Death in the Kingdom (32 page)

Sami flicked off the television and the giant screen vanished behind a pair of ornate wooden panels. ‘Industrial accident, just like the one at my place.'

‘Familiar pattern,' I suggested.

‘Feel like hitting the bush again, like the old days?'

‘Oh no!' I muttered. I'm getting too old for this game, I thought.

After another lavish dinner with just us two guests, Sami again asked me if I wanted company. Again I told him I didn't. I thought that for the first time in my life my libido had become stone dead. Everything that had been happening had been about death. Even to me, sex, love, the act, the thoughts, the desires were all a celebration of life. I could only hope that when Chekhov's corpse finally cooled, the fire in my groin will reignite itself. I was too young for celibacy or Viagra.

I bade farewell to Sami, went to my lonely bed and tried to sleep. The whole exercise eventually proved impossible. I just couldn't find that black tunnel and slip away into nothingness, so I switched to plan B. I got up and went into the opulent bathroom, fired up the spa and slipped into the rolling water with a large glass of my favourite spirit to hand. I figured more alcohol and the soothing powers of a hot-water massage might do the trick. It didn't.

When I emerged with my skin wrinkled like a lightly tanned prune, I pulled on a robe and used the suite's coffee machine to make a brew. Mug and cigarette in hand, I went out onto the balcony. The time was a few minutes after 05:30 and dawn was already starting to lighten the sky. The guards were still in place and lights blazed against the grey of the coming day. I noted that half of Sami's boats were gone. No matter what was happening with Chekhov, it was probably business as usual in the drug world. ‘Life goes on' was the cliché that came immediately to mind. I supposed it was a reality, but then most clichés started out that way—didn't they?

There was a movement on the top floor balcony two or three rooms away to my left. A young woman wearing a white robe had stepped out of a darkened room. There was the sudden flare of a match. Another smoker in the dawn, I thought. She took a good hit of nicotine and, as she exhaled, she saw me. I raised a hand in silent salute. After a moment she did the same. Here we were, two conspirators waiting for day, each of us locked into our insidious addiction. Was I addicted to nicotine? The answer must have been yes. I'd been addicted since I'd been about seventeen, and even when I'd been off the weed I'd still been an addict just one puff away from damnation. It seemed to be the same with all addictions: drugs, alcohol, food and sex. All the good things in life, some would say. I snorted at the ridiculousness of my philosophical turn and came back to reality.

‘Back to the bush,' Sami had said. Were we going hunting or were we going to be the hunted? I dropped the remains of my cigarette into the bin at my feet and waved farewell to the young lady in white as I went back into my room. I figured she was another of Sami's family brought there for safety. A daughter perhaps, a niece, a wife, a concubine? I knew Sami had several wives, legal or not. I had met some on rare occasions. All I knew was that his family set-up was confusing. Whoever the young lady was, it didn't matter, but curiosity was second nature to me.

‘Back to the bush,' I repeated as I dressed in yet another set of borrowed clothes. I still hadn't had my kit picked up from the embassy. It didn't matter; the walk-in wardrobe in my suite was filled with clothes, from suits to jeans and even jungle camouflage, all in my size. Was this just another ploy from Sami to get me on board? I was slapped out of my thoughts by the phone. It was he.

‘Good morning, Daniel. We have news of Chekhov.'

‘Good or bad?'

‘A little of each. Come down. We'll breakfast and talk,' he replied.

Breakfast over we relocated to Sami's office. There he did his magic and made the big screen monitor reappear from behind the ornate wall panels. The image he showed me was jungle, with a broad river that snaked down a wide valley. On one of the sharpest bends the snake path formed a peninsula that was narrow at the base but broader towards its head. There was a clearing at the apex of the bend and in the centre of the clearing was a small village. Sami used a hand-held remote to magnify the village and I quickly realised it wasn't a normal Thai hill village. The huts were arranged in precise military rows. There was a perimeter fence and watchtowers.

