When he reached a thicket of shrubbery, he searched the ground rapidly and saw the dark form sprawled on the grass. It didn’t move.
He knelt beside the man and tried to feel for a pulse on the side of the throat, but his hand came away slippery and wet with blood.
“Come on, Kim!” Gander yelled. “Forget him!”
Leaping to his feet, Kimball circled around the shrubbery, and then the river was before him, the quay softly lit by regularly spaced lampposts.
Among the dozen boats held against the dock, their boat was waiting. Thais had a strange kind of loyalty to strangers who had paid them.
He heard more feet running on a gravel path, and whipped around, raising the automatic.
“Me, Kim!” McEntire called.
They came trotting into the light, and Kimball saw that McEntire and Mabry were carrying Cadwell between them.
“Jesus!”
“In the boat,” Sam Eddy urged.
They leaped from the quay into the longtail boat. Gander and Halek more or less threw Crider aboard, who tripped and fell heavily on his side, then followed him.
“Let’s go,” Kimball yelled to the driver.
His eyes were wide with fear, but he quickly took in all the guns, revved the ratty motor, and pulled out into the current, joining other boats on the move.
Mabry and McEntire helped Cadwell move forward, into the protection of the deck cabin, and Gander prodded Crider with the toe of his cowboy boot, forcing him to follow, scooting along on his knees.
Kimball dropped to the deck next to McEntire, who was examining Cadwell with a small flashlight.
The left shoulder, arm, and side of Cadwell’s blue sport shirt turned a slick black under the light. McEntire ripped the sleeve away.
“Cardsharp?” Kimball asked.
“Not too bad, Kim. Hurts like hell, but I don’t think the slug’s in me.”
“Roll over,” Sam Eddy ordered.
Gritting his teeth, and assisted by Kimball and Mabry, Cadwell rolled onto his side.
McEntire probed with the light and his finger.
“No bullet, Howard,” he said. “Took a chunk out of the back of your arm, and furrowed your back. Bleeding like a stuck hog, however.”
“Damn, thanks, Doc,” Cadwell said.
While Mabry cut up Cadwell’s shirt and used it as a bandage, Kimball checked aft. Jay Halek was sitting next to their boatman, chatting with him, and keeping him on a course up the river.
“What the hell happened, Sam Eddy?”
“We were tying up the first guy, when the second guy popped over for a drink, I guess. He skipped the drink, shot Howard, and disappeared into the dark. I thought the prudent course might be to leave, but we ran into a third guy with a gun. We exchanged pleasantries.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. I think I downed him for good.”
“Kim got one of them, too,” Gander said. “Probably the one who shot Howie. The one called Alan, right, Crider?”
Crider didn’t respond. He was lodged against the cabin wall, his arms still bound behind him, and his boxer shorts bunched up.
Through the open front end of the deckhouse, Kimball could see the river curving to the left. The lights of dozens of watercraft moved with, and opposite, their course. More lights lined the river’s shores.
There were sirens sounding behind them now, converging on the hotel.
Kimball moved over next to Crider.
“What’s your first name, Crider?”
The man pursed his lips.
Kimball was certain that the man’s passport and ID, which Halek had, wouldn’t agree with the truth.
McEntire crawled over next to Kimball and turned his flashlight on the captive’s face.
The close-cropped hair suggested military, and the taut skin of the face, along with the rippling shoulder and arm muscles, indicated a man who was fit and could be dangerous. The cold gray eyes confirmed the impression.
“I’ll tell you what, Crider. I’m running out of both time and patience. I want quick and accurate answers to some questions.”
Under the glare of Sam Eddy’s light, Crider’s lips tightened.
Jay Halek came forward with Crider’s passport and handed it to Kimball. “Take a look at this, Kim. The entry and exit stamps match our stops except for Islamabad.”
