The Joe Brennan Spy Thrillers Page 6

  The car shot off the road, its shock absorbers taking a hammering as it jumped the first portion of the slope and then slammed back down on the old driveway. It cut through more overgrowth, decades since it had last been used, the hill running down to a plateau that had once been the parking area for a small factory mill. The building was falling in on itself.

  Three quarters of the way down, he lost control of the front end, the car sliding side-on the rest of the way. Ahead, the square Nineties-model BMW tried to match the maneuver and shot off the road, the heavier brush making its driver similarly lose control. Both cars slid at least twenty yards; Brennan managed to use the wheel like a rudder, eventually getting the car’s nose facing downwards, and at the bottom of the slope it rolled out on to the old parking area, then stalled.

  His pursuers weren’t so lucky, the BMW was heavier and sliding faster, reaching the end of the slope then rolling side-over-side for another ten feet, coming to rest on its roof.

  Brennan got out of the car and quickly made his way over to the men. The shooter had been thrown clear and was lying unconscious ten feet away. The car’s fuel tank ruptured while it was rolling and a large puddle formed around it on the flat surface. The driver was trying to get out, yelling something in Thai.

  “"Thêā k̄hxng c̄hạn! Thêāk̄hxng c̄hạn tid xyū̀! Ch̀wy c̄hạn c̄hạn dị̂ klìn ḱās! Aidez-moi, monsieur, Je Suis coincé! Mon pied, c’est coince sur la chaise!”

  Brennan’s French was decent enough to know the man was saying his foot was stuck and he couldn’t get out. He also knew the man was in little-to-no real danger; without a direct ignition point, a heat source brought close to the fuel and its fumes, the stalled vehicle would not explode, like something out of a Bond movie. The panicky man seemed younger, but he had to admit to himself he had a hard time telling young Asian guys from middle aged, most had such good skin compared to westerners.

  It has to be the diet, Brennan thought as he walked over to the shooter and rolled him over. All anyone eats here is broth and noodles and fish. Mostly protein, low carbs, lots of vegetables.

  The man stared up lifelessly, his neck clearly broken from the impact. His organs had begun to fail, and the corpse voided its bowels. Brennan took it in emotionlessly, searching the man’s pockets for identification, coming up with a packet of Camel cigarettes, a fake gold Colibri cigarette lighter, a smaller pair of men’s sunglasses and his wallet.

  He rifled through the wallet as he walked back. The man had no driver’s license to identify him, no credit cards, a few thousand baht…

  And a key card.

  “Holiday Inn and Suites, Chiang Mai”

  There was no room number on the card, just a magnetic strip on the back. Brennan walked back to his friend, who seemed increasingly panicked by the gasoline smell.

  “Parlez-vous Anglais?”

  “Ah.. un peu… s’il vous plait, monsieur, aides-moi avec mon pied coince… Please… the petrol…”

  “You don’t have anything to worry about. N’inquietez-vous… the petrol… l’essence, cela requier le feu pour la combustion. It needs an ignition source.”

  The man let out a deep breath. “D’Accord. Maintenant, aidez moi s’il vous plait, Je pense que ma jambe est cassee. My leg… I think it is broken.”

  “That’s… that’s tough,” Brennan sympathized, crouching down on his haunches beside the man. Then he reached into the top pocket of his shirt. “Cigarette?”

  The driver’s eyes widened. “Non! Monsieur, s’il vous plait! L’essence! The petrol...!”

  Brennan flicked open the lid of the gold lighter, then used his thumb to spin the flint wheel, not pushing it hard enough to ignite, but enough to put off a tiny spark. The Thai man began ranting and babbling in his own language, obviously terrified. “Khuṇ pĕn khn b̂ā! Khuṇ khlạ̀ng khịl̂h̄rụ̄x pel̀ā! H̄nīpị cāk c̄hạn!”

  “Never was a smoker myself,” Brennan said, flicking the lighter a couple more times. “Dirty habit. Tried weed once in high school; made me dumber than I already am, and that can’t be a good thing.”

  He flicked the lighter again. The inverted driver peed himself, continuing his tirade in Thai but his voice near breaking from fear. “Phraphuthṭhcêā ch̀wy kảcạd rokhcit nī̂pị cāk c̄hạn!”

