Maison ignored the last comment, reached into the case. He held the necklace in front of her for a moment. The pearls glimmered in the light, reflecting brightly with subtle hints of pinks and blues. He clasped the ends together behind her neck.
She was right, of course—he had not called this time. It was business. But he had given her things to do. He let her collect debts from those two deadbeats who lost to her at cards. She had a small role, but an important one—at least, as important as he wanted to give her for now. Helena asked to be more involved in his dealings, but he wasn’t sure how far he’d let that go. She had been acting differently, hadn’t she? Cold, distant, robotic. Was there someone else? How could there be? He was the richest man in Poipet. What else could she want?
Helena stared at her reflection in the mirror behind the bar, the necklace around her neck on top of the red silk dress. Her eyes never met his. They guilelessly looked lost.
“You’re right,” he said. “They don’t match this dress.”
Maison stepped back, found the zipper, and unzipped it to the small of her back. He took another step back, and his heart beat faster.
Helena stuck her finger in her wine and ran it along the rim of her crystal glass, making a beautiful note. She nonchalantly downed the Chardonnay and loosened her hold on the dress, allowing it to fall to the floor. Maison’s chiseled features formed a smile. He studied the figure that stood before him wearing only a pink thong.
For the first time, she turned to face him, and he, at last, detected a slight smile on her face. The pearl necklace nestled gently across her collarbone, bursting forth against her tan skin.
“Is this what you want?” she said.
Maison's eyes bore a hole right through her. He didn't reply; he didn't have to. He was Maison Andrepont.
Helena rested her hands on his chest. She slid them toward his stomach. Maison scowled at the two servants on the other side of the room and dismissed them with an angry wave of his hands. They scurried away like timed mice. She unzipped his pants; he smiled and closed his eyes. Things were back to normal.
Maison sat fixated on Helena. After she slipped on her dress, she refilled her wine glass. The unlit cigarette from the silver case on the bar rolled restlessly between her fingers. He took a draw of his Cuban cigar and held up his torch when she approached.
“How did the meeting with our high-rollers go?” he asked as he lit her cigarette.
“You know how it went. The pig started a shootout.”
“Which my men won,” he said. “What is the situation?”
“Harris is still ten-thousand short. He claims he’s been to every dealer in Bangkok and had difficulty finding items for delivery. He says he needs more time. I gave him four days.”
Maison leaned forward, perturbed. “Sarathoon?”
“He followed Captain Harris back to the hotel and dealt with him.” She turned her back to him. “Zip me up.”
Maison stretched his legs, then stood from the couch. He zipped up her dress and motioned to one of his servants standing by the door. The servant disappeared through the doorway, then quickly returned, setting a fruit and cheese tray on the end table by Maison. The two of them sat on the couch. “This is unacceptable. I cannot have word leak out that my clients don’t pay their debt. It would put me out of business.”
Helena exhaled her smoke while simultaneously inhaling it into her nostrils, before exhaling from her mouth again. “That would not be good, my darling,” she said. “It gets worse. He is no longer staying where he was.”
“Where is he now?” Maison took a bite of cantaloupe from the plate.
“The Americans are now at the Landmark Hotel.”
“Send Sarathoon.”
“Sarathoon is too well known in Bangkok, and Harris has already seen him. If we send him, Harris will suspect something, and we may only make our objective more difficult.”
“I want this matter closed before I get back from Singapore in a few days.”
“What? You’re going back to Singapore?”
“Yes, you knew that.”
“No. No, I did not. The only Singapore trip I knew of was the one you just returned from.”
“My schedule fluctuates. You are the one who wanted a larger role in my operation. Helena, my dear, I would rather have you by my side than acting as one of my collectors.”
“Just who is by your side in my absence?”
Maison smiled. “My dear Helena, it is not you who should worry, but I. You are my most treasured possession—”
“I am no man’s possession,” she barked.
