A Killing to DIE For

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “We’ve finally gotten the green light,” announced Lowenstein, in English. An idyllic afternoon, on this day the running man was playing tour guide. The English was to divert any unwanted attention…any suspicions. European types with accents were nothing out of the ordinary. Not to matter, the only other visitors were local Buddhist worshippers and busloads of Chinese. The rest of them nodded, nobody said too much. More of a pep-talk, in each and every one of the land unit members was a psychiatrist just bursting to get out. Their defense force thrived on that -- appraisal and critiques, peer development and group sessions.

  Go hard; work smart. We can never afford to lose a single conflict.

  They’d assembled on a hill overlooking a bay that headed north. Above the lookout where they stood was a temple and on the other side was a naval signalers station and a memorial to a distinguished admiral who’d steered the Kingdom’s navy through the choppy oceans of the early twentieth century. Colonial invaders teetered on every border, eagerly awaiting the first crack to appear in the resolve of the Siamese. Half a millennium the colonials waited in vain, the Thai race stood firm; they never flinched. It was modern-day incursion that posed a much greater threat, the ‘Global Village’, some called it, now it was invading everybody’s lounge room like a giant centipede tainting everything.

  Arcana…part of the great foreign creature. At least they’d be heading home once the job was done. The syndicate would be headed down: Deep down the crooks were all regular guys…six foot deep down.

  “In a few hours’ time we set forth,” said Lowenstein. “This morning I had a teleconference with my controllers and the service…”

  The running man lifted his right arm and pointed north. In the distance were the port facilities and further on was Bangkok City. Skeletal cargo cranes reached to the heavens like giant stick insects. Ocean-going car carriers queued in the gulf. One of the busiest ports in the region. The land unit members were all present. They looked like any tour group. Not quite fitness fanatics, not quite movie extras.

  “We go in hard and we go in fast,” he said. “To the north, just out of view is the bridge where this will unfold and all of you have been briefed on your roles.” Lowenstein paused and breathed in. “I wish you all the best and a safe passage. We get in, we get it done and we get out. Straight to the airport once it’s over…”

  They moved to the railing and leaned over it. Below on the bay speedboats darted around; some towing parachutes, lines of umbrellas on the beach and buildings everywhere. Beneath the party was starting as dusk fell but they were turning in early. A perfect sunset and hopefully the gulf would remain free of cloud cover.

  Make it look like the Russians had done it, they had plenty of motives but couldn’t organize a fire at a gas-pump. Send the syndicate to hell with a bang. Not long now.

  Dawn. Major-General Soronai Kitti-Khorn drove to the eastern outskirts of the city. He was at the wheel of his favorite personal car, an original 1959 MGA Twin-Cam that coughed and lurched through the crowded streets whenever he exercised it. Pakdee sat next to him. She never said out loud but she always questioned Kitti’s sanity even keeping the thing.

  Boraan! (Ancient), she thought. Didn’t even have an automatic!

  For Pakdee, a suitable auto had to be German, black and traded up every eighteen months for a new model. Just about two tons, fifteen feet long and thirsty and a minimum of eight cylinders naturally, with gold plate trimmings on the hood and wheels. And a roof to keep the Bangkok rain off. Bulletproof windows and tires that never went flat…

  She knew better…the old sports car once belonged to his late father who’d imported it new, driven it for many years then had it restored. The jalopy had been presented to a young Lt. Kitti-Khorn following his commission and graduation from St-Cyr, in France. A proud day for father and son; Kitti Senior was a military man who’d resisted the Japanese occupation. The MGA was worth a lot more as a collectable. It had provenance…

  Nothing much was said on the way. They looked innocent that morning -- the general a rich benefactor and Anna the spoilt mistress, out for a picnic. Without warning she tugged the general’s sleeve.

  “Let me out,” she said. “I’ll take the Skytrain.”

  Kitti pulled into a lane. “I can take you the whole-”

  “Never mind, My General,” she interrupted. “Best we are not seen together. As I hope you excuse me, but I wish to be alone a few moments, you know that?”

  Pakdee stepped out and bowed slightly at her controller before turning and gliding up an endless staircase. He watched her as she gracefully zipped up the stairs, two at a time.

