The Joe Brennan Spy Thrillers

by Sam Powers

  Brennan walked around the chair and sat down in the adjacent lounger. “Nice yard.”

  “My wife likes to garden. She… how do you say in English… a green thumb.”

  “I took a look around. I hope you don’t mind. I’ve gotta say: the fellas down at the pool hall probably don’t spend a lot of time hanging out here. Am I right?”

  “It’s not their speed.

  “They prefer the type you sell.”

  He blew a series of perfect smoke rings out. “People will always have problems, want quick solution.”

  “You don’t feel any guilt?”

  “I do not make people take drugs. I do not go out and sell them. People become addicts without me. They come to me, I do not go to them. How much more choice do they need, farang? You, though. You a stone killer, right? I got a brother in the army; he into all that fancy stuff with taking guns apart. All that Phl̀ām, the stuff you expect.”

  “But not you, huh?” Brennan replied. “Why’s everyone at the bar so scared of you if you never use that pistol?”

  “I did not say I never use it. I just prefer to do things easy way. Easy peasy, as the English say. No fussle, no mussel.”

  “That’s… that’s not… Never mind. Look, I need a piece of information. I figured it would be better to avoid another confrontation at your bar.”

  “So you thought you would just stop around my house? How did you find me?”

  “I followed you back last night. Then I kept an eye on the house for a while earlier today; your wife had suitcases, but not enough to be leaving you. And she had the kids with her, which meant a short trip. You were either getting rid of them to do business here or they were going away for the weekend. Either way, it seemed like a good time to do some business.”

  He looked surprised. “Business? So you’re not going to pull any more kung fu weird stuff, huh?”

  “I thought every guy in Thailand was born knowing martial arts.”

  The biker wagged a finger in his direction. “Terrible western stereotype. Why do you think I have gun at the bar? I cannot fight for shit, farang. My eight-year-old son could probably whip my ass. But if you occasionally shoot a guy without much provocation, most people never raise the issue.”

  “Good to know. Look, I need to meet your supplier.”

  “And I need to continue to breathe. We at odds once more.”

  “Hmm. How much money would you require to be able to breathe a little more easily.”

  “More than you got.”

  “Okay, but that’s not productive. Because really, this goes one of three ways.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Think it through.”

  The biker relit his hash pipe and puffed on it again. “The first way would be you pay me, I talk, you leave. But I already told you, that does not work for me.”

  “Okay.”

  “The second way is you make me talk with some weird farang torture thing. That also does not work for me.”

  “And the third…?”

  “The third…” The Biker threw the pipe with a side-handed toss, the hot embers flying toward Brennan… who had already slipped out of the chair and taken a half-step sideways; even as Silpin rose, Brennan was turning, spinning quickly on his left foot, his right swinging around in a side kick that caught the man flush, knocking him out cold.

  He fell back into the rocking chair, his eyelashes fluttering from whatever dream he’d immediately entered.

  “Ah, Hell,” Brennan said. He looked at the man anxiously to make sure he hadn’t snapped his neck, satisfied that he was breathing and dreaming. The American brushed the hash embers off the chair and sat back down.

  Twenty seconds passed and Silpin’s leg began to twitch. A moment later, his eyes fluttered open. He was still dazed, not sure where he was waking up. Then he saw Brennan and it explained his body’s weird, slumped position. “Oh…I had a dream I was in Nice, eating Mille Feuilles pastry. Lemon and almond. It was quite excellent. What happened?”

  “You got up too quickly and passed out. Probably the hash.”

  “Uh huh. Then why does my mouth hurt like someone kick me? I know that is not the case, as I would have seen it happen. But…”

  “One of life’s inexplicable moments.”

  “We were discussing… oh. You… you kick me so fast, I did not see. Correct?”

  “Correct. We can keep doing that, or we can proceed to option one, where I pay you, or option two, where you do the paying.”

