Overthrow (A James Winchester Thriller Book 2) (James Winchester Series)

by James Samuel

  James put his hands up. “Look, I’ve got no idea, alright? But let’s at least try. I’d rather go down fighting than sit here drinking beer waiting for something to happen. Gallagher doesn’t care about us.”

  Sinclair shrugged. “If you say so.”

  “And you’re going to call that bastard and get him over here. I want him working on this with us.”

  Sinclair sighed and slowly rose from his chair. He patted his belly and gave him a weak smile. “My phone’s inside.”

  James watched the disillusioned Sinclair shuffle back to his room. He shook his head. If Gallagher wanted to kill him for his failure, he wouldn’t make it easy.

  He decided to leave Sinclair be for a while. James faced death on every assignment, while Sinclair supported him from afar. His intelligence agent wasn’t used to these situations. He still feared dying. He took a walk around the block, counting the minutes in his mind. They had to move quickly, and they had to move now. He couldn’t allow Sinclair to mope.

  James returned to the Riverside Guesthouse a couple of hours later, his confidence renewed. He found Sinclair beavering away on his computer. Sinclair hadn’t showered since they’d departed for Kampot. The stench of stale sweat decorated the room. Sinclair brushed some fragmented chips from his greasy keyboard.

  “Nothing. Prak appears in the news from time to time, but nobody knows where he is. Just meaningless speculation on online message boards. Some of these idiots believe it’s an alias of Hun Sen himself.”

  James laughed. He didn’t use any form of social media himself but based on what Sinclair told him, the conspiracy theorists were as close to the truth as London was close to Phnom Penh.

  “What are you laughing for? This is serious and you want to start making jokes? Come on. You said it yourself. If Gallagher finds out, we’re dead.”

  He puffed his cheeks out. “Oh, come on, Sinclair, stop it. We’re going to find Prak and Gallagher and Thom are going to be none-the-wiser. We’ve come through worse in the past.”

  “Have we?” Sinclair asked resignedly.

  “Of course, we have. Hong Kong, Mexico, and now this.”

  He shoved his chair away from his keyboard. “None of those times involved us maybe getting killed by our own boss.”

  A knock on the door interrupted James’ response. He answered it to find the cheerful guesthouse owner, Mr. Arun. The wide smile didn’t fade, even in the face of his guests’ obvious despair.

  “Hello, sirs, you are still very welcome. You make many friends in Cambodia, yes?”

  James cast a confused look back at Sinclair. “Have we?”

  “Yes, sirs. Many friends. You are very welcome in my country. I am very happy for you.” Mr. Arun reached out and seized him by the hand.

  “You’re welcome.” James managed to extract his hand from infectiously delightful Mr. Arun. “You were talking about our friends?”

  “Ah, yes, sirs. They ask if there are two barang here with names James and Sinclair. I ask if they know you well. You see,” Mr. Arun’s face became very serious all of a sudden. “There are many bad people here. Bad people. They lie and steal from my guests. I see them first before I let them in. Anyway, they are here. They are much like you. Very good people.”

  James narrowed his eyes at Mr. Arun. “Sinclair, do we have two good friends here?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Where are they?”

  “You come. You come.” The smile returned. “Yes. I get you beer. Beer for you all. Very cold.”

  “It’s only midday.”

  “Yes.” Mr. Arun gestured at them again. “I can get you more than one if you are feeling like it.”

  Mr. Arun took them through the guesthouse. There were few foreigners awake at this early hour. Most of them would have only returned from defiling and debasing the Khmer capital a couple of hours before. Whether in the company of a woman or drugged out of their minds, most visitors remained horizontal, at least until mid-afternoon.

  “There. Your friends there, sirs. I get you beers. Four beers. Yes.”

  James, exasperated, turned his attention to the table outside. Two men sat at the table talking to each other. He spotted the natural paranoia a mile off. They weren’t a pair of guys on holiday. They were here on business.

  “Who are you?” James demanded as he approached the table.

  “You must be James Winchester, I suppose? Adam Kendall.”