  Backbone, he thought. Today would be no picnic, not at all. Not for her.

  The Mitsubishi six-wheeler plied the streets as the city was awakening. It had been stolen three days before by local figures before undergoing a complete makeover, right down to new ignition with keys and plates. The driver had been briefed in the art of basic sign language as used by deaf-mute people and he carried all necessary paperwork in case the vehicle was stopped by local gendarmes. Inside his pockets were licenses stuffed with tea-money.

  Early, and eighty-five degrees. In the covered tray waited the rider and a third specialist with the motorcycles; both were sweating profusely under a layer of Kevlar. They were checking their signaling gear as the van cruised through the morning traffic jams. The specialist in the rear covered tray was fidgety considering he carried the weighty explosive device concealed in a traditional Siamese hat woven from palm fiber, two pounds of the stuff. The same compound that had been used on Chen Hsieh-Tsu overlaid on a sheet of leaded-vinyl. Designed to tumble and land dome-up with a hollow charge inside to maximize blast toward the sky without too much damage to the bridge or sideways burst for that matter. It could shred the truck if prematurely detonated.

  “Relax,” said the rider. “It’s a normally closed trigger,” indicating the device attached to the palm of her right hand. “The pin stays in ‘till we drop the charge, okay.”

  “What?!” snorted the operative. “Just hot in here, that’s all.”

  The rider raised her hand; the first signal was broadcast over the communications. She adjusted her earpiece: “All good?”

  The specialist nodded his head and looked directly at her. “I’m fine, Ma’am; I was more thinking of you. We do this kind of thing all the time-”

  “Shhh!” She interrupted. They were packing locally sourced nine-mills and three back-up clips each, compact enough to fit under a jacket but a hindrance. The six-wheeler halted and was idling. The time had come -- a final alert followed by radio silence until the interception on the bridge. The rider turned and tapped on the bulkhead between the cover and the driver’s cab and the one up front clambered through a hatch. He pulled a full face crash helmet over his head and carefully mounted the motorcycle next to hers. The charged-laden hat was heavy, the pillion clutched it tightly. The helmets were heavy; they too were full of Kevlar with neck-flaps attached.

  The rider glanced at the specialists and nodded. As the two motorcycles kicked into life she produced a disposable lighter and lit a pile of rags soaked with kerosene bundled together on the floor of the space they were in. Dropped the lighter into the rising flames, gunned the engine, and launched the machine into the drop door on the back of the tray, with the two men on their machine following suit.

  A municipal worker with a broom and tin pan was sweeping the sidewalk, as he had done most mornings for the past decade. Paused from his task and became alarmed at the smoke billowing from the covered tray and the noise from within. He got the fright of his life as the rear of the truck crashed onto the tarmac and two huge motor cycles burst forth and disappeared down the alley way. A moment later the burning fuel engulfed the vehicle and black smoke filled the air. Distillate fires always burn slower and hotter than gas; there would be nothing left but
a charred mess.

  “Back to the real world,” chirped the running man as he entered the room clapping his hands. C41 started upright in his chair and spun around toward the monitor, leaving his gaming unfinished. Lowenstein shook his head; amazed. He could see the cars moving on the screen, via satellite. How could C41 immerse himself in these inane computer games when the real thing was unfolding?

  A large monitor before them projected a real-time image of the area surrounding the Bang Pakong crossing and the imagery was good for this time of year. Periodic glitches from satellite positioning were the only technical issues. As C41 adjusted and zoomed on the bridge the image was astounding.

  “Amazing,” remarked the running man. The weather held as predicted but clouds were moving through. On the screen the pickup vehicle and the smoke emissions could be seen as well as the five operatives huddled along the central barrier.

  C41 zoomed out on the vista, punched the keyboard rapidly and markers appeared on the screen. He turned to the running man. “Sir, I’ve marked our guys and the target, see? North, south and western land unit.”

  “And the air unit?”

  “Off the screen; ETA in five.”

  The Jet Ranger cruised over the eastern seaboard at an altitude of two thousand feet. The powerful machine glinted in the light of dawn and the pilot, a New Zealander who turned to his passenger with a friendly grin.