  “I…”

  “Pay for every bad decision you’ve ever made. Yeah. I was in the navy for a long time.”

  “Okay. Interesting timing for personal history.”

  “I thought you’d like some context.”

  “Con…”

  “Le contexte.”

  “Le… ah, okay. I get it.”

  “When I was in the navy, I was with a group called the SEALs. You’ve heard of the U.S. Navy SEALs?”

  He nodded, nervous.

  “I was with a unit we called Team Six. We specialized in hard-to-reach targets, extractions, terminations. The most difficult assignments, requiring the most detailed and difficult-to-obtain intelligence.”

  Silpin frowned and licked his lower lip. His expression suggested he had an idea where Brennan was going. “Difficult to obtain…?”

  “Sure,” Brennan said, crossing his legs and leaning back in a relaxed pose. “We were trained in a variety of interrogation methods. Some were fairly benign – basically coaching it out of the person with kindness, sincerity, some cruelty or threats when necessary. Others…” The American took a deep intake of breath, as if thinking back to those cases. “Others take longer, and lowering the kind of mental barriers a determined person can throw up.”

  “Mental barriers? I do not understand.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised how determined even the most basic of people can be. I guess it’s how we became top dog, species wise. You can make a man scream for… hours, really. And he still won’t necessarily break. For that, you take away his hope. Take away what he loves most and make it clear that he will never see it again unless he capitulates. You have to make him hate himself even more than he hates you.”

  The conversation had turned cold, and Silpin found himself wishing he’d brought his pistol out to the backyard with him. But normally, work was work and home was home. He’d always managed to keep things that way.

  “For example, in your case, it might be as simple as pointing out that your occupation would be ultimately responsible, should I decide to harm your wife and child in what I assure you would be a most gruesome fashion.”

  Silpin closed his eyes, the notion paining him to his core.

  “And you can keep your eyes closed; I noticed the paintings of Paris in your living room. A particular focus of you and your wife, based on the décor. You like France? Go on vacations, that kind of thing?”

  “We have.” He did not want to volunteer anything anymore. The amiable man he’d begun talking to had disappeared.

  “If I killed your wife, that dream wouldn’t necessarily end. You could always meet someone new. But I’d also have to be sure and remove your eyes, so that you could no longer see it. You see, Mr. Silpin Jo, there are worse things than physical pain, and things far worse than dying.”

  Of course, Chiang Mai wasn’t Baghdad and Brennan had no intention of torturing anyone, let alone killing their family. But Silpin Jo worked in a world where the people who made such threats had a habit of carrying them out. He’d heard stories about the cruelty of the Americans during the Vietnam war, and he’d seen enough movies to know that government agents were generally heartless killing machines.

  “You realize you maybe give me death sentence, right?”

  “Your friends all saw me in your office two days ago. They would have assumed it was you anyway.”

  “How much money you pay me?”

  “Ten thousand dollars. And we can work on the idea that maybe someone els
e was my source.”

  His gaze narrowed. “You got some plan to bail my ass out, don’t you? You a weird, scary dude, farang.”

  That was the general image he’d been going for. So far so good.

  ***

  The lights were always low in the Happy Nights Massage Parlour, muted but still cutting through the thin contrails of smoke that drifted through the air. The place smelled of incense and sweat, and every time Detective Thornavansong stepped through its front door, he felt the job’s stress begin to melt away.

  Not that law enforcement had ever been his greatest preoccupation. Along with being its most senior corrupt cop, he was also its most practiced. He’d long moved away from the dangerous, short-term benefits of rolling dealers and pimps, to the more stable and predictable nature of working for a drug lord. Enforcing someone else’s strengths was so much easier that trying to do it all himself.

  Teamwork, he knew, was important.