  “How do you know my name?” James folded his arms as he towered over Adam. “Don’t tell me, you’re here to help as well.”

  “They always said you were grouchy. Come on, sit down. I’m not here to cause any trouble. This must be Sinclair Wood.” Adam nodded his head at Sinclair, standing slightly behind him. “Good. This is my colleague Dylan Howser.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Dylan with a nod.

  “I got your beers, sirs.” Mr. Arun bounded towards them, hugging four bottles of Klang beer. “Please, sirs. You sit. A happy time with your friends, yes.”

  “But it’s only midday,” Dylan protested as Mr. Arun put the bottles down with a clink and began popping off the bottle caps.

  “Yes, you enjoy. You very welcome here, sirs.”

  James and Sinclair sat down as the beers sweated onto the table, leaving little pools of water.

  “He’s an odd one, isn’t he?” said Adam.

  “Get to the point. Why are you here and what do you want?”

  Adam smiled and picked up his beer. “Cheers?”

  He held the bottle in the air as everyone else hesitated. Only when Dylan and Sinclair raised their bottles did James relent and lift his own.

  “Now, it seems we have a mission in common,” Adam explained. “We’re both looking for Tep Prak. But we both have a problem. Prahn Sambath is dead, so there’s no way for us to find him. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I would. Do you know how to find him?”

  “No, or we wouldn’t be here.”

  “Who are you?” James took another swig from his bottle. “I want to know.”

  “We’re in the same line of work as you. We were assigned to Cambodia by Sir Richard Davenport. Do you remember him?”

  “Xiphos,” said Sinclair.

  James didn’t need to be told who Sir Richard Davenport was. Xiphos had interfered with their operations in the past. If Sir Richard weren’t so powerful, Gallagher swore he would have him killed. He knew Sir Richard likely had the same idea in mind for Gallagher.

  “You know we have nothing to do with each other. Stay out of our way. We stay out of yours.”

  “But you didn’t stay out of our way,” Adam snapped. “We were tailing Sambath and you killed him. You’ve made our lives difficult. Our client won’t be happy when he finds out.”

  “Really?” James tilted his head in mock concern. “Then forgive me if I don’t give a shit.”

  Adam and James glared at one another. Both the leaders of their respective operations, both had a lot to lose. They had so much at stake. Failure meant a loss of face, a loss of position, and, sometimes, a loss of life.

  “James.” Sinclair leaned forwards. “Would you please shut up? You’re not helping us at all.”

  “You too, Adam,” said Dylan. “We came here to make a deal. What’s the use in fighting with these guys?”

  Adam took a deep breath. “I’ve already called Sir Richard. He spoke to your boss and authorised me to make this deal with you. We’ve got full backing to work together on this one thing. You two know as well as I do that it’s unlikely that we’ll be able to find Prak on our own without some extraordinary luck.”

  Sinclair shrugged. “I can’t deny that. But even with four of us, what good would it do? We don’t know anything about this country. And we won’t be able to keep this quiet for long.”

  Adam rested his arms on the table. “Sir Richard and your boss Gallagher are already aware of the situation.”

  Sinclair grimaced like someone had fired a bullet into his gut. “Y
ou told them?”

  James tightened his lips. “Christ on a bike.”

  “You needn’t worry. We are both in the same situation,” said Adam. “We all mucked up our jobs. They’ve both agreed to give us some breathing room without telling the clients. I’m guessing you two are working for Hun Sen?”

  Neither James nor Sinclair answered that.

  “Anyway, the point is we have time.”

  “How much time?” Sinclair breathed.

  “Enough.”

  James turned to Sinclair. “Did you call Blake?”

  “Should be here soon.”

  James nodded, his nostrils flaring. This was his fault. He’d put their lives at risk knowing that Gallagher would never apportion any of the blame to him. Blake had saved his life from the precarious cliff only to throw him into the jaws of the lion.

  “Blake Harrison...” Dylan mused. “The American?”

  James fixed his gaze on Dylan. “You know him?”

  “Not personally, he –”

  “He’s like shit on the end of a stick,” Adam finished for him. “A snake in the grass.”

