The Quiet Professional

by Michael Byars Lewis

  The finger light was something he used on the airplane. Another one of his toys. Swinging the light around the room, he found the door on the other side. He glimpsed at Sugarmann, who nodded, as the green beam pointed out the table and boxes between them and the door.

  When they reached the door, Jason wrapped his hand around the handle and placed his ear against the door. His mind whirled with what could be happening to Lawan and Preeda. Why would this Chechen kidnap them? Whatever the Chechen’s reason, Jason had his reasons for rescuing them. He couldn’t let a mother and daughter suffer like this. Well, he found a way in here. Now came the hard part—getting them out.

  With a deep breath, Jason carefully opened the door wide enough for him and Sugarmann to slip into the warehouse. To their surprise, they heard yelling, the noise echoing off the thin metal walls of the warehouse. Their view was blocked by stacks of crates. Cautiously, they maneuvered between the crates until they reached a good position to size up their situation.

  The vast interior of the warehouse lay before them. Much bigger than it appeared from the outside in the dark. Dormant fluorescent lights hung twenty feet off the ground throughout the warehouse. Only the center section had been turned on, and it cast an eerie glow inside the warehouse. They saw the two groups squaring off. The corners of his mouth curled upward as he glanced at Sugarmann, who also grinned.

  On the far side of the warehouse, a small fleet of trucks stacked with containers. Containers exactly like the ones in the vault. Standing in front of the trucks: Maison Andrepont and about twenty of his men.

  Jason’s grin faded when he saw Lawan and Preeda. They stood across from Maison about sixty feet away, held at gunpoint by the Chechen and about ten men. Jason edged closer, trying to stay hidden in the shadows. To his right, armored cars parked in a row, along with three forklifts that must have been used to transfer the gold to the new trucks. He motioned to Sugarmann that he wanted to move by the trucks to get closer. Sugarmann nodded.

  The two stealthily slid amongst the shadows to the row of trucks, bounding their way truck by truck, until they were abeam the two groups. Jason put a finger to his lips to silence Sugarmann and leaned forward, hoping to hear what was going on.

  “You won’t leave here alive,” Jason heard Maison say.

  Jason lay on the ground and crawled forward.

  “If that’s the case,” the Chechen said, “I won’t be the only one.” He held the gun closer to Preeda’s head.

  Jason balled his fists, desperate to do something.

  “Monsieur Andrepont, all I want is my money. With interest, of course. You did kill five of my men.”

  “That was my men defending themselves,” Maison said. “Perhaps we can work out a deal.”

  Lawan struggled against the two men holding her, oblivious to the guy behind her with a gun to her head. Jason was sure Maison didn’t give a damn about Lawan, but he wouldn’t let anything happen to Preeda. Maison motioned to one of his men—Jason recognized the bastard. One of the guys who tortured him. This became more personal by the minute.

  Maison and the man spoke for a few seconds. The man grabbed a partner and ran back to one of the trucks.

  “What’s it going to cost me to get out of this situation?” Maison said to the Chechen.

  The Chechen paused. “Ten million.”

  Maison nodded. “Cash? Or will gold bullion do?”

  The Chechen’s face looked confused. Clearly, he had no idea what was going on. Jason suspected he was surprised there was no counteroffer. That could be good or bad.

  “Jason,” Sugarmann said too loudly behind him.

  “Shhh.” He waved his hand for Sugarmann to be quiet.

  “Jason.” The voice louder this time.

  He propped himself on his elbow and turned back. Immediately, he saw an AK-47 pointed at his forehead. A quick glance to the right showed Sugarmann on his knees with his hands behind his head, a gunman pointing a rifle at his temple.

  66

  October 18, 2003

  Maison's finger hovered above the trigger of the AK-47 he held in his hands. His plan had been executed flawlessly. Years in the making, he would finally repay the IMF for bankrupting him. The planning, the plotting, the precision placement of people, and resources—it all came together. He had stolen a significant portion of their gold reserve. In doing so, potentially crippling their economic base and throwing the gold market into a frenzy. If the gold market destabilized once it was revealed the IMF's gold supply was fake, the value of gold would drop. He could swoop in and buy even more. His revenge would be complete. The IMF would be crippled financially, their reputation ruined.

