The Guest of Honor

by Irving Wallace

  Underwood watched briefly and looked at Has-ken.

  “What do you think, Hy?”

  “If he actually has those three names, it could be the lead we need.”

  “That was a smart idea, interviewing Den’s friends.”

  Hasken grinned. “In years of investigative reporting, I’ve learned that kids often observe more than grown-ups. They have been some of my best sources.”

  They continued watching Muchizuki in his glass enclosure, and they could see him making a few notes.

  It was ten minutes longer before he emerged carrying a piece of notepaper.

  He handed the slip of paper to Hasken. To Underwood he said, “Those are the names. Mr. Suraphong, who is employed by the Tourism Authority of Lampang, on Khong Road. Then, Mr. Prayoon, who owns a store called Imported Thai Jewelry, which is in the Loei Mall. Finally, Mr. Ratanadilak. I have no business for him, but his address is the Mai Sal Apartments. That’s on Tassman Road. They all bought and used wire-spoked wheels on their Mercedes sedans. I hope this is useful for you.”

  Leaving for the rear parking lot, Underwood asked Hasken for the map of Visaka he had used in Noy’s office. Hasken took the map out of his jacket pocket, and turned it over to Chalie.

  Opening the map, finding a pen, Chalie marked the spot where they were. Then he found and marked the areas where Suraphong, Prayoon, and Ratanadilak might be found.

  Underwood took the map. “Chalie,” he said, “drop Toni back at the school, then you and Den go back to Chamadin Palace in case Noy is heard from again. Hy Hasken and I will check out our leads.”

  “Very well,” said Chalie, leading the boys back to the Mercedes.

  Underwood turned to Hasken. “Now let’s start on these three names. Let’s begin with Suraphong, the tourist fellow.”

  Hasken opened the door of the Volvo. “Off we go,” he said, “and let the gods be with us.”

  The gods were not with them on their first two calls.

  It took an hour to make the calls. Mr. Suraphong, a clerical type, left the Tourism Authority offices to proudly show them the spokes on the wheels of his cream-colored Mercedes. He had papers to prove it had always been cream-colored, never black, and intensive questioning made it clear he knew not a thing about politics, least of all about Noy.

  Mr. Prayoon left the jewelry import shop in his wife’s hands as he brought Hasken and Underwood out to his parking area to reveal to them his crimson Mercedes with its spoked wheels. He was even less knowledgeable about politics than Mr. Suraphong, and while he’d heard Noy’s name, he had no idea if she would run for election, and didn’t very much care.

  “Discouraging,” Underwood told Hasken as they remained outside. “There’s just the one with the crazy name.”

  “Ratanadilak,” murmured Hasken, staring at the name of the one on the note-pad piece of paper the repairman had written on. “I don’t know why it sounds familiar to me.”

  “It does?”

  “Yes. You know, I’d like to get to a phone and ring Chamadin Palace. I’d like Marsop to check it out. Let’s use the telephone in the jewelry store.”

  Presently Hasken was on the phone and speaking to Marsop. There was a wait while Marsop, on the other end, apparently checked out the name. When Marsop came back to the phone, Hasken listened, and broke into a broad smile.

  Hasken gripped the president by the arm and led him outside. “I think I may have it, Mr. President,” he said with an air of excitement.

  “Ratanadilak?”

  “Yes. I thought I’d seen it before on a press roster. He’s a major in the Lampang army. He’s an aide to Colonel Chavalit, and Chavalit is an assistant to General Nakorn.” Hasken’s excitement mounted. “I think we’ve nailed our kidnapper. The Mai Sai Apartments on Tassman Road. I’ll bet that’s where they’ve got Noy. And I’ll bet there’s a black Mercedes sedan there with wire-spoked wheels. Let’s go.”

  Underwood did not move. There was a troubled expression on his face. “Hold it,” he said. “I’m not sure I want to move in on them with this whole crowd of Secret Service. It could scare them off, and if there’s lots of gunfire, Noy could get herself killed.”

  “Well, what do you want to do?”

  “Have a word with the director of the Secret Service, with Frank Lucas.”

