by Ken Goddard
“Yes, I understand completely,” the pilot said, his eyes and body language suggesting he wasn’t the least bit happy with the way the conversation was going, “but I hope you understand as well that I cannot — ”
“Of course, we would expect to pay an additional service fee for all of your trouble,” Younger added, patting his jacket pocket suggestively.
Somehow, Roger Rigley managed to look offended, embarrassed, apologetic, and tempted all at the same time.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” he said firmly, “but what you’re asking is simply impossible.”
“Would it help if we told you that you‘d be assisting us with a matter of some international importance?” Younger added as he placed one of his Interpol business cards on the counter.
The pilot took one look at the card, glanced over at Younger and Bulatt — both of whom nodded somberly — and immediately shook his head, his face turning pale. “Bloody hell, I should have guessed it was something like this. I don’t suppose you men have proper identification?”
The two Interpol officers displayed their badges and credentials.
“All we’re looking for is a name, Mr. Rigley, nothing else,” Bulatt said reassuringly. “We have no reason to ever reveal the source of that information.”
“But I — can’t.”
“Yes, actually, you can,” Younger suggested helpfully. “It’s just a matter of being cooperative; as opposed to not.”
Roger Rigley took in a deep breath. “I believe I know what it means to be cooperative with law enforcement,” he said, an angry glint appearing in his eyes. “God knows I’ve paid more than my fair share to the local gendarmes to keep things flowing smoothly around here.”
Bulatt and Younger both winced, looked at each other, and shook their heads sadly.
“I’m truly sorry you chose to bring that topic into our discussion, Mr. Rigley,” Younger said, his deeply suntanned face shifting into an expression that seemed genuinely sympathetic.
“And you’re going to be even sorrier in a few moments,” Rigley went on heatedly, “because it just so happens that I know a few things about international law. For example, I know that foreign Interpol officers have no actual law enforcement authority in Bangkok or anywhere else in Thailand.” He turned to the mechanic who had already stood up from his desk and was now standing in from of Bulatt and Younger with a broad smile on his face, clenching his large grease-stained fists.
“John, throw their Interpol asses out of here, and don’t be gentle about it, while I call the — ”
The big mechanic started for Bulatt, and then crumbled to the floor unconscious from the impact of a vicious Achara spin kick to the side of his head. Ridley was still staring open-mouthed at Achara when the front door slammed open.
“While you call the police, perhaps?” an audibly furious voice inquired from the doorway.
Roger Rigley’s mouth dropped open and his eyes grew wide in shock.
“Uh, may I help you, officer,” he managed to croak out.
“Yes, you may,” Major Preithat acknowledged as he stepped into the office and made a point of removing a microphone from his ear. “You may start by grounding all of your aircraft based at this facility, and all others now occupying Thai Air Space, which specifically includes your G-Four jet that is now in route from Singapore.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Preithat looked at his watch. “I believe I spoke quite clearly. You have precisely five minutes to obey my order. If you fail to do so, I will direct the Thai Air Force to ground them for you, by whatever means they find necessary and appropriate. Do you understand the meaning of the phrase ‘necessary and appropriate’?”
“But — ”
Preithat looked at his watch again. “Four minutes and fifty seconds. And kindly be advised that you are now, officially, under arrest for suspicion of taking part in a conspiracy to murder six Thai Rangers, so please make no attempt to leave these facilities until I tell you to do so. It would be inconvenient to have you shot before we have finished our discussion.”
As the now-ashen pilot-owner frantically grabbed for the radio-mike on the adjacent desk, Preithat turned to the new Interpol team.
“I’ve heard some very interesting things from Kuhn Prathun over the years about these verbal judo techniques, and the three of you did seem to be making excellent progress,” he said, his dark eyes remaining fixed on Rigley much like a cobra observing a tasty rat, “but I’ve always preferred the direct approach myself, especially when time is of the essence.”
An hour and fifteen minutes later, Bulatt and Younger stood outside the hanger beside Preithat’s official vehicle, holding cups of hot tea thoughtfully provided by a young police clerk. The entire hanger complex was now surrounded by a dozen Royal Thai Police and Ranger vehicles, with several uniformed officers maintaining a watchful presence. Four additional vehicles had taken positions out on the tarmac.
Younger looked around approvingly. “Don’t you just love the Thai approach to hostile witness situations?” he commented.
“It does cut down on a lot of extraneous bullshit,” Bulatt acknowledged.
“I thought the ‘inconvenient to have you shot’ part was a nice finishing touch,” Younger went on. “I’m actually rather envious; the New Zealand legal system tends to frown on that sort of interrogative approach. And speaking of which, do you think the Major’s going to let our Mr. Rigley call his lawyer any time soon?”
“I don’t think any defense attorney in his right mind is going to want to be anywhere near Major Preithat and Mr. Rigley right about now,” Bulatt said seriously.
“All in all, an elegant approach to problem-solving.” Younger raised his tea cup in salute, presumably to Preithat and his aggressively responding Ranger force, and then sipped cautiously at the hot tea.