Kimball took the blue book, held it under Sam Eddy’s light, and glanced at it. Just looking at the dates brought back the memory of the Alpha Kat exploding from under him. He took the wallet from Halek and scanned through it, found the slip of paper listing phone numbers and times. He shoved both the passport and the wallet in his pocket.
His anger rose proportionately to what he had read, and he didn’t bother disguising it. “Well. Mr. Joseph Brooks, huh. Brooks or Crider, it puts you where I thought you were. You happen to have four million on you? You owe me for a plane.”
“Go to hell,” Crider said.
“That’s all I need,” McEntire said. “Let’s ice him.”
“Fine with me.”
Crider didn’t think they’d do it.
Kimball told him, “I was flying the plane you rigged, Crider. If you think I give a shit about you, think again. I’m going to make my own justice system.”
The hard eyes stared back at him.
But they flickered.
Kimball looked at McEntire, nodded, and they each grabbed one of Crider’s legs and dragged him across the splintery deck out of the deckhouse.
“Stick close to the driver, Jay,” Kimball said.
Halek went aft.
Crider began to struggle, kicking his legs, rolling back and forth on his bound arms.
Kimball gripped the man’s ankle with both hands.
McEntire had a firm grasp on the other ankle. He laughed and said, “Make a wish, Kim.”
They stood up outside the deckhouse, raising Crider upside down, to where he rested on the back of his thick neck.
Spread his legs a little more.
Heaved upward.
Swung his torso outboard and lowered him headfirst into the polluted water of the Chao Phraya.
The leg bucked and fought in Kimball’s hands. He tightened his grip.
“How long, Sam Eddy?”
“Ah, hell, Kim. You messed up my count. Now I’ll have to start over.”
The water tended to drag Crider back alongside the hull of the boat, and Kimball braced his feet against the pull.
The boatman, Halek, Mabry, Gander, and Cadwell, who was raised upward on his good arm, watched the action silently.
“Let’s try now,” McEntire said.
They hauled him inboard, dripping, gagging water.
“Crider?”
“Fuck you!”
Back in the water.
McEntire counted to three hundred this time.
Lifted him out.
Spitting, coughing. A stream of filthy water erupted from his mouth.
“Who you working for?” Kimball asked.
Hacking cough. More water gushing from his mouth.
“Who?”
“Goddamn it, I don’t know.”
“Back over the side,” Sam Eddy said.
“I don’t know, damn it!” There was an edge of hysteria in Crider’s voice. “Hold on! I’d tell you if I knew.”
“Tell me everything you know,” Kimball said.
Crider told them.
It wasn’t much. No names. Phone contacts only.
“How do you make contact?” McEntire asked.
“Numbers and times in my billfold.” He coughed and spit more water.
“What else have you been doing?” Kimball asked.
“That’s it! Nothing else!”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“Asshole! We weren’t trying to hurt anyone. Just the planes.”
Kimball and McEntire stood up, raised Crider’s legs high (he wasn’t fighting as hard now) and started swinging him.
“Goddamn i
t! Henry Loh!”
They dropped him headfirst on the deck, maybe a little harder than necessary.
Henry Loh, according to Wilcox’s information, was the man heading Lon Pot’s little air wing.
“Tell me about Henry Loh.”
Crider told them about the deal for the six Mirages.
“What else did you learn from Henry Loh?”
“He works for Lon Pot.”
“Where is Lon Pot?”
“Here. In Bangkok.”
That was news.
“Got an address?”
Crider gave them one. “It’s near Chinatown, his wife’s place. Half block from Yawaraj Road.”
Kimball left Sam Eddy kneeling over Crider and duck-walked back to where Gander waited with Mabry and Cadwell.
“How you doing, Cardsharp?”
“Hurts like hell, Kim, but as long as it’s hurting, I know I’m all right.”
