The Quiet Professional

by Michael Byars Lewis

  “My name, sir, is Sterling MacIntosh. I am a colleague of Captain Conrad’s father.” He handed McClendon a business card and a driver’s license from the Commonwealth of Virginia.

  McClendon took both and studied them as he shuffled toward the window. The business card was expensive; linen weave with embossed lettering. But that meant nothing to him. For all he knew, this guy could be some pedophile with a grind to pick with the U.S. government. He walked back to the silver-haired man and handed him his driver’s license.

  “I’d like to keep this if I can,” McClendon said, waving the business card.

  “Of course. I have plenty.”

  McClendon recognized the insult right away and looked past the silver-haired man at Chris, who stood behind him, shrugging his shoulders. He had no idea who this guy was or if his story was legit. It's not every day a fellow countryman walks up to your troops and asks about one of your personnel who just arrived in theater and is now missing.

  “Why are you looking for Captain Conrad?”

  “Initially, I planned to just drop in and say hello. On behalf of his father, of course. Now it seems to have turned into something more,” he said, giving a passing glance at Chris.

  “I’m sorry, Mister MacIntosh. I can’t tell you anything about Captain Conrad.”

  “You don’t have to tell me anything about him. I know everything about him. Except where he is at this moment. That is the information I need.”

  McClendon shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I simply can’t give out that kind of information. My people are my top priority.”

  “Well, it doesn’t seem so in this case, does it?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “It appears you know the location of every one of your people—with the exception of Jason Conrad.”

  McClendon felt his pulse increase. It was one of those things he paid more attention to since the flight doc told him to watch his cholesterol. Who was this son of a bitch? If he were friends with Conrad’s father, he would be well-connected either politically, financially, or both.

  “I can’t help you, sir. I’ve got your information. I’ll have Captain Conrad contact you later.”

  “This is most troubling,” MacIntosh said, his gray eyes piercing into his own. “I’ll be in Bangkok for two weeks. We’ll be in touch.”

  The silver-haired gent turned and strolled out of the suite, leaving Chris, and the mission commander puzzled.

  “Where did you find that son of a bitch?” McClendon said.

  "He found us, sir. The guy walked right up, knew who we were, where we came from, and he knew Jason was our pilot."

  “You guys are supposed to keep a low profile.”

  “We are, sir. At least I thought so. Jason hasn’t gone out at all since we got here . . . except to the jewelry shop.”

  “Yeah, and that didn’t work out so well, did it?”

  “No, sir,” Chris said, lowering his gaze to the floor.

  McClendon moved to the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of water.

  “The engines for your aircraft arrived a few hours ago. I need your flight engineer and loadmaster to go to the airfield to assist in the engine change.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell them to meet me in the lobby in thirty minutes. They can ride with me. And if you receive word from Captain Conrad . . . or about him, contact me right away.”

  33

  October 15, 2003

  Jason awoke but couldn't move. His face lay flat on the sticky floor, pointed toward a thin beam of light jutting from underneath the door. His eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness, and he became aware of another problem. A stench so overpowering that it invaded his nostrils. It had smelled bad when they brought him in here, like rotting animals. Soiling himself didn't help. He tried to estimate how long he had been here, but his mind lacked focus. His brain—too foggy; time—an afterthought; and the overwhelming pain clouded any thoughts of escape.

  Eventually, he managed to roll onto his side and prop himself up on an elbow. After some time, he sat upright, though he struggled to maintain that position. Once he was confident he wouldn’t fall over, he checked himself out. Sharp pain emanated from his stomach and he breathed in shallow gasps—he suspected a couple of bruised ribs. His face hurt, too, and his lips were bleeding, but he didn’t detect any signs of blunt trauma to his head. The electric shock . . . damn. Swollen and scratchy, his throat ached from the screaming. His body burned from contact by the cables.

  Jason forced himself to stand, leaning against the wall for support. The effort seemed like ten minutes but took less than two. Breathing came easier now, but it did not take long to realize how bad a shape he was in. It took everything he had not to scream. He wouldn't give the bastards the satisfaction. He had already screamed enough.

  Jason tried to focus on some of the heroes he read about from the Vietnam War. Lance Sijan, an Air Force pilot who refused to give up his dream of escape from a POW camp. And Nick Rowe, a Green Beret lieutenant, who struggled for five years as a prisoner before ultimately making his escape. Jason had only been here a day, maybe two. Gradually, he started to put some of the pieces together. His struggle was just beginning, and he needed to stay mentally alert.

  He attempted to apply some of the SERE techniques he’d learned at survival school, but this situation was different. Only one of his captors spoke his language. The last he remembered, they still thought he was Ben. Even under torture, he never told them the truth.

  Ben. No telling where he was now. Hopefully, back on Okinawa. Jason thought about the sacrifice he was making for his friend. Would Ben do it for him? Probably not. But that was not why he was doing this. He had standards. He had a moral code. For him, it was the right thing to do, whether or not Ben would ever do the same thing for him. These were his values. What someone else did was not a factor.