  President Underwood beckoned Lucas and drew him aside.

  “Frank,” said the president, “I want you to do me a favor.”

  “Name it.”

  “You know there’s been some trouble over Noy…”

  “The woman you were with in Washington.”

  “The one. She’s president of Lampang.”

  “I know that, of course.”

  “She’s been abducted.”

  “I gathered that, also,” Lucas interrupted. “I’ve had my ears open.”

  “Hasken and I have an idea where she is,” Underwood went on. “We want to get her out of there as nonviolently as possible. The people who are holding her may give her up when they learn who I am, and that I’ve come to get her.”

  “They may not, Mr. President.”

  “In any event, I can’t have you at my heels. The crowd of you may scare her captors and they may do her harm, or worse. Hasken and I have to do this alone.”

  “I can’t allow you to take such a risk.”

  “You must. Make believe I’m Harry Truman. That’s my command. He used to go it alone, and I must—this once. Frank, I’m dealing with a personal matter, not a presidential one. You need not be far behind, but you must remain out of sight. I think you can take a position four or five blocks behind Hasken and me. That would at least be a precaution.”

  Lucas’s reluctance remained. “Forgive me, Mr. President, but the secretary of the treasury will have my ass if he ever learns about this.”

  Underwood dismissed the fear. “Never mind. I’d fire him before he could fire you. I’m still the president.”

  Lucas considered what the president had been saying. “Well, if you say so.”

  “I say so.”

  Lucas nodded. “You’ll need a means of electronic communication, same as the agents on the detail have, so you can really call us if things get rough. Hold on.”

  The director of the Secret Service strode over to one of his agents. When he returned to Underwood he had a tiny radio transmitter in his hand. “This is a wire top,” he explained. “A tiny radio transmitter powered by a miniature battery. You can hook it onto your belt. If you need help, press the button here. It will send an RF signal to this receiver in my ear. It’ll give off a vibration. If I should hear it, I’ll be on the run with all of us.”

  “Thanks, Frank,” the president said, attaching the wire top to his belt.

  Lucas had bent down, lifted a trouser leg, and unstrapped something. He held it up. It was a holster packed with a gun. “A Smith and Wesson .66,” Lucas explained. “Each of us is equipped with two weapons. An Israeli-made Uzi submachine gun under our jackets, and small arms, usually this Smith and Wesson or a Sig Sauer P-226 strapped somewhere else, often to our legs.” He handed the gun to Underwood. “If you’re doing something so foolish, you ought to do something else that is just as foolish. Put this gun in your pocket. God, I never dreamt I’d see the day when I was arming the president of the United States. You’re sure you’d fire the secretary of the treasury before he bounced me?”

  Underwood held the Smith and Wesson. “Never mind. You’ll never be fired. Show me how to use this gun.”

  Lucas showed him.

  President Underwood pocketed the gun.

  “I guess I’m set.”

  “One bit of advice,” Lucas said. “In a situation like this, don’t use the gun to threaten anyone else.” He paused. “If there’s real danger, use the wire top on your belt. Only if you must—shoot right back.”

  They were a block away on Tassman Road when Hasken squinted through the windshield of his Volvo and said quietly to President Underwood, “I see it.”

&nbs
p; Underwood leaned forward and followed his gaze, and then nodded. “I see it, too.”

  On the far corner was the five-story white stucco building bearing a black and red sign that read MAI SAI APARTMENTS.

  “Let me park here,” Hasken said. “We can walk the rest of the way and scout it out.”

  Parking alongside the curb, they both left the car, and side by side started walking toward the apartment building.

  “What do we do next?” said Underwood.

  “I want to go to the entrance and check the mailboxes,” Hasken said. “I want to be sure that Ratanadilak’s apartment is the corner one on the second floor.”

  “What if he used another name?”

  “Why should he? It’s his own apartment, I’m sure.”

  They were nearing the Mai Sai building.

  “I’m afraid of one thing,” said Underwood. “That they may spot us and make a run for it to another hideout with Noy. Do you think they’ll see us?”

