The Assassin on the Bangkok Express

by Roland Perry

  ‘Chase them!’ Cortez ordered as the two figures could be seen scurrying along platform 9. ‘Take them!’

  Two of the Mexicans propped, fired and missed. Their bullets bounced off the train as the spies stayed close to it. Two of the armed men ran to the end of platform 11. By the time they reached the station exit, the Indonesian couple had hopped on a motorcycle and roared off. The Mexicans fired wildly, narrowly missing people walking home from a nearby nightclub, homeless people lying in streets and startled prostitutes doing late-night deals with customers near the station entrance.

  ‘Do you get them?’ Cortez demanded.

  ‘No,’ one of his deputies said, ‘there were too many people. They were on motorcycles.’

  Cortez looked fit to explode. His men gathered around him like a football team with their coach during a break. They hung their heads, not wishing to make eye contact.

  ‘This means,’ he said, pausing to control himself, ‘somebody is aware of our shipment. You and the others will guard the bullion around the clock. I mean sleep with it!’ He paused to wipe his weeping good eye and temper his outburst. ‘I will see if we can limit the number of stops on the trip.’

  22

  THE SCREENING

  Melody Smith’s American DEA agents staked out the Riverside Condo for twenty hours a day and noted Cavalier’s movements. They arranged video surveillance from a local Thai detective operating in the hours 2 a.m. to 6 a.m. from a van in the car park. Smith had become increasingly nervous about Cavalier’s reluctance to lay out his plans. She did not think for a moment that he would debunk to Brazil with his first tranche payment. Yet she was concerned that she was losing control of the overall operation to apprehend or, under extreme circumstances, liquidate Jose Cortez. Her bosses in Washington were beginning to harass her about the project, in response to her stalling on information while waiting for Cavalier to tell her more.

  At 5.30 p.m. on 23 April the sun was beginning its lazy descent into the mountains and was obscured by an early wet-season torrential downpour. A taxi van pulled up at the condo, among a never-ending stream of tuktuks, cars, red cars, taxis and trucks entering and leaving the condo grounds. In a flurry of movement in the rain that reduced visibility to a few metres, a wheelchair-bound elderly man in a rainhood and coat was being helped into the van. A backpack and suitcase were placed inside it, and the wheelchair was lifted mechanically into the vehicle’s rear. The agents monitoring the condo’s entrances took no notice. Cavalier was more than able-bodied. They had all seen him since early in the morning of the previous day when he had been on a long run and had worked out at the Holiday Inn gym. Late morning, he bought the papers and had coffee at the Chang cafe. At about 7 p.m. he had strolled past the market to a restaurant specialising in duck. An agent doing an overly diligent job had parked himself in a noodle cafe opposite and used a powerful long-range camera to pick up Cavalier’s order. He diligently recorded it as ‘pat pak muan and moo—mixed fried vegetables and pork; water, no alcohol’.

  Cavalier had seemed in no hurry. The agents noted that he stopped to talk to two people, both Thais, on the way back to his apartment. His Harley, a plastic cover over it, was sitting all that day and the next in its usual spot in the bike park in front of the condo facing the Lamphun Road. There was nothing out of the ordinary, the agents reported to a now worried Melody Smith. She tried to contact Cavalier. He wasn’t responding to phone calls, texts or emails, except to send her a text at one point saying: ‘The project has begun. Stand by for more information.’

  This only upset and frustrated Smith even more. She had returned to Bangkok to brief her team without anything new to report. They had to cool their heels at hotels and rented apartments awaiting directives and monitoring the Mexicans, who had dispersed in small groups to apartments on the upmarket Soi 24 off Sukhumvit. Smith and her entourage thought this might signal that they were going to split up in an attempt to leave Thailand by several routes with sections of the bullion.

  Video footage of everyone leaving the condo was sent to Smith’s computer and she and other DEA agents spent hours poring over images fast-forwarding out of the building. No Caucasians looked like him. Blown-up stills of males run against his photo proved not to be Cavalier. Only a few people could not be seen clearly in the video, either from headgear or because of the rain, or both. One was the man in the wheel-chair, who had been helped out into the taxi van.