  He rubbed his raw wrists. They felt numb. Hanging in the handcuffs had strained them to a point where he felt no more pain. Jason moved each body part, attempting to assess the damage. He shivered as the damp room absorbed his body heat. Laying on the cold floor didn't help. He did not know who these bastards were or what they planned to do with him.

  Maison and Helena returned to the mansion early that morning. Sarathoon parked the car while they walked inside. Nimol met them in the foyer.

  “Well?” Maison said.

  “They are all here,” Nimol replied. “The girl is in one of the guest rooms. The mother in another.”

  “Is the mother aware the girl is here?”

  “No, Monsieur Andrepont. She has no idea.”

  Maison smiled when he heard this. He glanced at Helena, who glared at him inquisitively.

  "My dear, don't look so surprised. I'm not always the cold, ruthless brute, that you think I am."

  “That remains to be seen. What’s the interest in these two?” Helena said. “It seems you are complicating our plan.”

  “The woman is Suttirat’s wife. She knows what we’ve been doing. I can’t have her running around with that information.”

  “And the little girl?”

  “It’s her daughter, my dear.”

  “I don’t understand why you don’t kill them both. You’ve done it before.”

  Maison paused and stared at the floor.

  “Yes. Yes, I have. But not this time,” he said, walking away. “Check on the delivery schedule for Arthit. We’ll need to confirm the delivery and payment method.”

  Maison stopped when she didn’t reply.

  “Helena?”

  She stood in the middle of the foyer, hands on her hips, her mouth slightly open.

  “Helena, do you not understand my instructions?”

  Her eyebrows furrowed. “Yes, Maison, I understand. I’ll take care of it. Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to check on our guests,” he said, marching upstairs.

  Maison reached the second floor and walked the length of the long hallway to the ro
om on the end. The sound of the television echoed through the door. He turned the knob, gently pushed, and entered the room.

  The curtains were open, allowing the morning sun to illuminate the room. Directly ahead of him, on the other side of the room, a little girl sat on the edge of the bed facing the television. SpongeBob SquarePants played on the screen, subtitles moving across the bottom.

  Maison stepped inside and shut the door with an audible click. The little girl turned sharply; eyes wide with the beginnings of a smile. Those faded rapidly when she saw him. Tears ran down her cheeks. Her head lowered and turned back toward the television.

  He moved to the side of the bed and knelt.

  “Hello, Preeda,” he said softly in perfect Thai.

  Her head turned toward him again, curious this time.

  “How do you know my name?” she said.

  “You are my guest here. I know all my guests’ names.”

  “I want to go home. I want my mom.”

  Maison nodded and glanced at the television.

  “Where is Jay-son?” she muttered.

  His lips parted as if to speak, yet he paused. Jay-son? A pet? A stuffed animal? Who knows what a child thinks? He edged closer toward her.

  “Preeda, my name is Maison. This is my house. Do you like it?”

  “It’s a big house.”

  “Yes, it is. Are you hungry?”

  She nodded enthusiastically.

  “Would you like to come with me to the kitchen and get something to eat?”

  Her eyes shifted back and forth, searching for what to say. He knew the answer. The head nodded much slower this time. Maison reached his hand out, but she ignored it and slid off the edge of the bed. He stood and escorted her to the doorway. Preeda followed him downstairs, always a few steps behind. When he stopped for her to catch up, she stopped. A cautious little girl, he noted. Quite bright for a five-year-old.

  She sat at the table in the kitchen, where he had his chef prepare her a bowl of Mama Ramen Noodles. She ate quickly and sipped on Coca-Cola. Maison watched from a distance, not wanting to crowd her. His presence made her nervous. At least she appeared happy while she ate. He suspected that wouldn’t last. He was right.

  No sooner than she finished, did her sullen demeanor return. Hunched over, she no longer possessed the spark she had while eating. Maison walked across the kitchen and held out his hand.

  “Come, Preeda. Let’s go.”

  Again, she ignored his hand and stood to follow him. Leaving the kitchen, he strolled down a long hallway in the back of the living room. He occasionally checked to see if she still followed. She trailed right behind him. It was good she had eaten. She needed her strength for what he had in store for her.

  34

  October 15, 2003

  The warm breeze fluttered through the open window, invigorating the large bedroom. Lawan brushed the hair from her eyes and studied her surroundings. The room appeared unchanged for six years. She shivered and contemplated if anyone stayed in here since. Lawan curled in a chair by the window and stared at the dense, green jungle beyond the property walls. Palm trees towered over the compound walls, providing another layer of security. She closed her eyes and exhaled deeply.

  Preeda.

  Her daughter was the only thing she cared about in this world, and she lost her. She would go to the ends of the earth to find her, and once she escaped from this . . . prison, she would.

  The knock at the door startled her. Whoever knocked, tried to open the door, but she locked it from the inside. A moment later, the person inserted a key and opened the lock with a distinct click. It was a sound she knew well because she had been locked in this room before. Lawan set her tea on the windowsill and swung her feet to the floor. Before she could stand, the door opened.

  Maison.

  She had wondered when that son of a bi—

  “Preeda!” she cried when her little girl stepped from behind him.

  “Mommy!” Preeda raced across the room and jumped into her mother’s arms.