"Merely an expression. Regardless, I take a great risk leaving you like I do. A woman who radiates sexuality like you do attracts men everywhere she goes."
“And a man with the money you have attracts women wherever he goes,” she said.
8
October 11, 2003
Jason left Lieutenant Colonel McClendon's suite and took the elevator back to the ninth floor. The conversation with McClendon bothered him. It was no longer "the Air Force family" that the old-timers remembered. The Air Force followed the social whims of the day. Sometimes the impact was positive; most of the time, not. The elevator doors opened to reveal Chris waiting to ride down.
“Jason, hey. You want to go out with us?”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass. I’ve got some things I need to take care of.”
“Cool. What did McClendon want?”
Jason tensed. He didn’t want to have this conversation. His right hand slid behind his neck, and he sighed.
“I basically was given a no-contact order regarding Ben. Which makes no sense. He’s going to fly back on our airplane. I could talk to him for hours if I wanted.”
“Well, that’s a good call. The guy’s under arrest. You don’t need to get involved in that.”
“He’s not legally under arrest.”
"Dude, if the commander says the guy is under arrest, he's under arrest," Chris said. "I'd toe the line. You're lined up for a key leadership position in AFSOC one day if you don't screw up. That's why you were pegged to come pick this guy up. You're a great leader, dependable, and have good judgment."
“Does that mean I abandon a friend who’s made a mistake?”
Chris laughed. “No, it means you need to re-evaluate who your friends are.”
Jason’s jaw tightened. “Meaning?”
“Stay the hell away from Ben Harris. I’ve dealt with the guy back on Okinawa. I know how he treats people.
“Yeah, I’ve heard the rumors.”
“Rumors, my ass,” Chris said. “This guy screws over everyone who crosses his path. Talk to the enlisted guys. The dude’s wife spends a lot of time at the enlisted club and has been seen on more than one occasion doing the walk of shame from the enlisted dorm.”
That statement didn’t surprise him. He and Ben’s wife had a falling out several months back when he discovered she helped cover up Jason’s ex-wife’s affair their senior year of college.
“He’s been a friend for a very long time. I-I can’t explain it, but I owe him.”
“You familiar with the story of The Cat and the Mouse?” Chris asked.
“In what context?”
“The old Brothers Grimm tale from elementary school.”
“No,” Jason said.
“Well, it’s simple. Ben Harris is the cat, and you’re the mouse.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“In the story, the cat—”
“Give me the Reader’s Digest version.”
Chris paused, looking skeptically at him. “Okay, the cat convinces the mouse to move in with him and combine their honey. Only as time goes on, the cat constantly lies to the mouse, eats all the honey, and eventually kills the mouse. The moral of the story . . . pick your friends wisely. Failure to do so could end with disastrous and deadly results.”
“That’s a little melodramatic, don’t you think?”
“You’ll fig
ure it out. You’re a big boy. You make your own decisions. But here’s my advice. Stay away from Ben Harris. The guy is toxic.”
Ben Harris sat in his chair, his feet propped on the ottoman, his laptop on the couch next to him. His gaze wandered out the window. At night, Bangkok looked like any other city from eleven floors up.
He sipped a Mekong and Coke, the preferred mixed drink of Thai whiskey, staring out into the city lights. Leaning over to pick up the laptop, he winced at the pain, touching his injured rib. The screen showed nothing but folders, neatly aligned in rows and columns. The icon for his email indicated there were no new emails. He started to open a folder titled “Banks” when a knock at the door interrupted him.
Ben opened the door and smiled. “Jason . . . how the hell are you?” The internal speakers of his laptop blared Head East’s classic, Never Been Any Reason. He never liked any of their other songs, but this one had stuck with him. His dad played it all the time when he was growing up, and it had been Ben's personal anthem since high school.
“I recognize that song.” Jason didn’t answer the question. The two shook hands and embraced in a man-hug.
