by Sam Powers
And then he’d woken up to the realization that she’d be there to spend another day with… only to find the bed empty.
Damn. He rolled out of bed and rubbed his eyes. The beer had hit him more heavily that he’d expected, given his quick metabolism, mild dehydration setting in overnight. He ambled to the bathroom and peed, the stream darker than normal. Then he took a prolonged drink of lukewarm water from the tap.
He wandered to the kitchen, naked. Maybe she’d left a note, Brennan thought, a phone number if he was lucky. He’d really thought it had been more than just a one-night stand, but maybe he was being naïve, he told himself. Maybe it had just been the beer, and the jokes, and the moonlight.
The door to the suite opened and she walked in, seeing him naked by the short marble counter. She brought a brown bag over. He could smell the food immediately, something savory. Mandy slapped his bare ass with her palm. “Nice buns. I got breakfast from Bake ‘N Brew.”
“Bacon what now?”
“Local restaurant. I get breakfast there most days when I’m in town.”
She put the paper bag down. He moved behind her and hugged her around the waist, then kissed her neck. “Uh huh. Not hungry yet.”
She turned, her arms around his neck, her body up tight. “Hmm… now what can we do to work up an appetite?”
He squinted evilly, then reached down, scooping up the smaller woman and throwing her over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. “Calisthenics,” he said. “Good for the blood.”
She yelped as he carried her into the other room, chewing on his earlobe as he laid her down on the king-sized mattress.
***
A few hours later, their appetites once again both satisfied and awakened, they’d returned to the kitchen. Mandy had knocked back most of the food; Brennan had some of the vegetables, a half cup of rice, some melon. But that was it.
“You eat like a bird,” she said, before grasping another forkful of omelet and raising it to her mouth.
“I go through a lot of calories,” he said. “I just spread it out over ten-to-twelve meals per day…”
“Oh, I see … you’re one of those.”
“Those? The way you said that, I get the feeling I need a flea bath, or something.”
“You know what I mean: you’re one of those people, the fastidious calorie counters. The health nuts.”
“If you mean I like to respect my body and what I put into it…”
“Hey: are you suggesting I don’t? Because given some of the naughty things we got up to last night, you’re making a statement about how much you respect yourself, right there…”
He threw a roll at her. She fended it off. “Hey! That was the last one…”
“…Because you ate the other five.”
“You, sir, are not a gentleman.” Then she glanced over at the bed again. “At least, I hope not for a few more hours.
And that had been Sunday.
***
Brennan awoke with a start for the second morning in a row. He couldn’t remember anything about the dream this time, the frantic, stressful events evaporating from his memory like a case of déjà vu; there, but just too imperceptible to grasp.
She was gone again. This time, the other side of the bed was cold, as if she’d been gone for a while. A few hours earlier, Mandy had promised that her firm didn’t need her back for three more days, at the very earliest, and that they would spend that time together. They’d talked about how they grew up, and he’d talked about the SEALs, and she’d talked about wanting to make it on her own.
He sat up on his elbows and glanced around the suite in cursory fashion, for any sign she might have left, seeing nothing immediate. He lay back down and rested his hands behind his head on the pillow, as if contemplating the ceiling, looking straight past it as his mind drifted through the events of the prior two days.
She seemed so perfect. Funny, beautiful, gracious. In bed, they fit hand-to-glove, key to lock. Out of it, they made each other blush, and giggle, and be stupid for each other. Chances were good that she’d gone off to find them another breakfast, something to show him how much he was missing by not living in Thailand.
He waited, just lying there.
But after nearly an hour, and a few more minutes of dozing, he felt restless. Brennan rose and went to the kitchen, fixing himself a coffee. He was hungry and retrieved a small carton of yoghurt from the fridge, eating half of it. Then he went out to the balcony and looked out at the water, strolling down to each end to also look at the beaches, the day’s activities already underway.
