was a seedy joint with lots of crates, each marked with a destination in stenciled black paint.
Instead, the front doors opened to up-and-down steps. The stairs up, in turn, led to double glass doors with the corporate logo in white stencil. Just inside the doors, a receptionist greeted visitors while taking calls on a headset. She looked up at Lang and smiled as he entered, finishing the call and fixing her attention on him. “Mr. Spencer?”
“Yes. I have a ten o’clock with Mr. Saengdaedkongdekchlad.” It had taken him nearly an hour of practice to figure out “sang-dad-kun-dek-cha-lad” smoothly. He wondered if he’d still be able to pronounce it without reference in twenty-four hours.
If the receptionist was impressed by his practice, she didn’t show it. “He’ll meet you in the third office on your right on the north side of the central square,” she said in British-enunciated English. “Go right ahead down this hallway, across the square, and you won’t miss it.”
He followed a narrow corridor past perfunctory glass-fronted offices, each a desk, a couple of chairs for guests, a computer. There were family photos and some minimal decoration, but each was otherwise the same. It could have been any financial services company. At the end of the corridor, three steps led down to a square central mezzanine with entrances to other corridors on each side. A handful of broad steps descended to a courtyard-style relaxation area with benches and fake plants. Above, Lang noticed, the sun was just visible through the glass and the outdoor smog.
The glance up served a second purpose, giving him a chance to look around surreptitiously. There were cameras all over the place, which was a shame; the mezzanine would’ve been a good place to plant ears.
He crossed to the other side and climbed the steps to the north corridor. An envelope-sized metal sign on the wall said “external relations” in both Thai and English. Another said ‘executive offices, with an arrow pointing toward the far end of the hall.
Saengdaedkongdekchlad walked out of his office and spotted Lang. The Thai businessman had a dark navy suit on and wire-rimmed glasses. He was older, and wore a serious expression. “Mr. Spencer, my apologies for not meeting you at reception, I was… momentarily delayed. Please, follow me to my office and we shall chat.”
The corridor was narrow and he led Lang toward his office door.
If he was lucky, the agency man thought, the Thai public relations man would let something slip, something that would narrow down his best options for isolating Amanda Sạkdi̒s̄ithṭhi̒ and completing the objective. If he could keep the discussions centered around her leadership and whether she favored working with a select series of American companies, he could throw in the odd question about her nature, her habits, her proclivities. Anything that would loosen the man’s tongue. If that went nowhere, he’d try to assess the man himself, whether he was vulnerable to bribery, whether for that bribery he would arrange a meeting with her.
But he knew he had to be careful, keep everything reasonably serious and professional, play the part of the information broker, the man selling them on his American clients. The middleman.
Isolating her was important, he’d decided, to minimize collateral risk. She nearly always travelled with at least two bodyguards and taking them out of the equation meant he could handle things quietly. The woman didn’t seem to pose any real threat herself, and as far as the Agency’s file was concerned, she would have had little chance to learn self-defense during her pampered American childhood, or at the private girls’ school. She featured in Thai media from college on, and there was never a mention of such. Figuring out how to handle the deed, then, was more convenience than any other factor. He wouldn’t isolate her without multiple escape routes of his own.
Saengdaedkongdekchlad waved a hand to show him in, and Lang gave him a friendly nod as he walked past him and into the office. It was small, again, and the two chairs looked outdated, with garish orange-red-rust cushions.
That was the last thing Lang remembered before he was struck from behind, falling deep into the unconscious darkness.
***
As well as the morning had gone, things had suddenly stalled. After arranging to borrow a vehicle and some gear from Volkker over breakfast, Brennan headed to where he was certain Walter would be running surveillance: the SakCorp Building, Amanda’s head office.
But he was nowhere in sight. He’d gone around the perimeter, checked sightlines for rest areas and cover. He’d gone into the main building and the two beside it, searching for any sign, any suggestion his recruiter was there or had been around.
Out front and across the street, he’d parked himself on a bench, watching the front doors. He figured he’d give it until half-past noon, when most people had gone for lunch. If he hadn’t spotted either Walter or Amanda by then, he’d reassess.
Brennan was irritated; he’d been certain Walter would want to check her business out.