A few minutes later, Major Preithat stepped out of the hanger and called out to the two Interpol investigators. “Gentlemen, I believe Khun Achara has found something.”
The three men hurriedly entered the office area and found Achara typing furiously at a computer keyboard.
“Tell me you found bank records,” Bulatt said hopefully.
“No, better,” Achara responded. “Look at this.”
She turns the computer screen around so that they could all see it.
“What are we looking at?” Younger asked.
“A hidden file for four clients listed as ‘A’, ‘B’, ‘C” and ‘D.’ Our suspect’s recent flights match client ‘A.’”
“Exactly?” Bulatt whispered.
“Yes. The dates are different for each client, but the flights are the same — same locations and five days apart. And all pay in cash.”
“So what are we looking at, a hunting and poaching club?”
“If they are a club,” Prethat said, “why don’t they hunt together? These clients are hunting in synchrony but apart, as if they’re — ”
“Competing?” Bulatt suggested. “Three wealthy clients competing against each other?”
Bulatt and Younger looked at each other and smiled.
“Achara, do you have access to those landing and take-off records?” Younger asked.
“I’m running our dates against the Bangkok landings now, but Singapore International is being difficult.”
Prethat grunted, stepped away from the group, and was soon talking heatedly with someone in Mandarin.
“The same private plane arriving in Bangkok and then departing five days later from Singapore on the right dates. Can we be that lucky?”
“Don’t hold your breath,” Bulatt commented. “Everything about this set-up so far smells of big money and aggressive smarts.”
Prethat rejoined the group and turned to Achara.
“You have access for one hour. The pass-code is Panther.”
“Excellent!”
Achara began typing furiously again, and then paused to watch the computer screen flash through blocks of data.
“Com
e on, one of you bastards be stupid for once in your bloody lives,” Younger muttered.
Achara’s eyes suddenly widen in amazement.
“Yes, the same private plane — a G-five — matches the last two flight data sets at Bangkok and Singapore for client ‘C.’”
Bulatt smiled. “It looks like somebody got tired of suffering in first-class.
Younger pulled out his Blackberry and moved behind Achara.
“Do we have a registration number?” he asked.
Achara pointed at the screen. “Yes… there.”
Younger began typing on his Blackberry as Achara turned to Bulatt.
“If we get a hit on that plane, you and Pete can track it down while the Chief and I overfly the Khlong Preserve with his new toy.”
“Is that thing really going to work?”
“He thinks so. We’ll have plenty of power from the plane’s engine, but the trees may be — ”
“Well, folks, according to the Interpol computers, it looks like we have a winner in the category of upper-class arrogance and stupidity.”
Prethat, Bulatt and Achara all turn to stare at Younger.
“Our G-five luxury aircraft,” Younger continued, “is registered to a corporation owned by a Mr. Samuel Houston Fogarty.”
“And just what, exactly, do we know about Mr. Fogarty?” Bulatt asked pointedly.
“Not much, at the moment; but that’s about to change.”
“I like the way this is going,” Preithat smiled. “Colonel Kulawnit was correct about the value of your organization; I should have listened more carefully. Perhaps we do have more evidence than I thought.”
“In that regard, Major Prethat,” Bulatt said, “would you mind if I take the remains of those two Clouded Leopards and a few of the items we found at the Tanga Island scene and send them back to our wildlife forensics lab in Oregon? Our scientists may be able to find some additional evidentiary links that we’re not aware of at this point.”
“Of course,” Preithat said. “I’ll have them transferred to you immediately. And while you are doing that, I will have Captain Kulawnit and her Rangers continue their search for additional evidence and information about our illicit hunters and killers here in Thailand.”
“The team approach. Works every time,” Younger smiled broadly.
“Yes, it does,” Bulatt agreed as he brought his palms together in a polite wai, and then extended his right hand to Preithat. “Major, if you’ll please excuse us, and pass on our congratulations and good-byes to Khun Achara, I believe Peter and I have some work to do.”
CHAPTER 22
In the suite of a modest and very remote Phuket hotel
Yawning tiredly, Pete Younger finally looked up from his laptop computer screen, stretched, and then surveyed the darkened living room of their two bedroom suite. There wasn’t much to it. A pair of old desks and chairs — the second set requiring an extra bribe to the maintenance man — a cheap dresser bearing an old CRT television and a desk phone, two additional stuffed chairs, three doors leading to the two small bedrooms and the shared bathroom, and a service cart bearing plates of half-eaten food and four empty coffee pots standing by the locked and bolted door.
They’d been working well into the evening, each digging relentlessly at their available data-sets while intermittently reaching out to the internet.
“Well,” Younger muttered, “I think it’s safe to conclude that our Mr. Fogarty is not a very nice chap.”
Bulatt looked from his computer hopefully. “Find something we can use?”
“No, unfortunately, it’s not illegal to play cut-throat politics in the exporting small arms industries. Pretty much SOP for that group.”