Three hours later, she still hadn’t returned. He was two beers in before he decided she probably wasn’t coming back. It stung. He realized she hadn’t even given him a phone number, or so much as a peck on the cheek, a ‘it was nice while it lasted, but…’ speech.
His instinct told him something was off. Either that, or she’d been one hell of an actress; she’d been vocal about their chemistry, about how easily they’d clicked, about…
An actress. He thought about a few nights before they’d met. The German, Volkker. Had he set the whole thing up, some elaborate ruse to curry favor…?
No. The whole backstory, the gala, the rich father. That wasn’t the kind of thing a paid escort would come up with. They wouldn’t go for the kind of story that might make him wonder about her sincerity; they wouldn’t have acted like he was the kind of person they could love.
He called down to the front desk. “Mr. Brennan!” It was the overly enthusiastic valet, Josephine. “I’m most happy to be at your service…”
“The woman I was with yesterday, Ms. Siki… Sika…”
“Amanda Sạkdi̒s̄ithṭhi̒,’ she said, like it was a New Yorker saying “Smith.”
“Sure, that. We… I mean to say, she and I were planning on spending some time together again today…”
“Hmmm… this is most awkward, Mr. Brennan, sir…”
“Because…”
“Ms. Sạkdi̒s̄ithṭhi̒ checked out this morning. She… did not leave any messages.”
Ouch. “Are you sure? I mean…”
“She said that you might inquire after her but that she had nothing to pass on, other than that she had to leave, and that I should tell you such.”
Probably not quite that tactlessly, Brennan thought, but…
She’d made her point plain. Whatever he thought they had together, it hadn’t meant anything more than a couple of nights of fun.
He hung up the phone. Maybe it was for the best. It didn’t make sense, anyhow, getting involved with a Thai national. Not when he was going back to upstate New York in three days.
He rubbed his cheek stubble absent-mindedly, thinking about everything she’d said. She’d repeated it two or three times, that her father didn’t need her until Wednesday. Then she’d left him there anyway.
There was that sensation again, that something about the whole thing was off.
What else had she said over the two days prior that could account for such a sudden change? She’d noted they were headed back to Bangkok, but it wasn’t urgent. She also travelled in local social circles, which meant she probably divided her time between the two places.
The restaurant. What had she said, that she ate breakfast there every day she was in town?
It was a place to start without having to ask Josephine for help. Besides, if her father had that much money, surely the staff there would know her pretty well?
The young man at the counter stared wide-eyed at Brennan, as if he had no idea what he was saying. Given that the man had answered his request for a little help in flawless English, he knew that wasn’t it.
“Uhhh…” the youth said, his eyes flitting around like fireflies, his sudden nervousness suggesting he was trying to conjure up an appropriate lie. “… I don’t think we hear that name before.”
Brennan looked at the two girls working with him, both manning cooking stations behind the long counter at the back of the restaurant. “T
hey can understand what I’m asking? From all the way over there.”
“We don’t know her. We don’t know anything, okay?” the alarm obvious and seemingly growing by the second. “We just make breakfast; good breakfast, good omelets, good fresh bread. Best in Pattaya.”
Brennan stared at him curiously. What the Hell was wrong with this guy? Rather than ask another question, he made use of the practice he’d been putting into pronouncing her name, wondering if it was the request or her identity that had set him off. “Mandy Sạkdi̒s̄ithṭhi̒,’ he repeated.
The man physically jerked slightly, like he’d taken a small electrical shock. “That name really sets you off, doesn’t it?” Brennan said. “You know something about what happened to her? Did she come in here this morning?”
The man lowered his voice to a frantic whisper. “Please! I tell you we don’t know nothing! If the wrong people hear us, we both in big, big trouble. I’m just a student, okay? I try to raise enough money to go to school and keep my parents well…” He looked past Brennan toward one of the inside tables, where a balding south Asian man with a tank top and workout muscles was reading a newspaper, occasionally glancing at them with a slightly hostile expression.