  “Yeah… I don’t know what you’re yapping about, there, pal… but here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to tell me who sent you…”

  “The Colonel!” he blurted. “We work for Colonel Tep Dham!”

  “Who is he?”

  “Very powerful man! He kill you if you not help me! HELP ME!”

  “What room was your friend in at the Holiday Inn?”

  ‘MAIS POURQUOI!... The same! We in same room!”

  “No, idiot. What number? My thumb needs some more exercise.” Brennan held the lighter out toward the puddle. “Think I could get clear in time if I just lit it, right here…?”

  “NON! No… please… Trois Cent Quatre-Vingt! Three Hundred and Eighty!”

  “You got a cellular phone? Un flip phone? Un BlackBerry?”

  “Quoi? Non…”

  “Good.” Brennan rose from his haunches and walked back to his own vehicle. He retrieved his small knapsack and took out the bottle of warm water, taking a small drink. Then he took a look at the slope. He was going to have to hike up it, no doubt. But there was plenty of traffic on the road to suggest he could flag a ride. Otherwise it was one Hell of a long walk back to Chiang Rai.

  It took police in Chiang Rai nearly two hours to find an officer who spoke English well enough to figure out what Brennan was talking about, and another two before they found Larry Nguyen to come help.

  The two men walked out of the station just before midnight. It was still over ninety degrees, the street quieter. “I don’t figure, Joe,” Larry suggested. “They found your car, but no sign of the other fellas. If the senior cop wasn’t sure it was there from the mess you’d be in a hell of tight spot, mate.”

  They walked over to Nguyen’s rental car, an older Mercedes. “The bigger issue is that whoever made that car and body disappear did it quickly, and local police are pretending they didn’t hear a thing about it. In a town this small that doesn’t seem likely.”

  Nguyen opened the driver’s door but didn’t immediately climb in. “Joe… there wouldn’t be anything about your little venture up here you weren’t telling me, would there?”

  “Probably – but nothing I’m clear on myself. I got a less-than-honest vibe off your old story source, Gwendolyn, then ended up with these jerks trying to kill me. All because I asked for help looking for a girl.”

  They got into the car and Nguyen turned the ignition. “It’s a pity the police didn’t find anyone there to question. I guess it sort of leaves you right back where you started, eh mate?”

  “Maybe. Depends what I can find out down in Chiang Mai...”

  “Chiang Mai?”

  “One of the men chasing me left something behind from there.”

  “Huh. Well, that’s a lot livelier town than Chiang Rai, that’s for certain.”

  “Dangerously so?”

  “Well… no. But I would’ve said that about Chiang Rai ‘til you showed up, mate. Nah, it’s a tourist town, but mostly festivals, dining. There are ancient temples all around the city, so people come from far and wide. But it’s not a big place. When were you planning on leaving?”

  “I have to deal with the wrecked rental, but pretty much right away. Any advice?”

  “Yeah… probably better to let the whole thing go and head home. I mean, not for discouraging you or anything, Joe, but you seem to have a knack for finding trouble. It’s not usually an issue in these parts, as the people are Buddhists and mostly pretty easy going. But when it does? Well, it can get nasty. Ask people who lived here during the war, or any of the coups that included purges. Or stuck in the opium trade.” Nguyen kept driving but glanced over at Joe briefly. “I know this lady obviously got under your
skin, but…”

  “Yeah,” Brennan answered with a sigh. “Yeah, I’ve gone there a few times myself.”

  “Still… I’m not changing your mind, am I?”

  “Nope. I’ve always figured that when you start a job, you might as well finish it; make something worthwhile out of the exercise. Listen…’

  “Yeah?”

  “You ever hear of a guy named Colonel Tep Dham?”

  Nguyen pulled the car over to the darkened roadside. It had begun to rain gently, and it pattered off the windshield as he gave Brennan a hard stare. “Okay, now I really don’t want to know what you’re up to. Because Tep Dham is a former Viet Cong officer who for many years has controlled a huge chunk of the opium trade up in these parts. He has a reputation for being pretty bloodthirsty; likes to feed his victims to pigs, then feed the pigs to people he likes slightly less. Just a real nasty sadist, with a big gangster army, the kind that forces the Thai government to keep a military base in just about every district.”