  The beauty of the plan? The gold wouldn’t be discovered missing until it was removed from its containers in the vault in Singapore. By that time, there would be no way to determine how the gold had been swapped. At what point over the six-month journey of the gold was it stolen? No one would be able to tell. He might be suspected, but his plan? Flawless.

  Until now.

  The Chechen and his men held his daughter and her mother at gunpoint. The mother, she was expendable. But Preeda was his daughter. The love he had for her was something he never expected, but it had grown significantly over the last five years.

  Maison’s head jerked to his left. Two of his men stepped out of the shadows, led by Jason Conrad and an older gentleman, both with their hands behind their heads. His face remained expressionless, but his mind whirled. How does this man, Jason Conrad, keep finding his way into his life?

  “Jason,” Lawan screamed. Maison glared at her. He saw the desperation on her face. She was too attached. They had been sleeping together, no doubt. Whore. Her husband just died. Preeda, he noticed, was both excited and scared.

  “So, the two young lovers are reunited. Well, my friend,” he said to the Chechen, “it seems like our party is growing bigger by the minute.”

  “What is this?” the Chechen asked.

  Maison brushed them off with a wave of his hand. “Just an inconvenience. They probably followed you here.” He motioned to his right. “Secure them over there.” The two men shoved Jason and Sugarmann across the warehouse to the shadows on the other side, handcuffing them to separate poles.

  He turned back to face the Chechen. “So, do we have a deal? I’ll even let you keep the mother.”

  The Chechen was thinking. Maison had no doubt they had a deal. But if not, there was nothing he wouldn’t do for his daughter. Even if it meant killing everyone in this warehouse.

  “We have a deal, but I need one of your trucks. Ten million in gold is quite heavy,” he said, pointing at the vehicles behind him.

  Maison shook his head. “Transportation of your resources is not my problem.” Hands on his hips, he paced back and forth. He stopped, facing the row of armored cars. It was all for dramatic effect, of course. “There,” he said with a flourish. “You can take one of those. The keys are in them.”

  The Chechen glanced at Maison, then back at the armored cars. He turned to one of his men and motioned with his head. The man nodded and jogged over to one of the vehicles and climbed in. The sound of the engine vibrated throughout the empty warehouse, and the armored car moved to the center of the warehouse.

  “Sarathoon,” Maison said softly into the microphone clipped to his collar. “Do you see anything?”

  Sarathoon’s voice came over the hidden radio into his earpiece. “Yes, he has two men located by the main entrance. They could be snipers. They have rifles but no scopes.”

  “Well, let us consider the worst. Take care of them, will you?”

  “Yes, Monsieur Andrepont.”

  One of Maison’s men cranked up a forklift. He removed a pallet of bullion to place in the armored car. When the forklift reached the middle of the two groups, the Chechen put up his hand to stop him.

  “I’ve dealt with you before, Monsieur Andrepont. I need to see this gold.”

  Maison flushed with anger. This little piss-ant doesn’t und
erstand the generosity he bestowed upon him. He glanced at his daughter, understanding the quicker they completed this transaction, the quicker he would get her away from that Chechen psychopath. He signaled his men, and the group moved to the forklift, which lowered the container to the concrete floor.

  “No matter. Each of these containers holds one hundred bars weighing four-hundred grams each. My calculations show sixty-seven bars. I’m rounding up, so you come up ahead.”

  The Chechen watched his man doing the math next to him. After a moment, the man looked up and nodded.

  “Very well,” the Chechen said. He shoved Preeda to one of his men, the little girl almost falling.

  Maison seethed at the brutality of holding a gun to his little girl’s head and shoving her around. He would enjoy killing that son of a bitch.

  He punched in the code to the container. It had been a struggle to convince Sterling MacIntosh to give him the code, but he eventually gave in several weeks ago. Americans can be so foolish, he thought. He hit ‘ENTER’ and slid the door up. His eyes grew wide, the bile caught in his throat. His head shook as he stared inside. This cannot be . . .