  James let out a genuine smile, the first real one he felt since Kampot. He thought he might start to like his rivals after all.

  Adam and Dylan went on to tell the story of how they knew about Blake. A couple of years before, Blake had been on business in the Philippines and interfered with Xiphos business. Like always, he’d opted for action which led to the death of the client, his family, and a few innocent civilians. James listened in wonderment. He’d never heard that story before. Gallagher must have done a top-notch job at covering it up.

  “A miracle he’s still working at all,” Adam finished. “He must have had something to blackmail your boss with. Sir Richard would have had the thumbscrews on him the minute he left the country.”

  James thought about it. “Maybe he does.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Blake waited in his car, watching. The paintwork gleamed; the scratches freshly buffed out. He’d parked the car on the banks of the Mekong. He checked around him to make sure nobody had followed him.

  Only a few scraggly fishermen. Their bones pressed against the tracing paper-like skin. They wore wide-brimmed straw hats to protect them from the beating of the afternoon sun. A steamer plied the chocolate waters, carving the muck aside.

  Blake rested an arm on the steering wheel and dialled Gallagher’s number, ignoring the multitude of missed calls from Sinclair.

  “Yes?” Gallagher answered.

  “It’s Blake.”

  “Put me on video. I want to see you.”

  Blake obeyed and Gallagher popped up on the screen. A hard stare confronted him, his eyes flecked with shades of green. His fresh military cut accented his sharp features. Only a hint of grey threatened the sideburns. When Gallagher wanted to see Blake, he knew it meant trouble.

  “I want you to carefully explain the situation,” said Gallagher, his words measured and refined. “I have had to endure the torture of speaking to Richard Davenport directly. As you know, one of my least favourite activities.”

  “Prahn Sambath didn’t make it,” said Blake.

  “Take off your sunglasses. I want to see your eyes when you speak to me. Show some respect.”

  Blake’s pulse raced as he did what he was told. He threw them onto the passenger seat.

  “I know perfectly well that Sambath is dead. What you’re going to tell me is the man who fired the shot.”

  “It was Winchester, sir. I shot Sambath in the leg to subdue him. He met us with heavy resistance. Winchester shot him in the neck.”

  Gallagher’s face tightened. Even on the other side of the world, his boss radiated intimidation that recognised no borders.

  “Sir, I was as shocked as anyone, but I was unable to prevent it from happening. Sambath brought his men, and I managed to fight them off single-handedly.”

  “Then this has confirmed my worst fears. Winchester has no control. No self-discipline.”

  “I agree, sir, he’s a loose cannon.”

  “Don’t interrupt me,” Gallagher snapped, folding his hands in front of him. “Something has to be done.”

  “What do you want me to do, sir?”

  “I already promised Davenport to allow our team and Xiphos to work together to hunt down Tep Prak. If God is with us, we can still right this. Cooperate with all involved.”

  “And Winchester?”

  “Skilled. Skilled but no sense of protocol. However, I am nearing the end of my tether. If he were to fall in Cambodia, Blackwind would not be the worse off for it. I can reassign Sinclair Wood without too many problems.”

  Blake hid his trembling hands beneath the edge of the camera. “What are you saying, sir?”

  “If the opportunity arises, do what’s right for our organisation. I have faith in you. You have, largely, been extremely reliable. You’ve merely endured a series of unreliable partners.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Blake couldn’t hide his nerves. Gallagher had given him the green light to liquidate anyone from Blackwind. He would have his boss entirely within his debt. When Gallagher made a personal request, it mandated a reward of some kind. His stock within the organisation would rise exponentially.

  “Your mission has been expanded. I want General Narith, Pen Thom, and Winchester in coffins by the time you leave Cambodia.”

  “Yes, sir. Yes.”

  “Don’t fail me, Blake.”

  Gallagher disconnected the call, leaving Blake to process what had happened. He thought James might be recalled to London. Never in his darkest dreams did he think Gallagher would go this far.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Bangkok, Central Thailand, Thailand

  Khao San Road shook with the bass reverberating from a hundred speakers. Bars luring budget-minded travellers to the backpacking Mecca of Southeast Asia tried to outdo one another, blaring music inside and outside their neon-strung watering holes. Young Westerners roamed the streets with their oversized bags plastered with sewn-on flags from around the world.