  The manager saw him and held out both arms for a hug. She was tiny, perhaps four feet eleven inches in her heels, and he was nearly six feet tall, big and muscular for a Thai male. Or, he thought of himself that way. In reality, he was nearly fifty, and his midsection had begun to spread out. He was still strong, but no longer particularly fit. His authority came from his seniority in law enforcement and his willingness to shoot anyone he didn’t like without thinking twice.

  It made him valuable to his employer, who in turn passed along information about some of his partners’ operations, allowing Thornavansong to rack up easy arrests. The detective in turn tipped the crime lord to any potential problems and enforced his authority when necessary.

  He hugged the tiny woman back. “Is she available tonight?” He’d fooled himself into believing he wasn’t in love with Lakha, that he would do with whoever was there and could service him. But the excitement he felt was for the person, not the act.

  “She is not. I am sorry, detective,” the woman replied in Thai. “But Saengdao is eagerly awaiting her opportunity to please you.” The women there knew the detective could be both a good tipper and an angry man, with no regard for the public nature of the business or discretion.

  “She shall have to make do,” he said. I want my favorite room.”

  “Of course!” They knew he was always around after work, and room six stayed empty until he was done. “Would you like me to send in a girl with some opium once you are done?” If they were lucky, he would smoke enough to fall asleep for a few hours. The detective was known for his… aggressive sexual tendencies. Lakha, who had mental issues of her own, was the only girl who actually liked him, and the others all hated her, in turn.

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  He entered room six. The red lampshade muted the lights even further, casting crimson shadows across the walls. The queen-sized bed was neat as a pin. He took off his jacket and tie, as well as his shoes. Then he crossed the room in his stockinged feet and went into the bathroom to freshen up.

  The taps had good pressure and he showered, leaving the rest of his clothing on the bathroom vanity, folded neatly. He liked the routine, the sting of the hot water opening his pores. Walking out in his towel, seeing her there on the bed, any pretense of a ‘massage’ going out the window immediately.

  He turned off the shower, then wrapped a clean white towel around his stomach. “You’d better be ready for me,” he said loudly as he walked out to the other room.

  “That depends on what you expect,” a man’s voice said in English.

  The cop reached for his gun as a reflex, then realized he had his towel on, and his service weapon was in the bathroom, on top of his trousers. “You have me at something of a disadvantage.”

  “That was the general idea. Are you responsible for the raid the other night, on the colonel’s warehouse?” It had occurred to Brennan right after they’d planned the mission that Thornavansong might have been responsible for Mandy being shot, that a detective would probably have enough pull to make the raid happen. It was the kind of thing he was paid for, after all.

  He hadn’t decided yet what he’d do if the man confirmed it.

  “You work for the Colonel? Now I see everything. I thought he hated Americans so much, they make him crazier than scorpion with a back itch. Americans wipe out his family whole village in the war. He must thing big things about you, farang meung.”

  “What is it with criminals in this town and the racial slurs? Everybody else I meet in Thailand is nice as all get out? Don’t you guys have any honest crooks, any ‘honor among thieves’ types?”

  “That… how you… yeah… that ‘Fantasy Island’. This ‘Real World Miami’. In this version, cop who is assaulted by farang punk take that personal, come after him. Cop’s friends all owe him, all cops too. They come hard, put stupid farang punk in jail, where large man who hate westerners rape him nightly. How that sound?”

  “Like you forgot you’re standing there without a weapon, wearing a towel. You want to put some clothes on?”

  Stupid, arrogant… “Thank you. I shall be right out.” And so will my service pistol, you soon to be dead piece of…

  He put on this clothing, raising his voice to talk to the man, to keep him occupied and inattentive. “How you get mixed up with the colonel, anyway?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Thornavansong zipped up. “Eh? I thought you said…”

  “No, you jumped to a conclusion. Sloppy. You don’t want to be doing that. You need solid investigative work, real intel.”

  The detective put on his shirt, buttoning it up, then clipped his holster to his belt. He flicked the safety off the pistol. “You telling me how to do my job, farang? And yet you here because you want something I know…”

  “True enough.”