  “Choice day for it, hey Bro!”

  The charter pilot’s accent sounded like he had the flu. He was nursing a hangover as well. He’d flown everywhere from the icy and treacherous peaks of his birthplace to ferrying trekking parties in the Himalayas. They were the best civilian pilots in the world. The passenger grunted in reply, flashed a scowl and pointed toward the metropolis of Bangkok before returning to the map nestled in his lap.

  Strange, the pilot thought, rude prick.

  The customer had come into the office two days earlier with cards, a pile of cash and a passport from some Latin American banana republic requesting a morning sightseeing tour apparently searching for scuba diving locations. Unusual -- the area was muddy and polluted. No decent diving to be found.

  Not to worry, the charter pilot thought. It had been a big session the evening before as he and a group of buddies gathered at a bar to watch the All Blacks Sevens thrash their rivals via satellite dish. The Kiwi pilot was looking forward to the finals tonight; some beers, some pals, maybe a Valentine lovely from the bar after the match. His jovial mood evaporated like rubbing lotion the next time he turned to the passenger who lifted the map from his knees. Underneath, there it was…a firearm, just resting there.

  The pilot heaved a sigh of disgust. That’s what you get for lax security.

  “1484424 -- 715949 if you please,” commanded the passenger, his English suddenly much improved. “Land the aircraft, now,” he said. “If you do not comply I shall throw you out the door and fly it myself. Do it!”

  “You’re joking, hey Bro. We can’t land there.”

  “I need to borrow your aircraft for a few hours. Land on the track by the fishponds, next to the white car. You won’t be harmed. Do it!”

  The specialist only glared at the charter pilot whilst pointing the pistol forward; there was no yelling or anything…in full control. Message loud and clear. The pilot dipped the Bell Jet Ranger and descended as instructed. The chopper sat with the rotors ‘feathering’ and out of the vehicle jumped another of the land unit’s crew. He dashed over and dragged the pilot out, over to the trunk of the car. He bound the hostage with ties and bundled him in. The big ex-footballer barely crammed in the space as the lid was pressed on top, he was terrified. As the trunk clicked shut the captive could only listen as his chopper roared off.

  “Don’t try to kick your way out,” yelled the voice from outside. Make any noise I’ll pop a cap through.” The other specialist yelled at the now closed trunk lid and thumped it with his hand. “In a couple of hours we’ll free you. Be nice and we’ll return your chopper with a full tank.”

  The pilot heard the voice over the noise of his precious helicopter receding into the distance. In the darkness, he could see holes beneath him and light, he could get air. His back and shoulders were touching against something cold…freezing cold. They’d placed a bag of ice there, covered by a layered towel, it was melting but at least he wouldn’t die of heat stress. The towel was soaked; the Kiwi could suck at the moisture if he felt parched.

  They’d thought of everything. He’d survive. Rain-check on the rugby, though…

  The two-row-passenger truck had been belching smoke for a mile or so to the south of the raised bridge. When it finally did grind to a standstill right in the middle section the impatient traffic honked and swerved around the ancient pickup with the benches in the rear. Two men were in the front and several seated in the back as the vehicle hugged the middle concrete barrier. All of them attired in the rags of the modern-day ‘coolie’, face coverings, long greasy trousers and long sleeves with gloves…ninjas in need of a shower. They capitalized on the habit of laborers to rug up fully and avoid the sun.

  As the stationary pickup was in the fast lane there was a very real danger of collision but the outfit had that contingency covered -- two men leapt out and quickly positioned fluorescent cones well back from the seemingly crippled vehicle. The smoke pouring out from the underside was in fact soaked hessian rags treated with brake fluid and wrapped around the extractors to create a pall of filthy smoke but not start a fire. Hopefully the plume of smoke was visible enough to give a warning to any other traffic approaching the bridge which perched nearly a hundred feet above the river as the last thing anybody wished for was a multiple pile-up before the action started. The targets could get away if that occurred.