Kimball handed Gander his Browning. “Jimmy, we’re going to drop you off somewhere along here. All of you. Buy Howard a new shirt. Buy a bottle of whiskey,” he looked back at Crider, “cheap whiskey, and start pouring it in our friend. When he’s nice and drunk, take him back to the airport. Anybody asks, he’s a fellow pilot that got rolled, okay?”
“Gotcha, Kim.”
“If you don’t think you can get through the gate with the guns, ditch them.”
“Where are you going?”
“Sam Eddy and I are going to visit a lady.”
Gander grinned at him. “You single guys just can’t leave it alone, can you?”
A relieved boatman let them off on a dock near Mahachai Road and grinned nervously as Kimball gave him five thousand baht. It was much more than he might have expected, and enough that he wouldn’t want to brag about it.
Kimball and McEntire, who still had one of the pistols, flagged a taxi, bargained a fare, and climbed in.
It took twenty minutes to find the address and another two hundred baht to keep the driver waiting.
The front door was made of steel, but it had a wrought-iron protected window in it. McEntire stood to one side of the door, out of sight, and Kimball, who couldn’t find a doorbell, banged on the door with his fist.
After a few minutes a light came on inside, then a hardened and matured Oriental face appeared in the window and stared out at Kimball. He shook his head negatively, waving Kimball away with his hand.
McEntire stuck the muzzle of the automatic against the glass, aimed in the middle of the man’s face.
He opened the door.
Kimball pushed in, shoving the man aside.
“Lon Pot?”
He knew the name, but he didn’t know English. Shook his head madly.
“Lon Pot?”
More negatives.
“Mai Pot?”
The eyes clicked upward.
“Wait here, Sam Eddy.”
“Happily,” McEntire said, holding the pistol at the ready and roughly pushing the man back into the foyer. He closed the door.
Kimball took the stairs two at a time and reached the landing at the top.
He banged on that door several times.
When it finally opened wide, he was surprised to see a small boy.
Damn it. He didn’t want to be faced by a small boy.
A woman appeared from a hallway, clutching a silken, embroidered robe around her. She moved up behind the boy and put her arm over his shoulder. There was real beauty in her face, despite the touch of fear in her eyes.
“What do you want?” she asked. Her English was stilted, but she obviously recognized him as American.
“I want Lon Pot.”
“He no … is not here. You must go.”
Kimball heard the sickly thunk of metal striking flesh and bone and looked down to the foyer. McEntire had clubbed the Oriental, whose eyes rolled backward as he sagged to the tiles. Sam Eddy now had the gun trained on a second man, motioning him into the foyer from a doorway.
“Getting crowded, Kim,” he called.
“Where is Lon Pot?” Kimball asked the woman. He kept his hands at his sides, trying to dispel her fright.
“Why you want Lon Pot?”
To hell with her fright. “I may kill the man.”
Her hand rose to her mouth.
“Why kill?”
“He killed my parents and brother.”
Her head sagged forward, her chin resting on her chest.
“Can you tell me where to find him?”
She said something to the boy, in what Kimball thought might be Vietnamese, and the boy slipped out from under her arm and ran back into the depths of the apartment.
She raised her head and looked directly into his eyes. There was no fear there, now, just a wicked gleam.
“I tell you where to find Lon Pot.”
Kimball was amazed.
“You make me widow.”
“I’ll damned sure try.”
In her halting English, she described to him a large compound called Fragrant Flower, and she graphically related its location relative to villages, rivers, and roads.
Kimball wondered if Wilcox had had this information.
He didn’t think he’d have to leave Mai Pot and the boy bound and gagged. He thanked her and backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Back down in the entrance hall, just in case the other Asian could understand English, he told McEntire, “Pot’s not here. Come on.”
Together, they raced out the door and into the back of the cab.
McEntire told the driver, “Don Muang. You do it fast, and we’ll double your fare.”
Kimball was shoved off balance into the seat as the cab whipped a U-turn and headed out of the alley.
When he got himself upright, he leaned over the back of the front seat and told the driver, “We want to make a stop at the central post office.”
