The Widow's Strike pl-4

by Brad Taylor

  Pike said, “What the hell happened to you?”

  Before he could answer, Pike stood up and waved to the guard. “What did you guys do to him? What’s going on here?”

  To Jennifer’s astonishment, Pike switched to Thai, chattering in a singsong, his voice rising, conveying what he was saying by emotion alone.

  Knuckles ignored the conversation, saying, “Hello, Jennifer. I’m glad to see Grolier Services cares so much about their employees that they’d fly halfway around the world to check on them.”

  “My God, Knuckles, what have they done to you?”

  He flicked his head at the conversation going on with Pike. “Let him get done with Piggy. I don’t want to tell the story twice.”

  “Can I get you anything? Medicine or food?”

  “Don’t bother. Piggy’ll just take it to spite me.”

  She saw Pike wave off the guard. Knuckles waited until he sat back down next to her.

  Pike asked, “Is what he says true? You killed an inmate?”

  “Yeah. That’s true all right, but it was because they were beating the shit out of me.”

  “So you killed one of them? Jesus, Knuckles, what am I supposed to tell the State Department now?”

  Knuckles’s expression became feral. “It was kill or be killed, damn it. That sadistic son of a bitch over there — the guy I call Piggy — runs his block like a little kingdom, granting favors for payment. He tried to take my watch, and I brought him down.”

  When he didn’t continue, Pike said, “And? You obviously didn’t kill him.”

  “And he moved me to a cell with some sort of mafia group to teach me a lesson. They waited until nightfall and I had to take on seven of them. I didn’t mean to kill one, but he left me no choice.”

  Knuckles saw Pike’s disbelief and smacked the wire mesh with his fist. “I didn’t ask for this. He’s the one that’s responsible.” He leaned back and said, “In the end the whole thing didn’t matter. Piggy’s got my Rolex anyway.”

  Pike said, “So you’re not in general population now? You’re in solitary?”

  “Yes. A new section of the jail. Individual cells with no windows. Run by Piggy himself. See that PDA on his belt? It’s a high-tech detention system, and he controls my life with it. Water, light, the cell doors, everything. He likes to keep me in the dark.”

  Pike swore. “This is going to make getting you out a damn sight harder. They had nothing on you before.”

  Knuckles’s demeanor cracked for the first time. “Pike, you gotta do something. He’s a sadistic son of a bitch and he’s going to kill me. I swear to God this place is just like The Deer Hunter. I’m waiting on him to give me a pistol with one bullet and start a betting pool.”

  Pike slowly nodded, his eyes unfocused, thinking. Jennifer said, “We’re going to the embassy right after this. We’ll find someone to help. They can’t keep you locked up forever. You’re an American citizen.”

  Knuckles said, “Tell that to the other Americans in here. Thailand has the death penalty for running drugs. I’m pretty sure killing someone probably warrants torture before death.”

  “But it was self-defense! They were beating you. The embassy won’t take that sitting down.” She turned to Pike. “Will they?”

  He ignored her. “Knuckles, hang in there. I’ll get you out. I promise. Piggy should back off a little bit now that we’ve been here and seen you.”

  As if on cue, Piggy walked over to them and cut in. “Time’s up. Back to cell.”

  Jennifer said, “You’d better not hurt him anymore. I’m going to the embassy right after this.”

  Piggy’s face split into a leer. “Go to your embassy. I don’t care. If you really want to help him, you and I could work something out.”

  He laughed at the shocked look on her face, then jerked Knuckles to his feet. Jennifer said nothing as Knuckles was half dragged out of the room.

  After the door closed, she said, “Pike, we need to do something soon. Regardless of Piggy hurting him, if he catches a disease in here it’ll probably be a death penalty.”

  “I know. Come on. Let’s get to Bangkok.”

  “To the embassy?”

  “Yeah. Sort of.”

  * * *

  From Chiang Mai they flew straight to Bangkok, the Gulfstream jet making the trip infinitely shorter because of the ease of private aircraft facilities outside of the other commercial air traffic. Landing at the older Don Muang Airport to the north of the city center, they paid for a private car, with Pike giving directions in Thai.

