Ransom Drop Page 7

  Seabury twirled Tory around and moved her close again. The dulling effect of alcohol and the anticipation of sex with Tory Kwan drifted through his mind. His body rose to the challenge and he tried hard not to focus on her scent teasing his nostrils. He was glad when the song finally ended and they sat back down at the table.

  “You dance fairly well for an old guy,” she grinned, blushing slightly.

  He tipped his glass at her in a salute before she dragged him back onto the dance floor. The place was crowded and the tempo of the music had suddenly changed. The next few dances were fast—a display of hip-popping, arms-flapping, foot-stomping madness. After the third non-stop, marathon performance, dripping wet, Seabury sat down at the table.

  He brushed the sweat back from his forehead and glanced down at his watch. “Time to go,” he said.

  He stared through the smoky distance toward the door in back. The pink-haltered service woman stood staring back at him.

  “They close at midnight anyway,” Tory said. “Blame it on the government for spoiling a perfect evening.”

  He paid the bill and suggested they separate. She’d slip through the crowd out the back door and he would follow. There was a place half a block away, in a narrow stand of trees he’d noticed coming in. Taxis stopped there at the traffic lights. He told Tory he would meet her there.

  Tory grabbed her bag from under the table and slipped back through the crowd. At the door, she slipped past the service girl who stared at her with a look of disdain. Seabury waited a moment before he followed. The girl shook her head and gave him a sick little smile as he neared. He shrugged and moved past her out the door. Moments later he met Tory inside the grove of trees near the street light. A taxi pulled up and they got inside.

  Seabury said to Tory, “We have two stops to make before we go to the reservoir.” From the back seat, he motioned up to the driver. “Tell him I need to stop at the bus terminal first.”

  Tory translated the message and the driver nodded his head. He swung onto Lane Xang Avenue and drove off quickly into the night.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Seabury pushed in through the front door of the bus terminal and moved through the crowd to the back of the building. He opened the metal door to the locker to retrieve the duffle bag. Closing the door and leaving the key in the lock, he quickly moved back outside where the taxi waited at the side of the building, the meter still running.

  “Next stop Police headquarters in Chanthabouri,” Seabury said to Tory. “Can you tell the driver?”

  Puzzled, “Tory turned to the driver. She said a few words in Lao and the driver nodded his head and drove off. They sped down deserted streets, turned corners and cruised past empty shops, restaurants and large commercial buildings. Half an hour later they reached police headquarters.

  The building, a large square, white-washed structure with small wooden-framed windows, housed other government offices. Tory scooted past a few doors, found the right one and they went inside.

  Seabury told her to wait in the lobby while he walked down a hall to the back. There were windows on both sides and vacant offices inside. Computers shut down, no phones ringing. Silence. Opening the door to a back office, Seabury saw the cop inside. He glanced up at Seabury from behind a desk and then he went back to reading his newspaper. The guy’s pumpkin face sagged with layers of flesh below the jaw line. Tiny slits formed his eyes.

  Seabury walked over. He gave the cop his name and told him why he was here. The cop never looked up. His eyes stayed glued to the newspaper. Some local soccer match on the sports page, Seabury could see. He saw an upside-down photos of short-clad athletes, kicking at a flying ball. Without looking up, the fat cop extended his hand.

  “Itinerary, please.”

  Seabury was surprised that he spoke English, and that he knew about the itinerary. Tint must have left the message. He handed the cop a copy of his itinerary. He had written Xaisomboon, the town where his eco-tour was supposed to take place, three times, down on the paper. Nothing else.

  The cop looked at it, frowned and handed it back. “No date,” he said. “You also early. Should come back tomarra’ morning.”

  Seabury had anticipated this happening. Arriving too early. Here they worked on precise dates, times and schedules. Any variation from the norm was unacceptable. Unless of course money was involved—then you got results. Seabury wrote down a cursory date, January 18—31, 2013 followed by the words: Screwing at Pha Hom Hotsprings. Skinny-dipping, Nam Ngum River. And fuck you, Tint.