  “You can be sure they will. They’ll be on the lookout for anyone strange. Someone will be watching from the apartment window or down in the street. They’ll know who we are, too. Mr. President, you haven’t exactly an unrecognizable face, even in Lampang.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on,” said Underwood. “That knowing who I am, they won’t risk harming us. I expect them to be impressed enough to let Noy go.”

  “Forget it,” Hasken said curtly. “You’re not going to get a chance to talk to them. That’s a foolish idea, if I must say so. These are desperate thugs acting under orders. They don’t give a damn who you are. They want Noy and her concession on television. Once they spot us, they may fire at us—but more likely, instead of creating all that commotion and attention, I’m positive they’ll make a run for it. They must have a fallback plan.” He glanced at the president. “Maybe we should use our own first fallback plan right now and summon the Secret Service.”

  Underwood was adamantly opposed to it. “That’s sure to mean a gun battle. Noy could be hurt or even killed. I won’t risk that.”

  They had covered the block and slowed down.

  Hasken looked over his shoulder, down the intersecting street, and Underwood did so, too. They saw a shabby street-vendor selling ripe fruit. There was a woman lounging behind the wheel of a parked Ford. There was a teenager lolling against a lamppost, smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper.

  “One of them’s a lookout,” Hasken whispered. “We’ll have to move fast. You’d better take over the entrance and examine the mailboxes for the apartment number. I’ll go around the building to see if there’s a back staircase, or a fire escape. Stand by for me at the entrance. Let’s move normally, but fast.”

  Together, trying to be casual but going swiftly, they crossed the street. Underwood went up the front steps toward the mailboxes as Hasken kept going past the building and around it.

  Underwood had reached the mailboxes. He scanned them, and there was the one he wanted on the second floor: RATANADILAK—204.

  He concentrated on it, really stalling for time, wondering what to do, and at the same time wondering how Hasken had fared in the rear. As he stood transfixed, he heard footsteps. He whirled around to see Hasken coming fast toward him.

  “There’s a fire escape in the back, and I’m sure a corridor that leads to it from their apartment,” said Hasken breathlessly. “One of them just poked his head out to see if the coast was clear. That means others are still in the apartment, and they’re going to make a run for it.”

  Before Underwood could respond, he saw an older woman with a bundle of laundry coming out of the front door. “Let’s keep the door open,” he said to Hasken. “We can’t use the buzzer. We can just go in as the woman leaves.”

  The woman had pushed the door wide, and Underwood held it open for her to leave, and then Hasken rushed inside with Underwood right behind him. As they dashed to the staircase, Hasken called out, “We’ll break down the front door and maybe catch some of them inside. This is the time to contact the Secret Service for help. This is the moment, or it may be too late.”

  Underwood reached down to the wire top attached to his belt, then pressed the button, giving Frank Lucas the emergency signal, and with his free hand he yanked the Smith and Wesson from his pocket.

  Together they raced from the ground floor to the first floor two steps at a time, and then swung up to the second floor. A corridor sign pointed to apartment 204.

  Hasken was on the run with the president a step behind him.

  At 204, Hasken gasped, “Let’s hit the door together and bust the lock. Do you have a gun?” Underwood displayed it.

  “Good!” exclaimed Hasken. “You’d better be prepared to use it!”

  As one they stepped back, each with a shoulder in front of him.

  “Go!” shouted Hasken.

  They smashed against the front door simultaneously. There was a metallic explosion as the lock snapped open and broke, and they flung the door free to enter the living room of the apartment.

  They saw two of the soldiers hurrying through a second door into the corridor. A third soldier crowded behind them, and the fourth one, a hefty character who Underwood guessed would be Major Ratanadilak, had a gun out and was holding it against the side of Noy’s head.

  The crashing of the door and the bursting into the room by Underwood and Hasken froze the major and then diverted him. He whipped his gun away from Noy’s temple and aimed it at Underwood, just as the president dropped down to one knee.

  Ratanadilak’s bullet grazed the president, and in that split second Underwood remembered the Secret Service director’s advice. Only if you must—shoot right back.