“Any long-standing partnerships?”
“Not so far. Looks like he back-stabs everyone pretty early in his deals. Classic predatory lone wolf behavior. You finding anything?”
“Residence in Bend, Oregon. Current Oregon and Idaho hunting licenses, but no active tags. I’ve got messages in to both fish and game agencies.”
“Any violations on file?”
“Several in Washington State prior to five years ago resulting in a life-time hunting ban,” Bulatt replied. “Nothing after that.”
“Think he learned his lesson?”
“A predatory lone wolf with a taste for blood and money to burn? I doubt it.”
“Sure, why hunt among the riffraff when you can form a competitive killing pack with some like souls?”
“Precisely.”
“Find anything else?”
“I’ve got an interesting lead,” Bulatt said. “The likely manufacturer of those flashers is located in Redmond, Washington. I used to work that area as a field agent, so I’m going to check it out personally.”
“So, at least we’re making some progress.”
“Yeah, but not much. Let’s hope that Achara is having a little better luck at her end.”
CHAPTER 23
In the break room of the Draganov Research Center
Sergei Draganov and Aleksei Tsarovich had returned to the sanctuary of the Center’s lockable break room, and were now back to drinking vodka and arguing passionately. Both men were physically and emotionally exhausted.
“They will be here in one week,” Draganov pointed out for the second time. “We must have everything arranged by then. We have no choice in the matter. None whatsoever.”
“But would you let them come here, on our clinic grounds?”
Draganov’s blurry eyes widened in shock. “No, certainly not! We can never let them see the early mistakes — the creatures at MAX. If word got out to the research community, we would be finished. At best, we would never receive financial support again from anyone… at worst, we would be arrested.”
“I tell you again, we should have destroyed them at birth, Sergei Arturovich. We never should have let them live.”
“But there is so much we can learn from their development, even if it is… abnormal development.”
“There’s a big difference between learning and keeping evidence that can be used against us.”
“Yes, I understand that now,” Draganov acknowledged. “After the hunt is over, and Marcus and his men are gone, we will deal with the animals in MAX.”
In the Phuket hotel suite
Gedimin Bulatt had just drifted into a blissful sleep when the phone on the lamp table near his head began to ring loudly.
He fumbled for the phone, listened intently for about twenty seconds, reached for his Blackberry, quickly checked his e-mail listing, and then said “okay, we’ve got it. Thanks!”
He was starting to type with his thumbs on the Blackberry’s small keyboard when Pete Younger stumbled into the doorway of his small suite room.
“What the hell’s all that bloody racket about… and what time is it?” Younger demanded, trying to blink himself awake.
“That was Achara, and it’s four-thirty in the morning.”
“Achara? What’s she doing up at this hour?”
“Apparently working harder than we are,” Bulatt replied as he continued to type. “Chief Narusan found a latent print on the battery of that remote transmitter when he took it apart. She sent a photo of it to me, and I’m forwarding it to you right now.”
Younger’s eyes snapped wide open. “Christ, one of those bastards may be on file somewhere. I’ll get our Interpol lads on it ASAP.” He whirled around and ran over to his desk, indifferent to the fact that he was still in his underwear, sat down, activated his satellite-linked laptop, and quickly began calling up screens.
Bulatt pulled himself into a pair of jeans and then followed Younger into the living room where he collapsed into one of the stuffed chairs.
“Hell of a bloke, that Narusan. Sounds to me like you created yourself a CSI monster to go along with your princess warrior,” Younger said, his eyes now completely focused on his computer screen, “who, by the way, is an absolute doll, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I noticed,”
Bulatt said with a discernable edge to his voice.
“And?” Younger said, looking up from his laptop quizzically.
“And nothing. She’s Kulawnit’s daughter, for Christ sake.”
Younger smiled. “Feeling a little predatory, are we?”
“She’s a family friend, and a kid who’s deeply upset about her brother and father. I’m not going to take advantage of her emotions.”
“Good on you, mate,” Younger nodded approvingly as he went back to his computer. “Try to keep those noble thoughts in mind when she gets tired of waiting for you to be properly consoling, knocks you silly, and drags you off to a nice cozy cave.”
Bulatt blinked, starts to say something, and then hesitated as Younger visibly recoiled from his laptop screen.
“Bloody hell!”
“What’s the matter?”
“My latent query. I got a negative hit — no match to any of our linked databases.”
“In thirty seconds? That was fast.”
“Not just fast. Absolutely bloody impossible. My input generated an automatic full database scan, but there’s no way in hell our computers could have searched — ”
The desk phone on the lamp table next to Bulatt’s chair suddenly rang loudly.
Bulatt glanced curiously at Younger, who shrugged, and then picked up the handset.
“Hello?”
“Agent Bulatt?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Agent Smith. We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“Your recent latent query.”
“You mean the recent query we made approximately one minute ago?” Bulatt asked, his voice turning cold and dangerous.
“That’s correct. The Phuket Mariott coffee shop in one hour. Be there.”