“Ugh . . . easy brother.” Ben grimaced and placed his hand below his chest. He pulled the bottom of his t-shirt up to reveal the tape wrapped around his midsection.
“Crack a rib?”
“Yeah, something like that.” Jason entered the room, and Ben shut the door behind him.
“Great to see you, Ben.”
“You too, man, although I wish it were under different circumstances. Come on in,” he said, motioning to the inside of the room. “I’m glad you came to pick me up. It makes this easier.”
Jason entered and walked to the window. “Yeah, me, too.”
“So, you guys had a little excitement flying in, I hear.” Ben turned down the volume on his laptop.
“Yeah, a little. Our number four engine caught fire and threw a turbine blade into number three.”
“Holy shit. . . you flew in here on two engines?”
“Yeah.”
“Dude, that’s awesome.”
“Thanks, but we’ll be stuck here awhile.”
“What do you mean ‘awhile’?”
“We need two new engines sent to Bangkok. McClendon is scrambling to find them. Then he’s got to find a way to ship them here.”
“He doesn’t have to do all that. All he needs to do is contact AFSOC—”
Jason put up his hand. "I'm aware of how the system works. I'm just explaining what the situation is. We'll be here for a few days, at least."
Ben breathed deeply yet carefully. He sat on the end of the bed, staring at the floor, his brow furrowed. Damn. He needed to return to Okinawa. Now.
“Are you all right?” Jason said.
His head jerked toward Jason. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry, I was just thinking.”
“Look, I’m not sure what’s going on, but McClendon gave me orders not to talk to you.”
Ben sat straight. “Really?”
“Yeah. Since I’m violating a direct order and subjecting myself to an Article 15, why don’t you explain yourself? What in the hell have you’ve gotten into?”
Ben walked to the couch and glanced at his computer screen. A smile formed on his face as he picked up his drink. “Want one?”
“No. I’m waiting.”
“Right,” Ben said, taking a sip of his drink. “Sorry, I tend not to revisit the past. I like to keep moving forward.”
“Ben—”
“Okay. Two weeks ago, I snuck across the border into Cambodia.”
“Why the hell would you do that?”
“That’s where the casinos are.”
“I thought Thai/Cambodia relations were kind of sour since that Thai actress said something about Cambodia.”
“Suwanan Kongying. Yeah, she insulted the people of Cambodia. Something about the Angkor Wat temples belonging to Thailand. I’m not sure. That was back in April. Got somewhat dicey. Mobs attacked the Thai embassy. The border was closed for a while. Things have cooled off a little since then.”
“Okay, so you went gambling.”
“Yeah, so I’m in this casino playing blackjack, and I’m doing well. No, I’m kicking ass. Then, this beautiful blonde walks up and starts betting on me. I’m winning big, she’s winning big. She starts to hang all over me.”
“Ben, you’re married.”
“Thanks, Jason, I forgot.” The sarcasm in his response was evident by the expression on his face.
"So anyway, I'm up over a thousand bucks. She asks me if I want to play a game to win ‘big' money. She grabs my arm, and we saunter to the back of the casino into some hidden room. It was like a scene out of a James Bond movie. A bunch of different-looking old foreign guys sitting around a card table, each with a babe young enough to be his daughter."
"Except, you're James Bond."
“Right. I mean, I’m the young, good-looking guy. I’ve got this smoking hot blonde hanging on my arm. The casino owner walks over and brings me my chips personally. Says to me, ‘A thousand dollars is enough money for a man to start his fortune.’ So, I’m playing, and I’m winning. After a while, the blonde leaves me at the table and walks out of the room. The gal serving drinks keeps trying to get me drunk, but I blow her off. So, I’m up over forty-grand—”
“You kept playing?”
"Uh, yeah . . . it's a little late for advice on this. So, I'm up forty-grand, and the next thing I know, the dealers swap out. I glimpse at the new dealers, and it's—"
“The hot blonde.”