  Lawan’s eyes filled with tears as she squeezed her daughter.

  “Don’t cry, Mommy.”

  “Are you alright, my baby? Where have you been?”

  “She had been kidnapped by the American wanted by the police, Ben Harris,” Maison interjected.

  Lawan glared at him. “But, somehow, they found their way here?”

  “Of course.”

  “It seems a little too convenient, Maison,” Lawan said, gritting her teeth. “But things always are a little too convenient when you are involved.”

  “De rien,” he said—you’re welcome—the sarcasm not lost in his words. “I’m sure you’re happy to see your daughter again.”

  “It wouldn’t be an issue if you hadn’t killed my husband in the first place.”

  “Killed your husband? I’m sorry to hear of your loss, but you can’t believe that I had anything to do with that.”

  “How else do you explain why I’m here?”

  Maison smiled wryly and shook his head. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. You were brought here for your safety, my dear.” He walked to the closet and opened the door. “Your clothes are still here. Feel free to change into something . . . fresh.”

  She let out a subtle gasp. He kept everything that was hers? For this long? This . . . this was not normal. “What do you want from me? To dress like one of your whores?”

  His eyes roamed over her body, his tongue wetting his upper lip.

  “Make yourself at home, mon chéri,” he said when he turned to leave. “It is nice to see you back in the mansion.”

  He left without another word, and the moment the door closed, she leaped across the room and locked the door. Maison had a key, of course. It was more of a statement than anything else.

  Across the room, Preeda stood erect, her face withdrawn, unsure if she were allowed to move. Lawan stretched out her arms, kneeling, and Preeda raced toward her. Their embrace was telling. She cursed herself for letting Preeda disappear, but the realization was always in the back of her mind. This was all Maison's doing.

  Pulling back, Lawan brushed the hair out of Preeda’s eyes and ran her fingers down her puffy cheeks.

  “Where did you go, sweetheart?”

  Preeda lowered her head. Lawan sensed the child’s emotional state.

  "You're not in trouble, sweetheart. I've just been worried about you."

  When Preeda smiled, her toothless grin touched her mother’s heart. “I was okay, Mommy. Jay-son took care of me.”

  Lawan looked at her, perplexed. “Who is Jason? Maison said you were with a man named Ben Harris.”

  Preeda shook her head. “His name is Jay-son. The bad men call him Ben Harris. Is that his name, too?”

  Lawan stood slowly and stared at the door. “I don’t know, sweetheart.”

  Sarathoon arrived in the basement shortly after he parked the car. Nimol met him upstairs and filled him in on what had taken place since they had brought Ben Harris back to the mansion. The two men walked to the interrogation room.

  “He’s not talking.”

  “Nothing?”

  "No. We've beaten him, starved him, and won't let him sleep. Early this morning, we started the electric shock. Nothing."

  "Ben Harris did not seem a formidable man previously. I'm surprised he's lasted through this." Sarathoon pushed open the door to the basement and entered the long hallway. Nimol scurried past him, pulling out the key to the room. He flipped the light switch in the hall, illuminating the room from a single bulb in the center of the ceiling. Sarathoon turned his head to the side and wrinkled his nose when the smell hit him.

  He worked past the rancid odor and approached the crumpled man leaning against the wall. The shirtless, shoeless figure sat against the far wall, head down, his right knee propped up.

  “Ben Harris,” Sarathoon said, “it’s been a few days. Why do you not have our gold?”

  The man said nothing. Sarathoon reached down, grabbed the man’s hair
, and pulled his head up.

  “Ben Harris, it’s been a few—”

  Sarathoon’s eyes grew wide, then narrowed. He turned the man’s head side to side. The man was broken, but not near death. Sarathoon glanced back at Nimol. The fool. He had no doubt why Nimol and Ponleak had tortured the man and gathered no information.

  The man’s eyes opened, and the two men stared at each other. The prisoner formed a grin and began to chuckle. The chuckle was followed immediately by a dry cough.

  Sarathoon released his grip and let the man’s head fall back to his chest. He stood and walked across the room, his mind running through every possible scenario. How could these two imbeciles make this mistake?

  “Did he have any identification on him when you found him?” Sarathoon asked.

  Nimol’s gaze drifted sheepishly to the floor; he reached in his pocket and produced a wallet. Sarathoon’s face tightened, and his teeth clenched.

  “I-I kept it safe,” Nimol said.

  Sarathoon snatched the wallet from his hands and opened it. Pulling out several cards, his eyes scanned them. He turned and marched quickly down the hallway and back up the stairs. At the top of the stairs, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

  “Yes.”

  “Monsieur Andrepont, I’ve just seen our prisoner. This is not Ben Harris.”

  35

  October 15, 2003

  Chris gathered the Jakal crew once again in The Huntsman, feeling more somber than previously. Martinez and the loadmasters were the last to arrive. They had a long night, assisting with the engine changes on the airplane. The three of them did not return to the hotel until after three in the morning, and it showed. They were dragging.

  “The plane fixed?” Chris said as the three sat at the table.

  “Yes, sir,” Martinez said. “Took all day and most of the night to swap out the engines. Then we had to run them both. We’re good to go.”