  On the afternoon of the day after Cavalier left the condo, Smith became suspicious that the man in the chair might be him. Inquiries were made at the condo at 5 p.m.

  Agent 3815 Ralph Bozer reported to her in an email: ‘The condo manager told me that a Frenchman, Monsieur Laurent Blanc, had inherited the wheelchair since an American named Ted Baines had recently died and left it to him, among other personal effects. We have Baines’ lawyer’s number but his firm is closed for the weekend. I asked the condo manager to describe Blanc. He sounded like an elderly version of Cavalier.’

  ‘It must be him,’ Smith said in a phone call to Bozer, ‘but what the heck is he doing in a wheelchair, and where was he going?’

  *

  At 5 p.m. on 24 April, Cavalier paused in his wheelchair under the decorated stained-glass windows at the entrance to platform 11 at Bangkok’s Hua Lamphong station where the Express was parked. He had spent the night in a first-class cabin on the train from Chiang Mai after sending his backpack on by courier to Kanchanaburi, the train’s first stop on the way to Singapore. He wheeled himself to a queue of passengers in the special lounge area next to the platform under the ancient, European-style, steel-arched roof. One by one or couple by couple, and with as much politeness as possible, passengers were called to an office and questioned by the train manager, forty-five-year old Cyril Huloton, and Jacinta, who both sat behind a plain wooden desk.

  The guests were asked to sit down. Huloton, being the manager and official captain of the train for the journey, was in charge. Huloton was short and balding. He sported a grey goatee beard, de rigueur for Frenchmen of his vintage who had lived well enough to develop the beginnings of a second chin, which they wished to cover up. He continually stroked his modest moustache. Jacinta, wearing a light-grey pants suit and white chiffon shirt, looked suitably official, despite her role of escorting the Mexican contingent. Her hair was piled high, which both exposed her magnificent neck and bone structure, and made her look businesslike. Huloton was all busy apology and sweet smiles. He was uncomfortable in a role of mild interrogator and he gushed questions while doing his best not to offend.

  ‘Monsieur, Madame,’ he said to an elderly American couple, Dick Arnold Bowles the Third and his wife Ruby, ‘we see you have come from New York. May I ask what your business is?’

  ‘It sure ain’t terrorism!’ the big man said with a hearty laugh. He sucked on a Cuban cigar. The strong odour pervaded the office.

  ‘I am sure, Monsieur,’ Huloton said wringing his hands, ‘this is just routine. By law now we must be sure of the passengers’ bona fides.’

  ‘I was in construction, Sir, and might I say we appreciate you doing this. We don’t want any undesirables on board either!’ He laughed again, and had trouble keeping his eyes off the stunning, although today understated, Jacinta. He kept looking to her, hoping she would ask a question. Jacinta didn’t have to do any public relations. She would not waste her breath on anyone who was not of interest.

  Finally, she asked: ‘Have you had anything to do with Golden Eagle Constructions?’

  Bowles stiffened.

  ‘Not if I could help it!’ he said with vehemence. ‘They competed with me in Texas. They’re a bad, very bad Mexican outfit. They employed really cheap labour from over the border, with the workers being promised permanent residency in the United States. There are rumours that all the corporation’s base capital was generated in the illegal drugs trade.’

  ‘Have you taken action against them?’

  ‘We were always in the courts over something with tha
t crooked mob,’ he grumbled. ‘They should not be allowed to operate in the States. I hope Donald Trump wins the election and builds that goddam wall he promised. I really do!’

  Jacinta made a note and thanked the couple, who went away muttering to each other.

  ‘I think you upset Monsieur,’ Huloton whispered.

  ‘He was quite hostile about Golden Eagle,’ Jacinta said. ‘So?’

  ‘They are the ultimate paymasters for Cortez and his men.’

  Jacinta scrutinised everyone’s passport and paid attention for the first time to a solid, urbane and tanned Australian of about 60 years, who put down his profession as ‘Western Australian grazier’. He wore a large bush hat that had seen better days and one gold ring on his left hand that seemed far too small for his finger. He had massive forearms and hands, gnarled from decades on the land. He and his thin, regal-looking wife Annie of the same age sat impassively as Jacinta asked, ‘Have you ever been associated with the military?’

  ‘No. I missed the Vietnam War. Too young.’