As Sami brought the image in even closer, I could make out razor wire adorning the fence and machine guns in the watchtowers. I didn't need him to explain who owned this particular real estate.

‘Lowland,' said Sami. ‘A basin between the mountains. Virtually all swamp and surrounded on three sides by water, so the only clear access is by air or water. He has the water and shore mined, as is the land approach. We know he's got radar and we suspect a bunch of Stingers, so there'll be no sneak helicopter attacks on this camp.'

‘Tidy,' was all I could think of to say.

‘We have to have him come to us,' Sami said, ‘and I think we can arrange that very easily. His desire to get to you will ensure that,' he added.

‘Where have you been?' Bernard sounded as pissed off as I'd ever heard him.

‘In hiding,' I replied. ‘Remember that hit on the Russian, Dimitri Chekhov?'

‘Vaguely,' the old bastard muttered.

‘He didn't die. He's here in Thailand and he's raising havoc. It was Chekhov's people out in the Andaman,' I said.

‘Chekhov,' Bernard mused as if he hadn't heard me. ‘Dimitri Chekhov?' The old bastard was playing his senility card.

‘Yeah,' I replied. ‘He's very much alive and he's taken out friends of mine and he's after me. I'm heading out of Bangkok until Tuk Tuk or the CIA get him,' I said, feigning an urgency I was far from feeling, and all the while marvelling at the old bugger's acting ability. Hell, he was almost as good as I was. I wondered what his GPS would be showing.

I was sitting in one of Sami's boats on the Chao Phraya about mid-way between Bangkok and Ayutthaya. Sami, Jo and I were going upstream to check out the destruction on Chekhov's base personally. The news on the Russian was that he had definitely gone to his northern base. Sami was thinking he'd been tipped off by one of Tuk Tuk's people. ‘Trust is hard to come by in our business,' he said. ‘That's why I want you by my side.' He wasn't letting up in his efforts to get me to join him.

Because Chekhov was in the north we had no choice but to go there as well, but not yet. Karl, through his people, was busy putting some things in place. In the meantime we three went sightseeing. The call on my mobile was to keep Bernard happy and unsuspicious without putting a big bull's-eye on Sami's palace.

‘Call me when you get to where you're going,' Bernard said.

‘I will. Wish me luck,' I said, trying to sound at least a little apprehensive.

‘I do, Daniel, I certainly do. Call when you get there,' Bernard said in his most fatherly tone. Even given the distance and electronic filters, I could hear the relief in his voice as he cut the contact. I congratulated myself on having masterfully played dumb with him. Sir Bernard Turncoat was convinced that no matter what, his boy, Danny Swann, had no idea he had been set up. In his perfect little scenario he would give Chekhov my location and Chekhov, in turn, would finally get me. Then Bernard's double-play secrets would be safe until he went to his grave.

Officially, of course, the story which would do the rounds would be that he, Sir Bernard Randolph Sinclair, arsehole and bar, had despatched his agent to collect a package. Despite all odds the agent had been successful but unfortunately been killed in a later event. How sad! Bernard would probably get a fucking bar on his knighthood or something. As for failing to get the anthrax for his real bosses or his partners in crime, that would be unfortunate for Chekhov but, on the other hand, Her Majesty's Government would be well pleased. In Bernard's book he would be thinking that, ultimately, Chekhov had a sticky end coming at the hands of Tuk Tuk or the CIA and he could quietly slip into retirement to enjoy whatever millions he no doubt had in his Swiss bank accounts.

‘I don't know whether or not he's spoken to his old mate Dimitri today,' I said to Sami as I switched off the phone, ‘but it'll be an interesting call when they make contact.'

‘I'll believe that,' Sami said as he kicked the big boat into action and sent us racing upstream.

