The Quiet Professional

by Michael Byars Lewis

  The Chechen stood across from him and pulled the envelope out of the briefcase. He pinched the check inside the envelope and slid it out. Closing the briefcase and setting it on the floor, he placed the check in front of the banker and sat in the chair opposite him.

  A broad smile formed on the banker’s face. He glanced from the Chechen to the check and back again.

  “I’m familiar with this bank.” The banker admired the check. “It has their mark.”

  “Mark?”

  "Yes—well, more like a band. A band embedded in the paper itself." He held the check up to the lamp on his desk. "See? You can see the band through the paper against the light."

  “But anyone can copycat that, can’t they?”

  “If you know where the band is supposed to be, but they change it out every few months. You must know the location of the band on the new lot each time. If a check shows up with an out-of-place band . . . well, that raises suspicion.”

  “What if somebody is sitting on a check? They don’t want to cash it yet?”

  “The clients this bank services do not sit on checks. Especially checks of this size.”

  The banker started typing again and studied the back of the check. His eyebrows disappointingly drooped with the corners of his mouth.

  “You need to sign this and put your account number on the back.” He slid the check to the Chechen.

  “Are you kidding me? For a check this size?”

  “Humor me.”

  The Chechen signed the check and slid it across to the banker.

  "You forgot to write, For Deposit Only."

  The Chechen sneered, and the banker chuckled. “Sorry, banker humor.” He continued to type into his computer for a few minutes, then stopped; one eyebrow rose, and his mouth pursed to that side. He picked up the check again and typed for another minute. The look on his face remained the same and soon began to bother the Chechen.

  The banker pulled his cellphone out of his pocket. A peculiar move while inputting a deposit for three-million dollars.

  “Excuse me.” He stood from his desk and walked across the room, the check in his free hand. The Chechen’s eyes followed him, and he quickly realized something was wrong. Did that bastard Frenchman try to deceive him?

  He watched the banker intently, reaching for his own cell phone. The banker nodded as he stared at the check. Passing a casual glance in his direction, he talked with his back to him, twenty feet across the office.

  After a few minutes, the banker dropped the phone from his ear, slipped it back into his pocket, and returned to his desk. He straightened his posture and turned to face the Chechen, a blank expression on his face.

  “The check? Is it fake?” The Chechen felt his heart beat faster.

  “No. The check is very much real. And it seems it was written in good faith.”

  “Then what is the problem?”

  The banker cleared his throat, then sighed an exasperating sigh. “There are insufficient funds.”

  “How could the bank let them write a check for insufficient funds?”

  “It appears the funds were there when the check was made. But now, somehow, this morning, the money has been electronically transferred.”

  “Well, tell them to go find it.” His voice increased in volume, and his face tensed.

  “They tried. They can’t. The withdrawal bounced from bank to bank around the globe several times today before it disappeared. The last place the transaction was seen was Johannesburg, South Africa. From there, it vanished.”

  “How can three-million dollars disappear?” the Chechen was yelling now, rising out of his seat. The two security guards, hands on their pistols, moved in closer, and the Chechen sat back in his seat.

  “I know you’re upset, but I’m afraid I wasn’t clear. It is not three-million dollars that’s missing. It’s two-hundred-million dollars. Well, slightly more. His account was emptied. All except for a thousand dollars left to keep the account open.”

  The Chechen leaned back in the chair, drumming his fingers on the armrest, mulling over the situation. He was furious, but he didn’t lose anything but time. Maison Andrepont had written a bad check, trying to pay with money he didn’t have. The Chechen accepted the fact things could have been worse; he pulled out his cell phone and dialed. His man answered on the first ring.

  “Retrieve the cargo. We’re going to find another buyer.”

  Arthit’s head jerked up when the cell phone rang across the warehouse. The Chechen’s man answered, but Arthit couldn’t tell what was going on. The man with the blond crewcut nodded and tucked the phone away. He then reached to his throat and walked toward the van.

  The Chechen’s men by the van hoisted their weapons, as did the other two on the side. The one in charge continued toward Arthit.