  ‘Sir, do you use a weapon in your work?’

  ‘All people on the land have to, from time to time.’

  ‘What sort of weapon do you use?’

  ‘I have a twelve-gauge shotgun and a handgun. They are both licensed.’

  ‘Do you have those weapons with you now?’

  ‘No. They are under lock and key back at our homestead.’

  ‘You have to ask me that too,’ Annie said, her voice cultured and pleasant. ‘I am a better shot than my husband. Whenever an animal has to be put down, it is my duty.’

  ‘Er,’ Huloton said, ‘I take it your gun is locked away also?’

  ‘No, it is encased under our bed, fully loaded.’

  ‘Under your bed?’

  ‘In Carnarvon, Western Australia.’

  ‘Oh, pardon.’

  Huloton wiped his brow during this exchange and apologised again, this time for the humidity. Jacinta kept her eyes on ‘Mr Dempster’ and looked down at his gait. He had a slight limp as he walked out of the room.

  The next guests in—Dr Topapan Makanathan and her husband Marc—had both Huloton and Jacinta jumping to their feet and bowing deeply. She was a sparkling, lively-looking woman in her early fifties, with streaks of red and blue in her spiky hair more fitting to a teenager. A strong waft of a dated face powder, with a fruit and lavender fragrance, floated in with her.

  When asked once by an interviewer why she used such an old-fashioned scent, Makanathan had replied: ‘I have to go into sewers and toilets to retrieve body parts in my work. My lovely lavender blocks out the odours better than any perfume.’

  Her face was all keen, sharp intelligence intermingled with infectious grins. Her sixty-five-year-old husband was a quiet, fuzzy-haired string bean with glasses.

  ‘This is a mere formality, you understand, my good doctors,’ Huloton said with another obsequious bow. Looking at Topapan, he added, ‘Everyone in Thailand knows who you are.’

  ‘What a good cover for a terrorist,’ she said with a laugh, causing Huloton to grin inanely for longer than the comment merited.

  ‘We are honoured to have you on board and hope you have a most pleasant trip,’ he said, and motioned for attendants to take the famous lady and her husband to their suite in carriage 16.

  Huloton ran a pen through their names, leant across to Jacinta and remarked: ‘That’s two we don’t have to worry about.’

  ‘It still leaves one hundred and thirty or so to watch,’ Jacinta replied, ‘some closely.’

  23

  THE CHALLENGED

  Huloton was embarrassed with the entrance of the American ‘Edward Blenkiron’. He appeared to have trouble with manoeuvring the heavy chair over a step. Only a train official stopped it from toppling over. Cavalier cursed under his breath as the chair was pushed forward to the table. Huloton asked a question about his wellbeing. Cavalier, wearing his darkened ‘special’ glasses, looked slightly to the left of Huloton, and pretended to be hard of hearing.

  ‘Sir, I do apologise for this routine,’ Huloton said, moving around the table to clasp Cavalier’s hand. Glancing at Jacinta, the Frenchman added, ‘You have poor eyesight?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Er …’ Huloton began raising his voice, ‘we will do everything we can to make your trip comfortable. Is your eyesight not so good?’

  ‘Not the best, no. I need these glasses, you know,’ Cavalier said, his drawl as much like Ted’s as possible, ‘it’s gonna be a race between me goin’ legally blind or bein’ dead!’

  He laughed at his own joke, which brought a wince from Huloton and no expression at all from Jacinta.

  ‘I can see shapes at night but it’s better in the day, mostly,’ Cavalier said more soberly. ‘Depends on the weather and how I feel. We’re all organic, ya know. There are good days and bad ’uns.’

  ‘This is trip is for pleasure?’ Jacinta asked, paying a fraction more attention to him.

  ‘Well I sure hope so, Ma’am,’ Cavalier said, ‘don’t want it to be business or boring. I have promised myself this train trip for twenty-five years since it first started. I’m doing it because, well, frankly, I don’t have long to live and I just wanted to. The mystery of the Far East and all that. I’ve read Conrad and Orwell. Two of my favourite authors.’

  ‘You booked one of the only two presidential suites, specifying carriage 29,’ Jacinta said. ‘Any reason for that?’