Brennan wondered how frightened the man really was. “From the way you’re acting, I think maybe I should call the cops, see what they think…”
“No police!” he hissed. “This would be very, very bad idea. They are mostly paid off, mostly working for… for the wrong kind of people.”
The former SEAL got the sense the waiter had been about to spill a name by mistake. That meant he had more information; more he could reveal with the right incentive. He looked over the restaurant; it was mostly westerners eating there, the prices not much lower than back home. Staff probably made a little more than most other Pattaya restaurants, but that still didn’t mean it was much.
‘I can make it worth your while,” Brennan said. “How much for, say, a little helpful info?”
“In-fo?”
“Sorry… information. How much…”
The young man shook his head frantically again and made a motion with both palms extended for Brennan to halt his efforts. “I cannot help you,” he said, slightly more loudly, as if trying to ensure anyone listening in knew exactly where he stood on the matter. He had a pleading look in his eyes and every so often they would flit back to the big man by the front windows, not for long enough to seem interested, just a nervous reaction to a source of anxiety being somewhere nearby.
Brennan held up both hands in a mock surrender. “It’s all good, my young friend, it’s all good,” he said. “I didn’t mean to ruffle any feathers.” Then he looked around the restaurant with appreciation. “You own this place?”
“Day manager,” the young man said. “Do you want to stay and order something?” His tone suggested he just wanted an end to the questions.
“Not… right this second,’ Brennan said, drinking in the environment, trying to create a mental map or guide picture of where everything was located, where the exits were, who the other customers were. He took out his wallet and put a thousand baht on the counter, about twenty-five dollars. The young man’s eyes widened. He was probably only making three hundred baht per day.
But he turned his eyes back to the counter, his expression downcast and frowning. “I cannot.”
Brennan looked around. The two girls were paying attention, whispering to one another in Thai. The man at the counter didn’t seem to be paying any attention at all, just staring at the paper… or…
There was a moped parked in front of the place, a Sixties mod-style deal with a slew of extra mirrors and a Union Jack sticker on the tank. The large, square wing mirror on the left side was close enough that it framed the man’s face, and he was staring right at them, using the reflection to try and judge the tone of a conversation he couldn’t hear. He even lowered the paper a few times, absent-mindedly, too low to still be in his line of sight.
Brennan didn’t want to get the kid in trouble. If he kept putting bills on the table, eventually the kid wouldn’t be able to say no. And the way Bald Bull at the counter was scoping things out…
Bad idea. “You know what? Forget I asked,” Brennan told the young man. “Here, keep the thousand baht anyway, for being so patient with me.” He slid it across the counter.
But the young man pushed it back. “No, I cannot take,” he blustered, snapping another quick glance at his minder.
“Uh huh,” Brennan said.
One of the two local girls sashayed over and grabbed the bill off the counter. She was petite and grinning, and she tucked it between her cleavage. “C̄hạn ca xeā pị!” the waitress exclaimed, ‘her’ voice deeper than Brennan’s. The other ladyboy waitress giggled when she saw the American’s surprised expression and whispered something to her slightly wealthier friend, who laughed throatily.
“And I think that was my cue…” Brennan said, turning on his heel to leave.
He kept an eye on the moped and, as he headed back toward the resort, the store windows as he passed. Occasionally, he scanned the street quickly for other visual cues: rapid movement behind him in reflective surfaces, facial reactions from the people walking the other way.
He didn’t spot the man until they’d walked two blocks. Brennan felt annoyed with himself. After Baghdad and Tikrit, he was certain nobody could get the drop on him anymore. That’s what you get for being arrogant, he told himself. There’s baldy, right on cue.
He showed no sign of being aware of his tail, letting the man follow for another four blocks, not altering his pace at all, occasionally stopping to browse at a club or window. At each place he passed, street workers offered themselves up, most wearing tiny bikinis or short shorts. Every so often, a sixty- or seventy-something white guy in a t-shirt would stagger out of one of the clubs, a face reddened by sun and booze, a ladyboy on his arm young enough to be his grandchild.