  The container was—

  Empty.

  Empty of gold anyway. He pulled out one of the bars that occupied the container and recognized it immediately. Tungsten.

  The Chechen let out a deep laugh. “Monsieur Andrepont, it appears that you’ve been robbed.” The smile faded from the Chechen’s face, and he pointed a pistol at him. “Now, where is my ten-million dollars?”

  A tragic reality struck him; his mind formulating what his eyes had shown him. "No, no, no," the anxiousness in his voice evident, as men from both sides moved closer to look at the empty container.

  Maison held up a finger. “One moment,” he said and marched back to the trucks behind him.

  “I would look hard, Monsieur Andrepont,” the Chechen yelled. “Your history of defaulting on your payments is well known.”

  Maison ignored the comment, despite the sarcastic tone. Right now, he had over one point five billion dollars to confirm. Maybe it was an accident, an extra container in the shipment. That’s it. It must be a spare. A spare for weight and balance on the aircraft.

  Maison climbed on the nearest truck, typed in the code on a container, and slid the cover upward. Damn. Perspiration ran down his face, his hands clammy. He checked another container. No gold. He jumped down and moved to the next truck, checking two more. Both empty of gold. All the containers were filled with tungsten. He headed to a third truck.

  “Monsieur,” the Chechen laughed as he spoke. “Your silence speaks volumes. You pulled off the crime of the century . . . and have nothing to show for it.”

  The laughter is what pissed him off. How could this happen? He scrambled onto the third truck and confirmed his situation. The fucking IMF. Why? Why did they spend so much money to move containers filled with tungsten? Unless . . .

  Perhaps it had been too easy to acquire the code from MacIntosh.

  “We’ll be leaving now, Monsieur Andrepont.” The man with the gun pointed at Preeda’s head and pulled her closer. The Chechen and his men moved toward the door.

  Maison spun around on the back of the truck, facing the Chechen.

  “Sarathoon,” he said into the microphone, “are you in position?”

  “Yes.”

  He paused as he gazed at his beautiful little girl. If the Chechen left with her, he'd never see her again. His eyes drooped, and his shoulders sagged. After a deep breath, he exhaled slowly, shaking off the insecurities of her safety. If she were going to die, she would die here, now, with him.

  “Take them out.”

  Jason struggled, still handcuffed to the pole. When the gunmen found them, they did not frisk them. The lock-pick set he carried was still in his back pocket, but he couldn’t reach it. The way they secured his hands, however, allowed him to pull a bobby pin out of his front pocket. Another one of the tricks he had taught himself; how to pick handcuffs with the everyday household item. Jason had also gotten in the habit of hiding them in places he could access quickly. Thankfully, Maison’s men left them alone after they handcuffed them to the pole. Jason suspected they didn’t have much time, particularly with a potential firefight staring them in the face.

  He thought he heard the Chechen laugh because there was no gold in the container. Was it a ruse on Maison’s part? Who knew? Who cared? They would sort it out later. He needed to escape from these handcuffs first and then free Sugarmann.

  Jason stripped the enamel end from the bobby pin with his teeth and then straightened the pin out. Inserting the straight end into the opening where the handcuff teeth engaged the body of the device, he maneuvered the pin until he heard the click he waited for and felt the pressure release. Pulling his hand free, he checked to ensure his captors were not aware of his actions. They were too preoccupied with armed men in front of them. He released the other side and slid the cuff off.

  Freeing his partner was next. When he turned, Sugarmann stood by his pole, twirling the handcuff around his right index finger.

  “Nice work, kid. You did that like a pro.”

  “I’ve got a history of finding trouble,” Jason whispered as he slid over to Sugarmann. “Most of my spare time is figuring ways to get out of it.”

  “Well, this is one hell of a pickle you got yourself into this time.”

  “Yeah. I have absolutely no idea how to get Lawan and Preeda out of here.”

  Jason saw Sugarmann pull out his cell phone. They didn’t frisk him either.