  The cop saw the ten dollar bill lying on top of Seabury’s itinerary. He looked up and down, then back at Seabury, took the money and stamped the paper.

  Lucky for me he can’t read a word of English, Seabury thought, smiling.

  The cop made Seabury a copy of the itinerary and handed it back along with another sheet of paper. The paper contained the address of police headquarters in Xiasomboon. It was signed at the bottom by Colonel Tint. Seabury was to provide another itinerary once he arrived in Xiasomboon tomorrow.

  No way, Tint, he thought to himself, I’m through playing games.

  He turned around and walked back outside. Tory waited in the lobby. “Everything, okay?” she said.

  “Fine,” Seabury said.

  Outside, they found a taxi and headed toward the reservoir.

  * * * *

  They drove on Highway 13 at sixty miles per hour for over a half hour. The distance from Vientiane to Nam Ngum Dam Reservoir was approximately fifty miles. Seabury estimated another twelve miles left to go before they reached the turn off to the dam. He wasn’t sure how long it would take to circle the dam and arrive at the boathouse where they’d pick up the motorcycle. He guessed maybe another half hour.

  Traffic was sparse. Here and there headlights flashed inside the back window before disappearing into the darkness.

  Tory sat close to him in the back seat. The driver sat stone-faced up front with his eyes pinned to the road.

  “Just so you know,” she said, “Ken and I aren’t on speaking terms.”

  “Your father?”

  She nodded. “It’s a long story.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “We lived in San Francisco. I finished a degree in Social Science and worked in the city until Ken’s travel business took off over here. I made the mistake of coming here to help him.” She stared out the window, paused and went on. “I’m good at languages. I speak some French and Thai, but I’m fluent in Lao. It worked out well in the travel business, that is, until tour guide extraordinaire, Ken Kwan—” he noticed the trace of sarcasm as she snapped a salute, “—started interfering in my personal life. He didn’t approve of Bill Wheatley. But then again, it was none of his business. I needed to find out for myself about Bill.” She took a breath and let the air out slowly. “Am I boring you?”

  “Not really,” he answered and listened while she went on talking.

  “Ken’s worse than the communists running the country,” she said. “They oppress the poor, steal their money and hold onto political power. Ken overcharges the tourists and looks down his nose at them. He flashes that phony smile, but I know what’s behind it. I’ve lived through it all—that superior attitude—that look of condescension. It’s enough to make your skin crawl. But I’m over it now and out on my own now that Mother died. She drank a lot and wasted away. She collapsed one day in the kitchen of our home in Xiasomboon and never woke up. Ken never even shed a tear at the funeral.”

  “How far to the reservoir?” he said, changing the subject.

  She glanced out the window. Far off to the right, the land was damp and barren. In the darkness, acres of rice paddies crowded the banks and the serpentine flow of the Mekong River. Up ahead, the lights of a town came into view.

  She turned back around and said, “That’s Phonhong up ahead. We’ll turn off the highway there and then head east toward the dam. It’s another twelve miles to where we’re going.”

  “It’s late. How
are we getting into the reservoir?”

  “No problem they know me.”

  At Phonhong, the driver swung right off Highway 13 and turned onto another road. He drove east on Route 15 for another twelve miles and then doubled back around the dam.

  In the silence and darkness of the car, Tory said, “What about you? Here I’ve been pouring out my life’s story and know absolutely nothing about you.”

  “Not much to tell really,” he said. “Born in Honolulu, my mother was Irish, my father was Hawaiian. They were killed in a boating accident at Maui. They were both civil service workers. I had an older brother, Benjamin. He also died.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said.

  He nodded. “I appreciate that. I also won a scholarship to UC Berkeley and received a Liberal Arts degree. I didn’t want to teach, so I became a merchant seaman. I like it out at sea. Most of the time it’s peaceful there, like an elixir for the soul.”

  “Interesting,” she said.