  Cheerful Thais eager to keep up the pretence of the Land of Smiles cajoled and harassed any foreigner in sight with grand promises of visits to the floating markets of the Chao Phraya River, tailored shirts, and cheap drugs. The short one-kilometre street offered every aspect of a promised paradise.

  Qiu Fu, Shao’s man of action in search of Tep Prak, drifted past a woman selling shiny black scorpions on a stick. The Khmer Rouge leader had made contact soon after Sambath’s death. He wanted help, but he was smart. Meeting in Thailand provided him with neutral ground. The Thai authorities cared nothing for Khmer Rouge criminals.

  Qiu turned off Khao San Road and ventured into the side streets. He felt the looks of the locals, unused to seeing a well-dressed foreigner in these piss-stained alleys. Here, little bars sprang up. They were no more than a strip of metal with a few stools lit with colourful neon lighting. Laughter and merriment filled the air, along with the smell of freshly cooked meat and enormous vats of white rice.

  He found Prak, his paranoid eyes scanning the alley, his back to the wall as he sat on a plastic chair. One hand gripped a lime and pomegranate juice, perhaps the only foreigner not drinking alcohol.

  Qiu admired Prak’s wherewithal. He knew not to make himself vulnerable, even in full view of the public.

  “Prak,” Qiu said in English.

  “Qiu Fu.” Prak nodded. “Sit down.”

  Qiu didn’t take kindly to any command, but he sat anyway. Without asking his preference, Prak signalled the waiter to bring Qiu the same juice. His masters in Beijing had given him strict instructions to play nice. Theirs were the only orders he would obey.

  “So, Shao Fen has turned against me?” It was not a question but a statement of fact.

  Qiu turned his head. “You should take care not to insult those who helped you for so long.”

  Prak’s scarred face told the stories of his battles over the deca
des. He wouldn’t fall for sweet words or lies.

  Qiu clenched his teeth. “We have not turned against you.”

  “Don’t lie to me. You sent your foreigners to kill Prahn Sambath. I already sent my men to talk to the family. They said the assassins were hired white men.”

  “Then your men should have gone to school as you did. He was killed by foreigners, but not ours. Hun Sen has also hired foreigners.”

  Prak’s face remained hard, but he raised his near hairless eyebrows.

  “We both want the same thing. I’m in Cambodia to protect China’s business. We both want Sen dead. It wouldn’t make good business to kill you or your men.”

  “Maybe that’s true. But the facts are the facts. My second-in-command is dead. How are we supposed to make war against Sen when my successor is dead? I can’t command every battle at the same time.”

  Qiu smelt blood in the water. Prak had softened. Now he could lure him back to his side and strike. He was armed. One slip and Prak would die. Shao’s foreigners had outlived their usefulness.

  “I’m sure you have capable men who can be trained,” said Qiu as his juice arrived. “Shao wants you to be patient. The time will come.”

  Prak’s expression lightened. “Good. Then I will meet Shao when I return to Cambodia. Please. Enjoy. The juice is very good.”

  Qiu and Prak sipped their juices together. Qiu licked his lips as the sweet fruits set a pleasant flame upon his tongue.

  The two men spoke of their plans. How to recover from the blow of losing Sambath. Qiu had plenty of experience in organisation and management. Like Shao, he’d risen high up in the army. Qiu spoke knowing he would betray Prak the moment he had the chance. Leaderless, the last of the Khmer Rouge would begin to fade.

  “When will you go back to Cambodia?” Qiu asked with a smile.

  “Soon. Within days.”

  “How about a trip to Sihanoukville one week from today? It would give you an opportunity to check on the progress of our naval installations.”

  “Yes. Yes. By all means.”

  Qiu stood to go to the bathroom. The bar spun for a moment. How long had he been sitting down? He dismissed the vertigo as a lack of blood flow.