“Yeah. Some Asian dude was the early dealer, so he was easy to ignore. She’s the closer, and she’s changed into the black slacks, white blouse, and black vest. Of course, the vest is too small, she’s not wearing a bra, and I keep staring at her tits.”
“Of course.”
“Well, she made it kind of hard to concentrate. So, I start taking those drinks the waitress is offering. Then I start losing. And losing more. It must have been the way she would demo spreading the cards. I don’t think she was supposed to do that as a dealer.”
“How much did you lose?”
Ben took another sip, then a deep breath.
“One hundred thirty-five.”
“Thousand?”
“Yeah.”
“Holy shit,” Jason said. “That explains a lot.”
“Right. Who the hell has that amount of money laying around? So, I pull out my checkbook. I only have three-thousand in the bank. I write a check for that. I go to the ATM and then max out my cash withdrawal on the few credit cards that I can and withdraw another two-thousand.
"At this point, I'm tapped out. I'm confused and scared shitless because some scary-looking dudes are standing around, and I'm sure they're gonna kill me."
“How could you go from doing so well to losing so much money?”
“Hell, I don’t know. I think they put something in my drinks. And the blonde kept flirting with me. At least I thought she was. This was Cambodia. There’re no women like that in Cambodia.”
“Apparently, there’s at least one.”
“Uh, yeah. So, the owner of the casino comes over, the French guy, and he tells me I can pay off the rest of the debt by getting gold bullion and paying him with that. I’m thinking that will work. I’ve got plenty of credit cards. I spend the next eight days scouring Bangkok and buying bullion.
“I finally max out all my cards until all I have left is my government travel card. I still got another thirty grand left to pay off, right?”
“So here we are,” Jason said.
“No, there’s more. I’m having trouble finding the last thirty-grand in gold bullion. So, I find this last guy, owns a little shop in the north section of Bangkok. He says he can find it for me, but he only has twenty-grand worth of bullion on hand. Needs a couple of days to find the rest.”
“Okay, I can see where the problem is.”
“Yeah. I drop off the twenty-grand in bullion. Who’s there?
The hot blonde once again, this time taking the delivery. I explain the situation, and she gives me another four days. In the meantime, I get my ass kicked as a warning.”
“What did you tell McClendon?”
“The truth. I was followed from the market by some guy who attacked me in the elevator at our old hotel. That’s why he had everybody change hotels. Figured we might be targeted by terrorists or something.”
Jason looked at him as if something was missing. “So, you should be fine now, right?”
“No. I still owe the casino owner ten grand. If I don’t deliver the gold to him in two days, he kills me.”
9
October 12, 2003
Maison beamed as he strutted through his casino, his enforcer, Sarathoon, never more than five steps behind him. At a quarter to seven in the morning, Maison was already moving on all cylinders. His incredible work ethic was how he recovered his fortune after such a tragic loss four years prior. Still, the once-plush carpet was beginning to show its wear, though Maison paid more attention to the money he was making.
Bells from the numerous slot machines rang different notes and volumes, customers either cheering or cursing. The constant mechanical grinding of the one-armed bandits echoed in the vast room. Colorful lights flashed and blinked, the machines randomly picking winners and losers. The sights and sounds reflected the pleasant casino experience, but the smell created a different set of images. It was not the upper crust of society in his establishment this time of day, but their money was just as good. He strode past the unused roulette wheel tables, roped off and waiting for the evening clientele, and approached a nondescript door.
Maison continued down a dark corridor that led to another door. He punched in the cipher code and entered his office. The bland room did not have the opulence worthy of a wealthy casino owner. It looked more like a bookie's office in the back of an Italian restaurant in New York City. Nothing on the walls but paint. A plain desk with simple chairs in front. The carpet was more threadbare than the one in the gaming room. The only luxuries appeared to be a computer positioned on top of the desk and the Corinthian leather chair behind it, which Maison occupied.
The Quiet Professional Page 5