  He opened his cell phone and texted Mae Mongkol back in Bangkok. Pls. get info on Tony Sun’s father. What business? Product? Need ASAP. He finished and clipped the phone shut.

  Ahead the driver stopped in front of a guard shack to the left of a six foot high chain link fence. In the headlights, Seabury saw the sign Phou Khao Khouay National Park above a gate in the fence.

  Tory got out while Seabury paid the driver the fare, plus a generous tip. The driver smiled and drove off as the guard at the gate let Tory and Seabury inside.

  They walked up a paved path bordered by trees. It led up to a wooden pier overlooking a small bay. Darkness engulfed the area. A cold breeze blew in off the dam and leaves rustled among the trees like tiny sheets of tinsel. A neon sign stood in the window of a café at the end of the pier. A red, blue and yellow luster spread across the dark water below. Tied to the pier were outboards, kayaks, sailboats and fiber glass canoes. They bucked and swayed and banged together in the strong surf. There was total darkness in the forest on the other side.

  Next door to the café was a boat shop and next to that a mini-mart, then a souvenir shop further on down. All of them locked and bolted shut for the night. Tory told Seabury they’d pick up the motorcycle in the boat shop and led the way down the pier.

  When they arrived at the shop, Tory rapped on a wooden door. Seabury heard footsteps shuffling around on the other side. When the door finally opened, the dim figure of a small, grizzled old man with dark skin and a snarling tiger tattooed to the middle of his hairless chest appeared. His eyes locked on them with a look of suspicion as he peered out the door.

  “Mister Cheeb,” Tory said. “I’ve come for the bike.”

  A square of yellow light framed the inside of the door. As Tory and Seabury moved from the darkness, Cheeb’s mouth curved in a faint smile and he motioned them inside.

  “I’m sorry we’re late,” Tory said, speaking to him in Lao because Cheeb didn’t understand a word of English. “It was difficult getting here.”

  “It’s past midnight,” the old man said. “I was expecting you sooner.”

  She introduced Seabury and they exchanged a few more words in Lao, then Cheeb led them back into the shop.

  “We need to stay until morning,” Seabury said. “Can you tell him that?”

  She smiled. “I already have. There’s a room in back. We can stay there.”

  Cheeb moved back into a dark corner of the shop and pulled back a sliding wooden door. A short, bald, pock-faced man dressed in black pajamas stepped out from the shadows, his face sullen, eyes dark and brooding. Another man dressed in a blue hand-woven silk Shaman’s robe stepped into the light.

  Mister Cheeb introduced him as Kanoa Lee, his brother-in-law, a Hmong tribal leader, down from the north on a family visit.

  A big shouldered man with straight black hair and a dark, unfriendly face, Lee opened the door. He stared outside, and turned around; without offering the traditional Wei greeting—hands folded in front of the face, a bow of the head. He looked tense and edgy, anxious to get going. Without excusing himself, he slipped outside onto the pier, started his truck and drove off. Seabury thought the man’s behavior was rude, but shrugged off the thought and turned back to Tory. They exchanged glances and Tory’s eyebrows arched as if to indicate to Seabury that their late night arrival hadn’t gone over very well.

  Meantime, Mister Cheeb snapped at the little man and told him to stop worrying. The man whom Cheeb had identified as Mister Peng scurried back into the shadows and a few minutes later, he wheeled a blue, two-seater, 1600cc motorcycle complete with saddlebags, heavy-duty tires and a full tank of gas out into the light. Seabury guessed that at one time the bike probably had excellent torque and a top end speed you could shout about, but not anymore. Not with two thousand miles on the odometer. It must’ve been turned back or the bike had been left sitting around the shop and not taken out on the road very often. The carburetor plugs were probably blocked too, Seabury noted. Glancing down at the air-box, he saw an oil slick had been wiped clean with gasoline. He could smell the fumes.

  He reached into his coat pocket and brought out a wad of bills. He counted out three hundred dollars for the rental and handed the money over to Peng. Peng folded his hands in front of his face, bowed his head three times without smiling and kept his eyes down.