  “What is wrong?” Arthit said.

  “The deal is off. The missiles come back with us.”

  Arthit’s men started spreading out slowly, their guns pointed at the Chechen’s men.

  “Where is he?” Arthit said. “Let me talk to him.”

  The crewcut man shook his head. “This is not a negotiation. Have your men unload the missiles or get out of the way. The missiles are coming with us.”

  Arthit approached him cautiously but with purpose. He carried no weapon, and his arms were out to his sides. “I don’t understand,” he said. “What happened? Surely we can work this out.”

  He stood a mere two feet from the Chechen’s man.

  “There’s nothing to work out. We’re done here.”

  Arthit dropped his hands by his sides and slumped his shoulders. He looked to the right, toward the van, the man’s eyes following his. Tugging a string on the inside sleeve of his jacket, a knife slid down into his palm.

  Arthit shoved the knife into the man’s stomach, just below the body armor encased in his tactical vest. The man’s eyes went wide, and Arthit ran the blade across his stomach, watching the life fade from his eyes as his insides spilled to the ground.

  The mercenaries were not sure what happened until their boss collapsed. The one to Arthit’s left yelled and charged him when the first shot rang out. Arthit saw his head explode and the lifeless body dropped to the ground.

  The guy on the other side fired at Arthit as he dove to the ground, the burst of automatic fire barely missing him. There was a momentary pause until another shot was fired. The man firing at Arthit went down, too.

  Arthit’s men at the van sprayed machine-gun fire at the Chechen’s two men, who attempted to retrieve the missiles. The empty warehouse echoed with automatic gunfire. When the last of the Chechen’s men fell, the warehouse went silent, though the gun smoke lingered at shoulder height, and the sharp scent of gunpowder pierced the stale air.

  One of Arthit’s men ran over to him. “I’m okay,” Arthit said as he stood. “Is anyone hit?”

  Everyone checked in okay, and Arthit let out a loud whistle. A small man came running out a minute later, carrying a Mosin Nagent rifle with a scope mounted on it. The Mosin Nagent was an old, cheap rifle, but when paired with a scope and sighted in, the 7.62x54 round was extremely lethal.

  “Let’s go,” he said, and the six men climbed in the van and sped out of the warehouse, the SA-16 surface-to-air missiles secured in the back of the van.

  50

  October 16, 2003

  The Mercedes slowed as it reached the border crossing. The line into Thailand was long but longer coming from the other direction. Large groups of Thais and tourists were coming across the border to take advantage of Cambodia's casinos in Poipet.

  Jason squirmed in his seat. He didn’t like being confined in the car or stuck in traffic.

  “I’d feel better walking,” he said.

  “How would you cross? You have no passport. No money. You would be arrested and put in jail.”

  “Well, then the U.S. government would rescue me.”

  Lawan laughed. “The Cambodian guards would stop you before you ever reached the
Thai guards. Cambodian jails are not like American jails. There is no television or phone calls. Sometimes not even a cot. You could sit in jail until someone decides you have value elsewhere, or you rot. Or they may determine you have no value at all and are taking up space. Then they kill you.”

  “Okay, I see your point. So how do we play this?”

  “Just like the farong said. Ask for the watch chief and hand him the envelope.” Jason caught the slur Lawan used regarding the blonde who helped them escape. No love lost between those two.

  The car edged slowly in line until one of the border guards recognized the vehicle. He motioned for Lawan to pull to the right into a closed lane that took her straight to the Thai guards.

  “Is this a problem?” Jason said.

  “I’m not sure. I—I don’t know what to do about you. Or even me, in her car. They’ll want to know where she is.”

  “We’d better come up with something quick. We’ve got to change lanes after the next car goes through.”

  “I know.”

  Jason searched the back seat and found a blanket and some scarves.

  “Preeda, hand me those things.” Jason pointed next to her. She looked at him funny until Lawan told her what to do in Thai. “Thanks,” he said to Lawan. “Here’s what we’ll do . . .” Jason explained his plan.