  Jennifer sat in silence, watching the traffic begin to build up after they’d exited the toll road. Eventually, she turned and said, “Where did you learn to speak Thai? You never told me you could do that.”

  He smiled. “You never asked. Anyway, it sort of became a moot point after 9/11. After I joined the Taskforce. Like speaking Latin. I wish I’d learned Arabic or Farsi.”

  “Where?”

  “In the Army. Everyone in Special Forces has to learn a language, depending on your group’s focus. Before I joined the Taskforce, I was in a group that focused on the Pacific Rim and Asia, so they sent me to learn Thai.”

  “Well, I think it’s a little amazing.”

  He laughed. “That’s because you can’t understand it. Trust me, I’m saying things like ‘We demand a donkey ride to Bangkok.’ I’m so rusty that Piggy back there probably understood two sentences out of all that shouting.”

  After forty minutes they began traveling south down Wireless Road, Jennifer no longer asking questions, distracted by the massive ebb and flow of the world that was Bangkok.

  She caught a glimpse of an American flag and focused on the building near it. The taxi kept going past, and she said, “Pike! That’s the embassy right there. Tell the cab driver to stop.”

  “We’re not going to the embassy.”

  “What? You want to go to the hotel first?”

  “No. We’re going to JUSMAGTHAI.”

  “What in the world is that?”

  “Joint US Military Advisory Group, Thailand. I want to talk to a friend first, get a feel for the embassy before we go there.”

  “Who?”

  “A retired SF guy. He works at JUSMAG, doing exercise facilitation for units coming in here. He’s been in Thailand forever and deals directly with the embassy all the time.”

  They crossed under Rama IV Road and did a U-turn, and the driver pulled to a stop adjacent to a walled compound with men in uniform in a guard shack, the Thai flag floating in the breeze.

  “This isn’t American,” Jennifer said.

  Pike said, “It’s a Thai military compound, but JUSMAG is inside.”

  A man appeared outside of the gate and waved them into the drive. Pike exited, and Jennifer saw them hug. Momentarily, the gate opened, and Pike entered the car again. The vehicle pulled into a small courtyard, the man who’d waved them in waiting patiently on the curb.

  Pike said, “Stay here. I won’t be long.”

  “You mean I’m not coming?”

  The door half open, he said, “Uhh… no. My buddy got the car in, but I’m not sure where they’ll check IDs. They don’t let civilians in here.”

  “But you’re a damn civilian!”

  He exited, saying, “Not today I’m not.”

  Muttering under her breath, she watched him walk away.

  An hour later and they were in their high-rise hotel on the Chao Phraya River; Pike had refused to talk about what he’d found out and exasperated Jennifer when he bypassed the embassy yet again.

  When she pushed, all he had said was, “Look, I’m going to help Knuckles. Actually, we are. In fact, I’ve got to meet a man in an hour who might help us more than the embassy can. My buddy did the introductions. Let me talk to him first. If it pans out, I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. If it doesn’t, I’ll head to the embassy like Kurt instructed.”

  She’d exploded at that, saying, “Bullshit! Tell me now. You’re treating me l
ike a child. Like when we first met. How is this guy going to help when the embassy can’t?”

  Pike said nothing for a moment, deciding. “He’s got infrastructure here. Things that’ll help us with Knuckles.”

  “You mean he has some pull with the embassy?”

  Cryptically, he’d said, “Yeah, something like that.”

  * * *

  Now, holding the passport for Knuckles, her patience with the subterfuge had run out. She waited for Pike to finish putting his toilet articles in his bathroom. When he came out, he pointed at the connecting door to her room and said, “You going to unpack, or what?”

  She held out the passport like she was holding a bag of dope. “What is this? Where did it come from?”

  Pike took a deep breath and let it out, looking a little sheepish. “It’s for Knuckles. I got it the same time I got my dip passport.”