  He walked to the doorway and peeked around the corner. The American had his pistol resting on his lap and was leaning back on the bed, propped up on his other elbow. Thornavansong took the initiative, stepping out with his pistol extended. ‘Ah! Ah, ah, ah, Mister stupid… First thing you do is take the gun. You should have come in bathroom when I shower…”

  “I did. I just don’t like talking to naked men.”

  The detective’s eyes widened. He leveled the pistol and pulled the trigger… the empty breach sliding open. He stared at it for a split second…. then threw it at Brennan and charged him. The American calmly dodged the pistol, waiting until Thornavansong was about to leave his feet and dive at his throat, then throwing a short kick out and slightly upward, his heel finding both testicles simultaneously, the force intense enough, ever so briefly, to squash them.”

  “AIGGHHH!” The detective screamed in a high-pitched wail, collapsing over sideways, his hands between his legs. Then he vomited, retching as the intensity of the pain overwhelmed him.

  Before he could recover, Brennan stood up, took a crane posture, then stepped into a low side kick, catching the detective in the groin again.

  The crooked cop threw up again, sweat poring off his brow. He was panting and crying slightly, choking sobs. “Please… please stop…”

  Brennan kneeled next to him so that the man could hear him at a whisper. Playing him stoically had worked well so far. “The pain you’re feeling right now? That’s nothing. Nothing. By the time I’m done with you, you will beg for the pain of your testicles being shattered, just for the distraction. If you understand what’s going to happen, nod your head.”

  The detective complied.

  “Good. Your boss. I need his name.”

  “Somchai … Somchai Mercedes.”

  “Yeah… that’s about par for the course so far. You know there are some freaky damn names in this country, right?”

  “Your… biggest pop star… uses symbol instead of name…”

  “Touché. Still, doesn’t help your situation. I’m going to assume you don’t mind him knowing you gave me that intel, but just in case…” He pulled the tape recorder from his pocket, “I have a record of the occasion.”

  He
rewound the tape twenty-five seconds or so and played it back. The detective rose to his hands and knees. “You give that to him, I am dead man.”

  “My understanding is you’ve never had a problem punching anyone else’s ticket.”

  “What… punching?”

  “You’re a killer, detective. You kill people for money…”

  “And so do you.”

  “Yeah, but I’m good at it.” Brennan took a short step back before kicking the detective in the chin again. He slumped back to the ground unconscious. Brennan retrieved the shoelace from his pocket that he’d already removed from Thornavansong’s dress shoe, using it to tie the man’s thumb back. He stretched the shoelace as far as it would lead, then bent the man’s leg back and up at the knee and tied the other end to the opposite big toe, stretching the pressure point between each digit to its limit.

  The detective began to stir. He tried to move his foot and it bent his thumb back, the nerve pain excruciating. “Asssshaa…. What did you do?”

  “That’s an emergency restraint an Israeli colleague taught me a few years ago. You’re going to want to wait for help. I imagine your friend up-front will be back here to check on you not long after I leave.”

  “Please… the tape….”

  “Yeah.” Brennan walked to the door. “I wouldn’t want to be you right about now.”

  He left a large tip at the counter for the trouble, not that he expected the parlor to be advertising what had happened. It wouldn’t be good for business.

  CHAPTER 8

  Unlike the Colonel, Somchai Mercedes’ home was easy to access, with a bare-bones security system and just one guard, outside the front doors. Perhaps it was the false sense of safety that comes from being almost entirely anonymous. The Colonel was a famous man, after all, while Somchai had made his money entirely in the shadows.

  Brennan had used a temple six blocks away as his vantage point, scoping the walled grounds of the man’s house with his binoculars. There appeared to be no exterior cameras, but they were probably just well secured. The guard at the front door spent most of his time sitting on a stool, looking bored. There was razor wire along the top of the wall on three sides, the only exception being beside the front gate.