  Preeda handed him the items, and Jason reclined his seat. He covered himself with the blanket and threw the scarves on top. When Lawan pulled the car forward and into the next lane, he curled himself into a ball.

  Lawan reached over and rearranged the blanket to help cover him.

  “Think small,” she said. “We are here.”

  The Mercedes approached the Cambodian border guard, who waved her through. The barrier rose, and she drove to the Thai gate. As she approached, the Thai guard stepped toward her, and she rolled the window halfway down.

  She spoke, and Jason thought Lawan sounded confident, although he couldn’t understand her.

  Jason peeked through the scarf wrapped around his head. The guard eyed Lawan suspiciously and walked back to the shack. He picked up a phone, and a minute later, a man who carried himself with a little more authority approached the car. The watch chief paused as he studied the dinged and damaged car. Were there bullet holes? That would pose a series of questions she may not be ready to answer.

  “Mademoiselle De Vries, what can I—” The watch chief spoke English.

  “Please,” Lawan said, putting up her hand. “Not too close.”

  “Where is she? This is her car. What has happened?”

  “She’s here,” Lawan said, glancing at Jason. “She’s very sick. Highly contagious. I must get her to a hospital in Bangkok. I have had to drive very fast. I’m not a good driver.”

  The watch chief studied her curiously. “Let me speak to her.”

  “You can speak to her, but you will catch it, too. My daughter and I are sick, as well, but we have not been taken over by the fever yet. Please, we must go to a hospital. Monsieur Andrepont said to give this to you.” She handed him the envelope.

  She’s doing great, Jason thought.

  He smiled when she produced the envelope. He opened it up and verified his usual payment. Tucking the envelope in his pocket, he peered back into the car. “You have your passports, yes?”

  Uh-oh.

  “No,” she shrieked. The watch chief was startled. “I raced out of Monsieur Andrepont’s mansion to drive his woman to the hospital before she dies. Sarathoon will deliver my passport and the mademoiselle’s. I will be sure to tell him you are the reason we took too long.”

  The watch chief’s swagger waned. No doubt he knew of Sarathoon and didn’t want to explain anything to Maison’s enforcer.

  “No need,” he stammered. “You are clear to go.”

  Lawan thanked him, rolled up the window, and drove the car through the gate.

  “Stay down,” she said. “We need to get away from here before you sit up. We might be followed.”

  “Who’s going to follow us?”

  “Anyone. Just stay down.” Lawan accelerated the car. Five minutes after they left the chaos of the border, Jason sat up. “Nice job.”

  Lawan smiled. “Thank you. It helps to know the right names to mention sometimes.”

  They drove along the deserted back roads toward Bangkok. The drive took several hours, and they reached Bangkok during the afternoon rush hour. They didn't speak much on the ride. The rush of the last couple of hours wound down. It took some time to weave their way through traffic before arriving at the Landmark Hotel, but at last, they reached their destination.

  Lawan pulled in front of the hotel. Jason started to exit the car—until he noticed Lawan was not moving. Her eyes were glassy, her face sullen.

  “What are you waiting for?” he said.

  “I must return home. I have a business I need to save.”

  Jason shook his head. “Not yet. It’s not safe. You’re not safe.”

  “I can’t spend my life looking over my shoulder,” she said as a single tear rolled down her cheek. “I must face our situation. Preeda and I . . . our life has changed. We must adapt.”

  Jason placed his hand on her knee and gazed her in the eyes. “I understand. You’re right about starting over, but it is not safe for you to go home yet. It’s the first place Andrepont will look for you. You’ve been gone for several days. A few more days won’t make any difference.”

  Her eyes drifted down. He could tell she was thinking about it. Gently placing his hand against her face, his thumb brushed away a tear.

  “Why don’t we do this? Let the U.S. government find you a room at the hotel. You will be surrounded by all our guys. Maison and his thugs can’t find you here. Trust me, after I tell them what this guy is doing, he won’t be around for another couple of days.”