But he didn’t have time for moralizing. The man following him was short, and the crowd near midday considerable, cars along the street having to slow to a crawl to avoid hitting people meandering across to the beach. That meant he had to stand up on tiptoes occasionally to keep sight of Brennan, even though the American stood well over most of the locals’ heads.
Brennan waited until one such effort, and just as the man’s head bobbed back down, into the crowd, he took a hard left, into a narrow gap between two buildings, less than an alley but wide enough to walk through. He waited long enough for the man to walk by, seeing him pick up his gait, realizing he’d lost track of his subject. Then he picked up his tail. The breakfast companion stopped, realizing he wasn’t going to catch sight of Brennan in the crowd. Then he turned slowly, a disconsolate look on his face… and almost bumped into the American.
“You need something?” Brennan asked.
The man tried to shove him and run, but Brennan grabbed him by the collar, hauling him into the adjacent alley. “Talk,” he said.
The man began to babble in Thai, words flowing out in a nervous, breathless stream, too quickly for Brennan to have any shot at deciphering them. ‘Slow! Slow down, all right? Why were you following me? In English.”
“Please,” he implored. “I not supposed to contact with you. Just keep an eye.”
“On whose instructions?”
“I cannot say. Please. I get in much trouble. Please, okay?”
Brennan gave him his deadest stare. “Do I look like something other than trouble to you? Let me ask you a question: who do you think could be more trouble, right at this moment?”
The man looked confused. “I … not understand.”
Okay, that was probably a stupid idea, Brennan admitted to himself. “You talk,” Brennan managed in pidgin Thai. “Or I…” He couldn’t remember learning the word for punch, so instead he mimed it. “Punchy punchy,” Brennan said, “my fist, your head.”
The man looked like he was going to cry. “Please… I not talk… Just follow. Miss Amanda, she
say keep an eye until you leave, make sure you safe. Pattaya, it …” The bald shadow tried to think of the word. “….uhh… not safe. She say not safe for western guy, nice guy like you. She say look after him, he a good guy.’
He hadn’t been watching the server at the restaurant; he’d been watching Brennan, the American realized. She’d appointed him a baby-sitter.
It doesn’t say a lot for the Navy’s PR team if she thought I needed this guy’s help. “Okay. Where is she? I’d like to speak with her.”
That really shook him, his eyes widening in alarm. “No! No, you no say… I mean… you cannot say what happen. I…Her father, my boss. He Sạkdi̒s̄ithṭhi̒!”
“I… know?” Brennan was puzzled. “I know their name.”
“NO. He Sạkdi̒s̄ithṭhi̒!’ the man implored. Then he lowered his voice, scanning around them nervously for anyone listening. “He old now, retired. But he once most powerful man in all eastern Thailand, maybe whole country. He can do anything he want. Not a nice man. Not like his daughter.”
“If I see her again, you want me to say I did not talk to you?” Brennan demanded. He’d met his share of hard, cold corporate types, particularly a few of the military contractors.
“Yes! Yes, please, mister…”
“Then you tell me. Tell me where she went today. We were supposed to meet.”
He scanned the street again, then pulled a small pink linen handkerchief from his lapel pocket and wiped his brow. He shoved it into the side pocket of his sports coat. “She go up country, way north. To Chiang Rai district, a village near Kok River. You not find her.”
“And the name of the village?” Brennan asked. The guy might be right, he told himself. This might be a fool’s errand.
But his intuition said something was wrong. The minder cemented that she cared, and if she cared, she wouldn’t have just left.
And he still had three days.
Time for some sightseeing.
CHAPTER 3
The village was eleven hours north of Pattaya by road, nestled in foothills, one of a dozen small communities within a few hours’ drive along the vast, snake-like Kok River, in the Pong Noi subdistrict. Just a few hours north, the Kok emptied into the Mekong, tying Laos, Vietnam and Thailand together.