The man nodded vigorously.
“Forget to mail your postcards?” Sam Eddy asked.
“Forgot to call home,” Kimball said. “The international telecommunications center is next door.”
It was nearly three in the morning when Kimball picked up a phone and got the AT&T operator. He used his credit card and long distance information to make his call.
“Central Intelligence Agency.”
“I want the Deputy Director of Operations.” Kimball didn’t even know his name, but he was certain the man knew as much as Wilcox knew.
“I’m sorry, sir, but —”
“It’s three o’clock in the afternoon there. You can find him somewhere. Just tell him it’s Bryce Kimball.” It took nearly eight minutes to run him down.
*
At nine minutes after nine o’clock at night, Brock Dixon picked up the public telephone after its first ring.
He looked around the mall, but didn’t see anything suspicious. He turned back to face the wall, pushing himself close between the short partitions separating the four telephones.
“Yeah, Crider?”
“Wrong party. This is Bryce Kimball.”
Dixon nearly dropped the phone. What the hell?
“Who? What are you … ?”
“I don’t know who you are, asshole, and I don’t know where you are, but it doesn’t matter.”
“Listen, goddamn it!”
“You listen. Take a look around. I’m sure you’ll see someone you recognize.”
Kimball hung up on him.
Dixon was afraid to turn around. He replaced the receiver, took a deep breath, and rotated slowly.
In the sparse crowd moving along the central atrium of the mall, he didn’t see anyone who …
There.
Ted Simonson.
He stood near a planter full of tall greenery, just looking at him, nodding slightly.
Dixon started walking in the opposite direction.
Two men rose from a bench and began to close on him.
He turned around and started the other way.
Two more men emerged
from the entrance to Sears.
And Ted Simonson kept nodding.
*
Lon Pot emerged from the master suite, stood for a moment on the balcony, and then descended the stairs.
He tried so hard to appear regal, Henry Loh thought. He and Dao Van Luong stood as the Prince approached them across the soft plushness of the white carpet.
“Well,” Pot demanded.
He thought he was managing the coup, but all he had done in the hours since he returned to Fragrant Flower was to ask questions of Dao or Loh, wanting to know if the orders they had formulated had been carried out.
Dao said, “I have just talked to Vol Soon. The army is prepared, Prince.”
“Chao is ready, also,” Loh said. “He has been in contact with Colonel Mauk. Beginning at four o’clock in the morning, the country is yours.”
Pot almost smiled. “And this American? Kimball?”
“Their aircraft are quarantined at Don Muang. They are no longer a threat,” Loh said. “We flew air defense last night, but there was no attack on any of your facilities, Prince.”
“Suppose the airplanes are released. What then?”
Loh smiled. “They are no longer stealth aircraft, though their pilots do not know that. We will keep an air cover near Shan Base and here. If, by any chance, the Alpha Kats come, they will not last long.”
“Who is flying this air cover?” Pot asked.
“Two of the pilots from Switzer’s squadron.”
“No. You will fly it. And you will use all of the Third Squadron’s aircraft.”
The man was becoming paranoid, Loh thought, but he would not argue. If the Americans came, he would achieve his goal of becoming an ace very easily.
“Very well, Prince. I will issue the necessary orders. At 3:30 A.M., Pyotr will launch his aircraft from here and fly the intimidation patrols to the south. At the same time, Switzer will take the new Mirages and fly the north and coast patrols. I will assume command of Kao Chung’s squadron, and we will maintain a twenty-four-hour air defense of Shan Base and Fragrant Flower.”
“Make it so,” Lon Pot said.
His broken teeth marred his smile, but he was happy because he had finally made a decision.
*
Susan McEntire called at six o’clock.
Kimball and Sam Eddy were devouring a large platter of hamburgers and French fries in their room, chasing them with Classic Coke.
McEntire lifted the phone off its cradle and handed it to Kimball.
Alpha Kat Page 29