The jeep he’d borrowed from Volkker’s merc boss was parked just down the block. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, supporting his weight, watching both ways down the broad boulevard, as if a situational assessment might make the older man appear more quickly. He glanced down for just the barest moment and almost didn’t notice it.
The matchstick sat just below the front edge of the bench seat. It had been thoroughly chewed. Brennan allowed himself a small smile. He’d either just missed him, or Lang had gone into the building and hadn’t come out yet. It didn’t change his plan to sit there and wait, but it made it feel worthwhile again.
Volkker had come through big time, which was worrisome. He’d doubtless want the first favor sooner than later, and all the navy veteran wanted was to go home. But at least he wouldn’t be walking into trouble empty handed. He wasn’t sure why he found it so important to impress Lang, other than pride. Perhaps it was the man’s serious nature, always on the job, always looking for an advantage.
Or maybe it was because Brennan knew Amanda had used him, twice, and then tried to kill him. Maybe it’s not about the job at all. Maybe I’m just pissed right the Hell off.
Across the road, he heard a faint whirring sound as the door to the underground parking garage rolled open. A few seconds later, a black sport utility vehicle rolled up the ramp and out on the road, followed by a stretch limousine, then another black SUV.
Brennan got up and headed for the Jeep. The convoy was similar to the one at the airport, and that meant at the least, Amanda Sạkdi̒s̄ithṭhi̒ was probably in that limo. Walter was nowhere to be seen. Either way, the former SEAL knew he was along for the ride.
SAMUT PRAKAN, a suburb of Bangkok
Walter Lang’s head still pounded from the concussion, but at least he didn’t feel weak or shaky anymore. He squinted and looked around. He was in an amphitheater, with seating for perhaps five hundred people, maybe a little more, corrugated tin roof and stone steps, old wood bucket seats, their blue paint peeling. The place seemed a century out of place, the concrete columns stained with black mold and decades of dirt.
At the bottom of the tall, sloping steps, it opened to a circus-like performance ring – or in this case, muddy oval swamp, complete with gates at one end so that the performers could enter and exit. Only the gates were a sluice, and the exit was a small tributary of the river that ran through the middle of the property.
And the performers were crocodiles.
The giant reptiles appeared docile, just lounging around the puddles and on the muddy middle island, waiting for showgoers to come and watch their ‘keepers’ taunt them for money.
Lang knew where he was immediately. The SamutPrakarn Crocodile Farm and Zoo was a popular attraction with locals, although internat
ional animal rights groups said the alleged ‘world’s largest’ crocodile farm treated its animals cruelly, starving them, beating them, forcing them to perform human tricks on skateboards and bicycles to avoid pain. The audience, nearly all local, were encouraged to dangle food on strings like fishing lines and taunt the snapping animals from high above, making them jump for the treats then yanking them away at the last second. The few ferocious inhabitants, such as the tigers, were drugged daily to remain docile. Animals were sometimes left injured, uncared for.
It was a nightmare place, the kind of ‘attraction’ that was an embarrassment to the city. But the owner had friends in exceptionally high places, and liked to brag that he knew the King himself.
They’d identified Lang as soon as he’d walked into the SakCorp Building, security on alert for the man who freed Joe Brennan from Somchai Mercedes’ estate.
He’d forgotten about his prior exposure, hadn’t thought that they’d have an image of him. The extraction hadn’t been part of the operational plan, and it had been a long time since Lang took on field work. What was it, five… six years? Colombia and FARC that time. He wondered why he hadn’t figured out yet that staying in D.C. was probably the safest choice.
Lang pulled his arms, but they were firmly secured behind him with what felt like a proper wrist restraint, the plastic reinforced with steel so that he couldn’t twist it. He looked to his right; a small group of people were across the amphitheater, near the northwest corner, discussing something. There were three dark suits, a light one, another dark suit… and a dress he was fairly sure belonged to Amanda Sạkdi̒s̄ithṭhi̒. They were at least thirty yards away, too far to hear anything. Occasionally, one of the men would turn his way slightly and take a nervous glance.
His office knew what Lang was working on, but he knew in turn that that wouldn’t help him. The girl’s family were wealthy and powerful, and officially not criminals. They couldn’t protest officially, as the operation was black, with no Thai approval or input. And that meant that for whatever other reasons she’d dragged her entourage and guests out to the suburbs, Lang had a hunch her intention was to feed him to the locals.