  “We better get some sleep,” said Seabury.

  “Good idea,” Tory said. “I’m beat.”

  Cheeb opened a door at the back of the shop and switched on a light. Beyond the door were two rooms. Cheeb pointed to the door on the left. That was his room. The other room was vacant which he said they could use for the night.

  Tory went inside and turned on a light. Seabury followed. There was one bed and a mat on the floor with a small sink to the side.

  Seabury said, “You take the bed. I’ll bunk on the floor.”

  She washed her face with cold water and got into bed with her clothes on. Seabury splashed his face with water, then cupped a hand and drew some into his mouth. He gargled and removed the pungent aftertaste of alcohol from his mouth before he flopped down exhausted onto the mat on the floor.

  A while later the mattress sagged under her as she rolled over on her side facing him. He heard little cat-like puffs of air moving in and out of her lungs, and, in the faint light of a back window he saw the outline of her small breasts poking out her cotton blouse.

  With a sigh, he rolled over on the mat, closed his eyes and prayed for sleep.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Commander Kanoa Lee rolled out of bed and switched on the light inside the bathroom. He removed his pajamas, took a shower and got dressed. A few minutes later he rapped on the door and roused the soldiers in the motel room next to his. He waited in the rental until the three soldiers were ready and came outside fifteen minutes later. Sergeant Simok sat behind the wheel of the delivery van. At Lee’s nod the burly soldier locked the van into gear, and drove out of the parking lot onto Semsenthai Road. He sped down the road in the darkness toward their warehouse near the airport in Vientiane. Half hour later they drove through the gate of a chain link fence.

  Up ahead the dented, rust-stained door of an old, abandoned aircraft hangar loomed in the darkness. Lee had jimmied down the rental price from a desperate Sino-Lao landlord, who was happy to get what he could for the place. The lot was choked with weeds. Parts of old rusted-out aircraft were scattered next to discarded pistons, turbines, wheel hubs, and piles of cracked, weather-beaten tires and old scraps of lumber.

  A light went on. The large metal door swung open and the delivery van pulled inside. Simok parked sideways in a space in the middle of the building. Doors opened and banged shut. As Lee and Simok got out, followed by two soldiers. They all got to work immediately in the silence and the warm stagnant air of the hanger.

  The two soldiers walked to the other side of the building. Hanging from metal rafters on the ceiling were chains and pulleys. A five hundred pound urea-nitrate bomb, ready to have its time
r installed, rested on a concrete slab underneath. Chains connected to large metal hooks ran the length of the rafters. They locked onto the wide, sweeping arch of a system of pulleys that would direct the bomb down into the delivery van’s cargo area in a matter of minutes. Lee and Simok stood at the workbench, going over details for attaching the timer system to the bomb that would bring down the government’s Telecommunications building and send the city of Vientiane into a state of panic.

  One of the soldiers winched the bomb over, while another guided it down toward the open door of the van. Lee and Simok watched the progress at the far end of the bomb. Lee signaled to the winch operator to slow down the bomb’s decent and to go easy. The soldier nodded, then eased the bomb a few inches lower until it was level with the deck at the back of the van. Lee, Simok and the other soldier gently guided the bomb forward on its chain. The front half moved inside the door. Lee waved across to the winch operator to release the slack and the nose of the bomb dropped gently into place. The men pushed the other half of the bomb onto the cargo deck and closed the doors behind it. The operation took twenty minutes.

  “Okay, let’s go over things again,” said Lee once they’d finished. “I want to be sure that we’re clear on everything, that we eliminate mistakes and complete our mission.”

  “The sergeant and I will deliver the payload to the Telecom building . Makan, I want you driving the getaway car. You know the city better than anyone. We’ll be on Lane Xang Avenue no later than nine-twenty. You need to be there to pick us up. The bomb will have destroyed the building by then, so the street’s going to be full of people, all of them crowding into the area, filled with panic. By then, the police will be tearing across town toward the site, so you need to be there in the rental to pick us up. Is that clear?”