  “Ah, Hell. That’s not good.”

  “No, it bloody isn’t! In fact, if your friend was grabbed by Colonel Tep’s men… again, I’d like to remind you that you hardly know this person...”

  “Don’t sweat it, Larry,” Brennan said. “Just give me a ride back to the hotel so I can get some things worked out. When it comes to stuff like this, I have a reputation for the utmost caution and discretion.”

  Larry didn’t blink or take his eyes off Brennan’s expression, trying to gauge how serious he was. “Uh huh. Still… like I said, mate, I’ll be staying right here in Chiang Rai.”

  He pulled the car back out onto the road. Brennan made a mental note to call Mike Bernard when they got to Chiang Mai and he had a room. Chances were good the database would hold some background on the Colonel; and he’d need any advantage he could get.

  CHAPTER 5

  CHIANG MAI

  Brennan closed the hotel room door behind him softly and turned on the lights. The place was deserted, as he’d expected.

  The men were from out of town, but they’d tried to kill him even though no one knew he’d be in Ban Doi that morning. That meant the colonel almost certainly brought them to Chiang Mai initially for another job.

  He feared that ‘job’ was Mandy, and that he might have gotten there too late to help her.

  Brennan checked the bathroom, the closet, and then around the corner of the main room. The two men’s suitcases were lying on top of the desk and circular breakfast table respectively. Neither contained anything but clothing… he assumed. But after he’d gone through the second, he went back and checked the lining of each, the cases’ lids not seeming quite deep enough on the inside.

  The paper thin, leaded false tops came away from snap-in clips. One man’s case contained a Sig Sauer pistol, a tennis-ball sized bag of what he assumed was cocaine, several extra magazines and a gay porn magazine that, based on the cover, was printed somewhere in Thailand.

  The second contained a Mac-10 machine pistol, two spare clips, four balanced ceramic dual-edged throwing knives, about fifty thousand baht in cash, and a series of solutions in hypodermic needles, each labelled in Thai script. Brennan somehow doubted they were full of Kool Aid, despite the odd hues.

  He picked up the Ingram in one hand and a bundle of the cash in the other. By any sensible measure, he knew, he would be calling the police back in Chiang Mai. But it occurred to him that the way the trip had been going, he might have to get a job done; and a huge bag of ordinance and cash wasn’t a bad start.

  After taking the gear out of one case and throwing it into the other, he zipped the whole thing up before checking the bureau drawers and closet. The latter held two suits, both at least six inches shorter than his measurements, and an undersized Kevlar vest.

  Great. Now all I have to do is lose half-a-foot and I can take a bullet in style.

  On a hunch, he used tissue from a Kleenex box on the desk to lift the phone, keeping his prints off the handset, and another sheet over his index finger to hit ‘redial’. He played back the series of beeps as it dialed, making note of the number.

  A man answered and said something in Lanna, the regions’ dialect. When Brennan didn’t answer, the man became agitated.

  Brennan hung up. He waited a few moments, then dialed out for an operator and collect called Mike Bernard. With a little luck, Mike would have some state department details on the colonel, and a reverse number search on the last phone call that would yield a location.

  ***

  Though the city proper had just a hundred and sixty thousand residents, its suburbs contained another eight hundred thousand, including several ritzy neighborhoods covered in upscale, modern mansions. The phone call had been to one in French colonial style, sequestered behind a twelve-foot high hedge too thick to pass through and double wrought-iron gates.

  Brennan took his time staking the property out. Two four-story hotels afforded mezzanine-level views over the hedge, giving him a good idea of the guards’ patrol timing and at least some of the camera locations.

  The Colonel’s reputation in the district capitol was fearsome among its underworld. It took Brennan less than three hours, one pimp and two terrified street dealers to find out the mansion on the western outskirts belonged to him, under one of his several holding companies. His official status was ‘retired’, and he had permanent residency in Thailand under his late wife’s citizenship. The police always kept cautious eyes on his businesses; Mike compared him favorably – or notoriously, anyway – to New York’s mob Dons.