  “Why?”

  He began fiddling with his luggage again. He said, “In case.”

  “In case of what, Pike?”

  He said nothing, ripping through his bag like he’d lost something, flinging underwear and T-shirts onto the bed, a pathetic attempt to get her to drop the discussion. She repeated the question.

  “In case of what?”

  He halfheartedly stuffed a T-shirt back in, then zipped the bag closed. He dropped it and looked into her eyes.

  “In case he doesn’t have a passport when we break him out, all right?”

  10

  Soi Cowboy hadn’t changed a whole helluva lot since I’d been there last. A ribbon of dirty bars and strip clubs near the intersection of Sukhumvit and Ratchadaphisek Roads, it was famous the world over for its sex shows. At night it was full of colorful neon and was actually sort of attractive — especially after a few beers. In the daylight it looked worn down and sad, a tattered world the sunlight dared to expose.

  Strangely, it reminded me of Christmas from my youth. Driving through our poor neighborhood at night, I would be amazed at how regal the houses looked with their icicle lights blinking and twinkling, knowing the poverty was hiding in the shadows, waiting for daylight to render the harsh truth behind the glitter.

  It was still way too early for anything to be open, and the urchins sweeping up the garbage from the night before barely gave me a glance. It was all Thai right now, with men eating lunch from street vendors and women preparing the bars for the night ahead, waiting on the influx of fat westerners. Desperate middle-aged men and dangerous ones lower on the age scale, all willing to pay to have someone tell them they were worth the gift of life that God gave them. Like the telling would make it so.

  Clearly, I wasn’t looking for a small boy to take home, so they let me be. I stopped, studying the hand-drawn map my friend at JUSMAG had given me.

  When I’d mentioned the prison breakout to Kurt in DC, it seemed to be the perfect solution. He’d balked but then had given me a fully equipped Taskforce aircraft. I was fairly sure he knew what I would do with it. I’d still have to get his permission, but I thought I could. Especially given Knuckles’s current predicament.

  I’d tried to keep what I was planning a secret from Jennifer because I knew she wouldn’t see it my way. At the end of the day, she believed in the nobility of the world and felt sure that the State Department would come through. Even with all she had experienced, she still didn’t understand that good was just a word and evil could — in fact mostly did — triumph no matter how virtuous the cause. I knew differently: Just because you were on the right side of things didn’t mean you would win. Sometimes you needed to be a little bad to ensure the good.

  I was looking for a specific bar owned by an American known only as “Izzy.” Well, I’m sure he had a real name, but that’s all my buddy had given me. I hoped the name didn’t foretell who I’d find, some guy looking like the Situation or, given his age, a weathered Fonzie wearing a leather jacket in the Thai heat and covered in gold chains.

  Izzy had flown for Air America, the thinly disguised CIA front used during the Vietnam War for covert operations in Laos and Cambodia. After the war, he’d stopped in Thailand for a visit and had never gone home. He’d married a Thai, had a few kids there, and, from what my buddy said, had been involved in all sorts of shady shit, both officially for the United States and unofficially for pure profit.

  I had almost reached the end of the ribbon of asphalt when I saw the sign on the second floor, above a bar made to look like a speakeasy from the 1920s, the felt drapes hanging in the window showing their stains in the light of day, the bar stools outside upended on the tables.

  I tried the door and saw it was unlocked. I entered, the darkness closing in when the door shut. A man stacking racks of glasses shouted in Thai that they were closed. I answered him in Thai, stating my business. Maybe it was the name, or maybe it was that I spoke the language, but his eyes widened and he left, scurrying up a stairwell on the right side of the bar.

  Soon enough, I was met by a Thai man taller than most, about twenty or twenty-five years old, with a hint of half-breed in him. A Eurasian with one foot in Thailand and one somewhere else. I gave the bona fides I’d been provided, and we went up the stairs. I was shown into an area that looked like a living room, with old velour couches and overstuffed leather chairs. On one was a Caucasian man of about seventy, wearing eyeglasses and dressed in a suit. He was sitting with his legs crossed, relaxed, reading a spy novel.