  ‘I want to be close to the observation car. Means I don’t have to go so far.’ He paused and turned more towards Jacinta. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘No, no, not at all,’ Huloton said, glaring at Jacinta. ‘It happened to be free. We are gratified that you have taken it.’

  ‘I don’t want to be in the way. These chairs are wonderful but heavy, and barely squeeze down the corridors. I don’t plan to use the dining cars. Afraid I cause too much damned disruption.’

  ‘We will make sure our stewards ’elp you.’

  ‘Nope, won’t be doin’ it.’

  ‘As you are travelling alone sir,’ Huloton remarked, ‘we will make sure you have company at lunch and dinner.’

  ‘Oh, that won’t be necessary, I have my books. If I am not in my suite readin’, I’ll sit in the observation car.’

  ‘Sir, the food is exquisitely French. It is a feature of our train. We have Monsieur Charles Bonnet, the grand chef from Paris’ legendary Hôtel Plaza Athénée, with us now. You will meet the most interesting people.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll have something in the suite,’ Cavalier said with a tilt of his head, ‘Besides, if I am stuck with someone who is not too bright, it is difficult for me to extract myself. I begin to think about the book I’m readin’.’

  ‘Sir, I doubt any of our passengers are stupid. They are mainly accomplished couples, many of them professionals of some sort.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind stupidity. I just have no patience for those who are so inclined and who are proud of it.’

  Huloton looked confused. Jacinta seemed amused by this eccentric comment.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Cavalier added, ‘I am a bit of a curmudgeon.’

  Huloton looked at his watch. The train would be late in taking off if he didn’t conduct the interviews more rapidly. He could see the next two in line. One was a short, stout, bespectacled woman of about fifty-five, wearing a long dress. She was holding the hand of her twenty-six-year-old adopted son, who had Down syndrome and autism. He looked fidgety and concerned.

  ‘Oh, mon Dieu!’ Huloton muttered under his breath. ‘Must we really interrogate them? Clearly they could not be terrorists. It can’t be fair to them and it is a waste of time.’

  Jacinta inclined her head and gave a brief smile.

  ‘There is no handbook for the way a terrorist looks,’ she said. ‘Suicide bombers are taking many guises these days.’

  Huloton groaned and beckoned in the two. Then he turned to Cavalier, thanked him profusely, went through an apology routine
again and called for two attendants to help him board the train.

  Cavalier looked up at the video screen framed in red, white and blue on the side of the front carriage that announced on one line it was La Belle Époque Company. On the second line in capitals it proclaimed: THE BANGKOK EXPRESS, and then on lines 3, 4 and 5 it said:

  To: KANCHANABURI

  MALAYSIA

  SINGAPORE

  No mention was made of the stops at cities in Malaysia. Nor were times for arrivals in Kanchanaburi or Butterworth and Kuala Lumpur posted or in any of the literature and online brochures about the trip. Cavalier was apprehensive, assuming, correctly, that this was for security reasons. He wished he could check with one of his intelligence contacts if there were any alerts about possible attacks. Yet this would have exposed his whereabouts and he knew how fast the networks, occasionally intercepted by foreign agents, would pass around his location, even coordinates.

  Cavalier rested the chair’s motor as they pushed him along the platform beside the train, which was a polished navy blue with white window frames, and two lines of red completing the French and Thai tricolours. They reached carriage 29 at about five hundred metres. Four Thai attendants were needed to lift his wheelchair up the steps and into the carriage. Cavalier, gripping crutches, was hoisted up the steps, eased into his chair and pushed along the narrow, inlaid-wood corridor.

  The carriages were a mix of traditional Chinese decor, Malaysian embroidery and hand-tufted Thai rugs. Cavalier’s suite of a hundred and thirty-five square feet was spacious with a muted, red-maroon colour scheme on walls, a sofa, cushions and twin beds. The low lighting created a romantic ambience. The suite was convertible, becoming a lounge during the day. Cavalier made a point of insisting that the beds should remain in the same configuration all the time.

  ‘I will want to rest up during the day,’ he told the carriage captain as he collapsed his wheelchair with grunts and groans as if it were a tough task for him. ‘I sleep a lot. I don’t want anyone a-knockin’.’