  “Who you calling?”

  “Backup.”

  Jason studied the scenario across the vast warehouse, trying to size up who was where.

  “I got a bad feeling about this,” Sugarmann said when he got off the phone. “Andrepont owes this guy a lot of money and apparently doesn’t have it. And from the sounds of things, his gold heist is a bust. I wonder where all his gold went to?”

  Jason thought about Sugarmann's question. He wondered if it was ever there, to begin with. Could Sterling MacIntosh have taken the gold somewhere? Was it possible he delivered empty containers? If so, was it intentional? His thoughts were interrupted when the first shot rang out.

  67

  October 18, 2003

  The shot came from the right, near the entrance to the warehouse. Jason hit the ground as he searched for the shooter. Sugarmann also did, although slower. The second shot gave away his position, and Jason saw Sarathoon in the shadows, firing a rifle at the Chechen’s men.

  In the center of the warehouse, everyone in the two groups scattered, trying to find someplace to take cover. Within seconds, both groups opened fire at the other.

  “No! No! Stop shooting! Stop shooting!” Maison ordered. Lawan and Preeda both lay on the ground. Were they hit? There was no blood but no movement either. Jason lifted his head for a closer look, and Maison leaned from the truck. There was a brief pause while both sides took stock of their situation, looking for a way to either gain the upper hand or end this without further blood loss. That momentary silence was all one person needed.

  Without warning, Preeda jumped up and ran to her mother.

  “Preeda, no,” her mother yelled. Two of the Chechen’s gunmen swung their AKs toward the little girl but held their fire as if suddenly gaining a conscience. Lawan pushed herself up when Preeda approached, grabbed her, and pulled her to the floor.

  The firing started again almost the moment Preeda landed next to her mother. Jason tried to figure out who was where. The warehouse was divided in two, with the forklift dividing the two factions, Maison and his men to the left; the Chechen and his men to the right. Unfortunately, Sarathoon was behind them near the main entrance. Across from Jason and Sugarmann—the row of armored cars, which Maison’s men were sneaking around, attempting to box in the Chechen’s men. The forklift and the container of tungsten sat in the center.

  Lawan and Preeda lay exposed on the floor, thirty feet from the forklift.
Men yelled back and forth in language Jason could not understand. He did notice one of them was Sarathoon. And when Sarathoon yelled, Lawan lifted her head and looked in his direction.

  One of the Chechen’s men was pinned down against the forklift, exposed in the crossfire. The man aimed his weapon at Lawan and Preeda. A second later, rounds from Sarathoon’s rifle pierced the man’s body with deadly accuracy. Sarathoon shouted instructions, and Lawan grabbed Preeda, and the two scurried to the forklift. He laid down cover fire while the mother and daughter sprinted to Jason’s side of the warehouse.

  Jason turned to Sugarmann. “We’ve got to help them.”

  “You got a plan?”

  “Yeah. Let’s go.” Jason started to rise.

  “Wait,” Sugarmann said as two men edged out of the shadows. “Some of Andrepont’s guys are between her and us. We need weapons.”

  Jason searched around the floor and spied a metal pipe near the wall. He crawled over and picked up the pipe, rising to a low crouch, motioning to Sugarmann. The older CIA man crawled over, and the two crept along the wall toward Lawan and her daughter. Approaching a stack of boxes, they stumbled upon one of Maison’s men with his back to them, peering over another set of boxes.

  Stepping softly, Jason snuck up behind the man and swung the steel pipe against his skull. It reverberated with a shallow thunk as dense metal met bone, and the man slid to the floor unconscious.

  Jason picked up the man’s AK-47 and ejected the magazine to inspect it. It looked full, or at least close to it; he reinserted the magazine, cycled the receiver, and chambered a round. He noticed no bullet flew out of the ejector. This goon was in the middle of a gunfight and didn’t have a round in the chamber. A quick search and Jason realized he had no extra ammo either. This guy wasn’t a badass thug. Not even close. This guy was filler. He slid the safety off with his right index finger and motioned for Sugarmann to join him.