  He put the book down, saying, “A guilty pleasure. These novels are always so full of shit, but I can’t help myself. If only it were so easy.”

  He stood and shook my hand. His grip was firm and up close his eyes seemed to penetrate through my head, as if he were intent on reading my mind.

  “Please, have a seat. I’m Izzy.”

  I sat and waited for the formality of tea being brought out, the tall Thai behind me over my left shoulder. A warning.

  Izzy began with pleasantries designed to ensure I was who I said I was, although he never once asked me who I was working for, sticking solely to my background with my friend at JUSMAG. He’d been in the game for so long he wasn’t even curious and understood such knowledge could be dangerous.

  I did the same thing, never saying anything related to my business, sticking with the workings of the bar downstairs. Eventually, the pleasantries trickled out, and I knew it was time when he asked the Thai man to leave the room.

  I laid out my requirements, starting with the vehicle, then moved on to more valuable things, hoping he wouldn’t get skittish when I stated I needed two indigenous men along with the vehicle, both prepared to enter a prison. The request didn’t seem to bother him at all. I didn’t give him any operational parameters, but he was shrewd enough to see exactly where I was going.

  “They won’t let whoever you’re after simply walk out of prison, even with an official vehicle. He needs a release from the bureau of prisons. And that is something I cannot do.”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  “I apologize, but I can’t. My men will be on the inside, possibly to remain when your charade is found out. I need more reassurance.”

  I paused, wondering how to word this in such a way as to give him what he wanted without compromising Taskforce abilities.

  “Let’s just say the man went to prison because he was facilitating a penetration for an organization. He got caught, but the penetration didn’t. I can get this done.”

  He studied me for a moment, the wheels in his head turning, now beginning to wonder who I really was. He slowly nodded.

  “Okay. You will have your men and the vehicle. Anything else?”

  “No. I can handle the rest.”

  “Then there’s the matter of payment. Your friend told you I’m not cheap, I assume.”

  “Yes. I’ll have to redirect some funds, but I can put them wherever you would like. Just tell me where and how much.”

  “I’m afraid it won’t be money.”

  “What, then? I don’t have much else to offer.”

&
nbsp; “I have a child. My youngest. I would like him to go to a school here. A private one that is very, very well regarded. The money is no object, but I’m afraid they frown on my business. They’ve denied him admission because of my past.”

  The statement confused me. “What the hell can I do about that? You want me to rough up the headmaster or something? I’m sorry, but that sort of thing is off the table.”

  He smiled warmly. “No, no. Nothing like that. Nothing violent, but surely a man who can get an official release transmitted to a Thai prison can bring pressure to bear in other ways.”

  11

  Crossing the Key Bridge, Chip Dekkard couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He said, “Hang on, hang on. I gotta close up.”

  He pressed the button that raised the glass shield between him and the driver up front. Once it was secure, he went back to the phone.

  “What the hell do you mean a lab tech died? You guys assured me you could get this done in accordance with all applicable regulations.”

  He listened a little bit more, the traffic in downtown Washington, DC, a low hum in the background. The mention of a date caused his blood pressure to rocket.

  “Wait, wait. This happened three days ago? And I’m just now finding out? Jesus Christ! Shut it down. Shut it all down.”

  The person on the other end started to protest, and Chip cut him off. “Shut it down, now. No more protocols. No testing, nothing. Destroy the virus and shut it down. And in the future, tell your boss that if he wants to keep his job he needs to understand a fundamental truth: Bad news doesn’t get better with age.”

  Chip hung up the phone without another word, wondering how he could have been so stupid as to allow the project to start in the first place. The CEO of a major US conglomerate, he oversaw multiple companies producing everything from textiles to pharmaceuticals. Seven months ago, one of the firms in the portfolio, Cailleach Laboratories, had come up with an idea: a vaccine for the H5N1 avian flu virus. But not for the one that currently existed. A vaccine for a mutated virus.