  Under the feet of the operatives was a cache of weapons…a Barrett M82, some M4A1 carbines, smoke flares and demolition charges to tie up loose ends. Uranium slugs for the Barrett couldn’t be had for love or money; the rifle itself had been sourced on the black market courtesy of some traders. Tensile steel pills jacketed by bronze with a tracer plug were possibly equal to the task; the ammo ‘miscalculated’ by clerical errors from the armory but the casings would need to be returned or dumped upstream.

  In the drivers cab a ring tone and the leading hand behind the wheel lifted the cell to his ear, remaining silent. He hung up and rapped on the side of the door, calling out: “ETA one minute!”

  Three men jumped from the rear and upon the command whipped a tarpaulin from the weapons, distributing them as the smoke trail from under the vehicle got thicker. Passing commuters were now braking and swerving, honking their horns and creating a log jam as they passed the pickup. The last item manhandled from the tray was the Barrett which they primed and propped on the concrete barrier then fanned the business-end toward the southbound traffic flow. The Anti-Materiel rifle would have two operators; the leading hand being the spotter and the second operative being the shooter. A message through to headsets alerted the team of five and the leading hand leaned over the concrete barrier. This time the southbound traffic was starting to slow down and in the distance he could see the two motorcycles approaching. As they drew closer he could also see the two black vehicles.

  “Approaching target!” yelled the leading hand. The specialists fanned out along the concrete barrier and cocked their M4s. A pause: ‘…three…two…one…’

  The leading hand squeezed the earpieces tightly; he would need as much protection from the muzzle-brake as possible when the Barrett did open up. A simple leather bag was taped over the ejection port to catch the shells as they were spat out. They dropped down slightly, moving closer to the handler as the rider flashed by. The second with the specialist, his pillion and the explosive straw hat; it was following behind.

  Two blacked out vehicles raced down the Sukhumvit Highway; the second backup vehicle was a few yards behind the first. The leading vehicle was armored to withst
and small arms and even machine gun fire and in it the five passengers had been squeezed in since the last stop opposite the eastern Bus Terminal where their passenger had been collected. Anna showed up on time.

  She was crammed in the rear between the Tamil and the Ulsterman on the left. In the front were the driver and another bodyguard, the one in the passenger’s seat had been checking the vanity mirror in the left hand sunshade every few seconds.

  Walker turned to her: “Hey sweetheart, what you up to this evening? Fancy some wine ‘n’ dine after we get the boss’s readies back? I’ve got a box of chocolates especially for you and a little red rose…maybe you have one to show me.” He snorted at his own joke. The only plans he had in mind for Anna would be a bit of lead-poisoning.

  “I-hiia!” She hissed. (Nameless reptile). A dreadful insult! That was one word the Ulsterman knew well; they used it round the bars quite often…

  Pakdee wrinkled her nose; she was unsure which was worse -- Walker’s aftershave or the Tamil’s body odor. Both vehicles had been on the raised section since collecting her and the highway had begun to curve right and toward the south…up onto the bridge now, high above the river. She flicked her eyes at Walker. “Not tonight. Maybe soon I can have you for breakfast, you know that?” Her voice was icy.

  Walker didn’t have time to reply; he caught sight of the smoke ahead on the bridge. He tapped the driver in front on the shoulder and pointed. “Easy mate; looks like a crash up there.” Other vehicles in front had been braking and the traffic slowed and bunched up. The chase car carrying the two bodyguards moved up behind barely touching their rear before it braked. The guard in front checked the vanity mirror and the Tamil looked up from his notebook and replaced his cell phone.

  A motorcycle passed by on the right hand of their vehicle just avoiding the front fender before it rolled ahead and it was followed by a late model Toyota SUV with a local mother and a young child, unrestrained and jumping on the rear seat like a trampoline.

  Walker scowled: “Sheesh! In any normal country she’d get locked up for that-“

  He was interrupted as the driver twitched the brakes; a second motorcycle carrying two persons had cut in front of them, causing the driver to flinch, the limo jerked slightly. Something had dislodged from their grasp and fallen on the road. The motorcycle dropped two gears and punched the gas causing the front wheel to lift slightly and the armored Mercedes drove straight over the top of whatever had fallen off. Some rice farmers riding pillion had lost their hat. Pakdee flattened herself against the seat and raised her arms in front of her face; she knew very well what was coming and braced just as the charge kicked.