  Her eyes fluttered, and he felt his words were starting to sink in.

  “It’s just a couple of days until this blows over. If nothing else, do it for Preeda.”

  Another tear started to fall, and she wiped it away.

  “Please,” he said.

  She smiled and lost herself in his eyes, nodding. “Okay.”

  Lawan lunged forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. He responded, wrapping his arms around her. He was glad that she decided to stay; it was the right thing to do. There was a wail from the backseat. He pulled back from Lawan, and they both looked at Preeda behind them. She had the same expression on her face she had when her mother punched Helena at the mansion. Lawan said something in Thai, and the look disappeared, replaced by her little girl's endless giggling.

  51

  October 16, 2003

  Jason, Lawan, and Preeda walked into the lobby of the Landmark Hotel. It was hectic. Long lines at the registration desk, filled with angry hotel guests. Jason noticed armed Thai soldiers positioned throughout the lobby. Several police officers meandered behind the registration desk. Something bad must have gone down.

  “I’m not sure what’s happened, but it will take too long to get a key to my room. If I still have a room. Plus, I want to avoid the police.” He glanced at Preeda; their previous encounter still lingered in his mind. “Let’s go upstairs. The mission commander or first sergeant can tell us what’s going on.”

  Lawan appeared nervous with all the activity in the lobby. She seemed to know this was not normal.

  Jason steered them toward the elevator. As he approached, a set of elevator doors opened, and a familiar face stood in front of him. Martinez, his faithful flight engineer.

  They looked at each other for a second; he could see Martinez’s brain processing what his eyes showed him. Jason’s scruffy look from not shaving for a week did not help, but when Jason smiled, Martinez put all the pieces together.

  “Holy shit!” Martinez said. “Captain Conrad? Where the hell have you—what hap—are you okay?”

  The two crewmates embraced in a man hug.

  “It’s good to see you, my friend.”
r />   “Hell, we didn’t know what happened to you! We searched everywhere.”

  Jason jerked his thumb at the chaos in the lobby. “Is this because of me?”

  “Not directly. I’ll explain later. Let’s go. Everybody is upstairs.”

  Martinez turned to step back on the elevator when Jason grabbed his arm.

  “Wait,” he said, turning to Lawan. “Lawan, Preeda, this is Master Sergeant Dave Martinez. He flies on my airplane with me. Martinez, this is Lawan Suttirat and her daughter, Preeda.”

  “Hello, miss,” he said, clasping his hands together, bowing. “And hello to you little lady,” he said in Thai and knelt to her level. “I’ve seen you on TV.” Preeda stared at Martinez as she hid behind her mother. Lawan said something in Thai, and the little girl smiled, stepping out.

  “They need a place to stay for a few days. Lawan saved my life, and we’re not leaving her and her daughter out there on their own.”

  “Well,” Martinez said, “let’s all go upstairs. I’m sure we can work it out.” The four of them took the elevator to the eleventh floor and stepped out.

  The hallway on the newly established “SOF Floor” bustled with people moving things from room to room. A few of them stopped working when they passed. He could hear the whispers. Jason recognized some of the support personnel, but he didn’t see any of his crew.

  He pulled Lawan by the hand, who held Preeda with her other hand, and they maneuvered along the hallway to Lieutenant Colonel McClendon’s room. Martinez knocked on the door, and Jimmy opened it without paying attention, turned, and walked back into the room.

  “Look who I found,” Martinez said.

  Everyone turned and looked as the three followed Martinez inside the room.

  After a brief pause, the room erupted into shouts of joy. Jason’s crewmembers leaped from their seats to greet their friend. There were hugs, backslaps, handshakes, and smiles everywhere. Jason introduced Lawan and Preeda to everyone. He gave a brief explanation of what happened from the shooting at Suttirat’s Jewelry, to the car chase, being held captive, and their ultimate escape. Chris told him about the attack on the crew and the death of Ken Crawford. Lacey was conscious and in her room. The first sergeant and Thomas left for the airport less than an hour ago, escorting Ben Harris to Okinawa.