  The rear gardens were impressive, short manicured hedges and topiary bushes framing grey brick pathways, an old bench under an ancient tree, creeping vines on the interior walls. The Colonel shared a common stone wall with a neighbor; given that the neighbor appeared to be a physician, it seemed sensible to come in from that side, where the chances of guards, guns and dogs were markedly reduced.

  U.S. intelligence suggested his opium crop holdings throughout the Golden Triangle continued to be massive, particularly in Laos and Northern Vietnam. The harvested poppies were sold in bulk to a French-Vietnamese crime consortium that in turn refined it into heroin and moved it to Europe through the ports of Marseille and Gdansk.

  He turned away from the hotel mezzanine windows and walked back over to the elevators to the lobby. If he needed to get in there at some point, Brennan was confident, it wouldn’t be too much of an issue to do so quietly.

  Naval intelligence hadn’t had much on the colonel, but Mike’s buddies with Australian Intelligence had chapter and verse on the man. He was well-protected, aging and had little to lose. If he had an issue with the Sạkdi̒s̄ithṭhi̒ family, it was probably to muscle in on them; an import-export would be a perfect cover for his preferred trade, and from what he’d seen, her society friends weren’t of the ilk to get their hands dirty with a vicious warlord thug.

  He took the elevators down to the lobby, then headed over to the main desk.

  The young woman smiled, and his lack of bags didn’t seem to faze her when he asked for a room.

  “Of course, sir,” she said in flawless English. “And which side of the building would you prefer?”

  After getting his key, he headed back out to the street. The third street vendor he spotted seemed young enough to be the kind who hung out at Internet cafes, maybe valued his hipness. “Excuse me, do you speak English?” Brennan asked.

  “Sure, sure! You want a pork bun? Some red curry noodles?”

  “Before I leave tomorrow, definitely. But for now, you want to help me find something?”

  The kid looked either way, as if worried police might be around. Then he nodded toward Brennan. “You want to buy weed? I got crazy sativa, real Thai stick, yo. Like Chapelle!”

  After a decade in the service, nearly all of it overseas, the reference was lost on him. “Sure… some of that. But maybe something a little stronger, a little more “chasing the dragon”, if you know…”

  “Oh! You w
ant some opium? Heroin? Try something crazy, eh?”

  “The crazier the better.”

  The kid looked him over, sizing up his value. “This stuff… it’s not so cheap, right? You got…” he looked either way again to see if any of the sparse pedestrian traffic was paying attention, “… a thousand baht? That just my fee. Then two thousand or more for what you want, okay?”

  “Not a problem.”

  “Okay…give me the money. I go for you, come back.”

  “Yeah, sure, and I’ll just give you my wallet and hotel key too. How about we go together, okay?”

  The guy thought about it, then nodded. “Okay. But I have to work another three hour. Then we go. You meet me back here. Bring money.”

  Brennan used the time to find a sporting goods store with a decent selection of binoculars. He wanted a closer look at the Colonel’s security. It also gave him a chance to ask the locals about crime in Chiang Mai; the clerk at the store told him the seediest bars were nearly all within a block of one end of Loi Kroh Road, and if he was looking for excitement, that was about as close as it got.

  Sure enough, a couple of hours later, the vendor, who said his name was Kittibun Superman, showed up at the same street corner and hailed them a tuk-tuk, a three-wheeled, scooter-driven cart that looked like a motorized rickshaw. It puttered along while he yelled conversation to Brennan over the motor and the rest of the road noise.

  Even at eleven o’clock, the city sidewalks were still busy. Chiang Mai had a strange feel to it, Brennan observed, an almost twenty-four-hour sense of optimism and calm that he hadn’t experienced in Pattaya or Bangkok. Even the ‘seedy’ part of town was brightly lit by streetlamps, paper lanterns and neon signs… and was just a tourist drag, much as might be found in any large city, replete with a Burger King, a McDonalds, faux British pubs and a handful of nightclubs. Once it crossed a small bridge, the street got a little tougher, with a broad selection of massage parlors, tattoo shops and rougher bars.