  Taking aim, the president was ready to shoot right back.

  He saw that Noy was momentarily free, cringing against the wall, and he saw that the major was preparing to fire a second time.

  Praying that he would not miss the officer and hit Noy instead, Underwood held his arm stiff, curled his finger against the trigger of the Smith and Wesson, and pulled it hard.

  The report was a handclap in his ear, and then he saw Ratanadilak drop his gun, clutch his chest, and slowly crumple to his knees. Hasken crawled and then dove to retrieve the officer’s gun, and Underwood leaped forward with his own weapon and pressed it against the major’s forehead.

  “You bastard!” Underwood yelled. “You tell me who made you kidnap her or I’ll blow your brains out!”

  Choking, still clutching at the wound in his chest, Ratanadilak was able to gargle one word. “N-N-Nakorn,” he gasped.

  There was a second outburst of shooting, and then the other captors came backing into the living room with their hands up.

  Pushing in after them, guns held high, was Director Frank Lucas and half his Secret Service team.

  Underwood knew that they were safe at last, and then and only then did he reach out for the trembling Noy, and bring her into his arms, and hold her tightly, kissing her and kissing her again.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  President Underwood and Hy Hasken drove Noy Sang back to Chamadin Palace in the newscaster’s rented car.

  At the door, Noy took Underwood’s hand. “Matt, come and have dinner with us tonight. You can move your things over from the hotel, sleep in a guest room, and be up as early as you wish to catch Air Force One to Washington in the morning.”

  “Accepted,” said Underwood.

  “Around eight,” said Noy, and then she left them.

  Underwood and Hasken drove in silence back to the Oriental Hotel.

  Arriving there, the president shook Hasken’s hand. “You were brilliant, and I want to thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” said Hasken. “See you in Washington.”

  “You’ll see me a good deal before then. Meet me at Muang Airport tomorrow morning at ten when I’ll be taking off. I want you to come along with me. We can hash over a few things.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  As Hasken drove off to return h
is rented car, Underwood went into the hotel and up to his suite. There his valet helped him repack his effects.

  When they were ready, a limousine that Marsop had provided was waiting for them.

  It was seven forty-five when the valet carried Underwood’s bags up to the guest bedroom before leaving to find himself a place to sleep in the staff’s quarters.

  Underwood was in Noy’s office when she appeared, brightly dressed for dinner. She went to Underwood, and hugged and kissed him. “The doctor gave me a clean bill of health,” she said. “Matt, would you mind waiting a bit? I have two items on my agenda that I must dispose of before dinner.”

  Wondering what they were, President Underwood took a seat on the sofa.

  Noy swung toward her desk chair, slipped into it, and buzzed her secretary. “You can tell Marsop to come in.”

  Marsop appeared, and he was smiling. “I’ve taken care of the television stations. I’ve cancelled my scheduled appearance on your behalf. You are not conceding the election. You are still very much a candidate.”

  “I’d say I am,” said Noy. “Did you bring our old friend here?”

  “General Saniak Nakorn is in the outer office under heavy guard.”

  “Good. Be sure he has been disarmed, then send him in. Leave the guards outside.”

  After Marsop had left, Noy remained at her desk, winked at Underwood, and said, “Now the general’s sentence.”

  Moments later the side door opened and General Nakorn came in alone. He was in full uniform, his chest glistening with medals. He gave Underwood a glance, then walked woodenly to a spot before Noy’s desk.

  Nakorn saluted her, and seemed to indicate he wanted to sit.

  Noy did not permit him to sit. She had him remain on his feet, militarily stiff and erect.

  Noy spoke. “This is your trial, General,” she said, “and I am judge and jury. It will not last a minute, so you can remain standing.”

  “I was not responsible,” said Nakorn.

  “This is on your word?”

  “My word is good enough.”

  “I have others’ words against you, and better, witnesses to prove you were responsible,” said Noy. “I have your major, who is now in the hospital and will survive to speak against you if he has to again. I now have a confession from Colonel Chavalit. I have the other three persons who held me in the apartment. You have no case. I am personally going to sentence you.”