32

Too many cooks and this broth will be turned into blood soup. The thought crossed my mind as we sat in Sami's study for what amounted to a mission briefing. Karl, Jo, Sami and I were there, so was a big, hard-faced s.o.b named Alex. Alex was, Karl informed us, commander of a Special Operations unit. His squad had flown in from the Pakistan–Afghan border just for our little party, all thanks to the CIA paymasters. Karl and Alex had flown in by Jet Ranger just as we three musketeers had arrived back at Sami's compound from our excursion upriver. Coincidental timing? I thought not. Coincidence didn't have a place in the game we were playing. I was beginning to feel like a spare cog.

We were gathered in front of a large-scale glass-framed wall map. The map was of Thailand and the countries that shared its border. Sami illuminated the map panel at the touch of a button. ‘We go here!' He tapped the glass, pointing to an unmarked spot on the map in the northeast, close to the border with Laos. The place he indicated wasn't far from Vientiane, the Laotian capital. I'd spent quite a bit of time there once, officially as a tourist recovering from a bout of malaria. The true facts had been a little different, however.

‘Chekhov has his base here.' Sami pointed to a red dot on the glass. Then he moved his finger a few inches. ‘Here is where we will be.'

‘A village?' I said, squinting at the dot he was indicating.

‘On a hill,' Sami replied. ‘It's the perfect spot. There is only one road in or out.'

‘What about the villagers? We don't want them caught in a firefight!' That was the big reality clause for me. I didn't want any more dead and injured innocents on my already overloaded conscience.

‘No problem,' Sami said. ‘They'll be gone when we get there.'

‘They're just going to pack up and go?' Karl muttered, an incredulous expression replacing his habitual poker face.

‘You could say I own the place,' Sami said with a shrug. ‘It's one of several I have along the border.'

‘Does Chekhov suspect that you know where his base is?' I asked.

‘Undoubtedly, but that doesn't matter. He'll come after us,' Sami said. ‘The urge to kill Daniel is too strong. He won't be able to resist it.'

‘Does he realise that this place belongs to you?' Karl was asking.

Sami shrugged. ‘I would say probably. We're only twenty clicks apart, but there are a lot of other operators in the area as well. We watch each other from afar,' he added mirthlessly.

‘And you're positive he'll come to us?' I asked, worrying that question to death because I just wasn't sure.

‘He wants you dead, badly, so he'll come calling,' said Karl. ‘The double whammy is that he won't realise that you've got America's finest on your side.' The newcomer almost smiled at that—almost. ‘He'll figure you have what, maybe fifteen to twenty men on the hill?' Karl asked and Sami nodded in agreement. ‘Okay, and he's probably got about the same?'

‘Maybe thirty,' Sami replied.

‘That's okay,' Karl came back. ‘We'll have a crew of ten Special Forces plus whatever else you've got on site.'

‘Six in the village, all fighters,' Sami said, ‘and ourselves—say twenty. Is that enough?'

‘Oh yes,' replied Karl. ‘Agree, Alex?'

‘That's enough,' the Special Ops man replied in a tone that ended any argument. I had no idea what Alex and his team were going to bring to the party, but I figured I had no choice but to go along for the ride. It was the only game in town. I knew that when it came to technology and killing equipment, the Yanks would come up trumps.

‘Okay, so I confirm with Bernard that I'm in this village here.' I leaned towards the map to look for a name.

‘Bang Sai Deng,' Sami supplied for my benefit.

‘Bang Sai Deng,' I repeated. ‘I speak to him and he alerts Chekhov. Chekhov comes calling and we finish it.'

‘Right,' agreed Sami as the others nodded. ‘As I said before, there is only one road to it from this point here.' Sami tapped the glass again, indicating a village at a crossroads down the valley from Bang Sai Deng. His hand traced a route back to Chekhov's base away to the west. ‘Chekhov has vehicles at the road's end here where the swampland starts. He has to come this way unless he flies in.'

‘Okay,' I agreed. ‘Bang Sai Deng is where I'm hanging out. I'm waiting for Tuk Tuk or the CIA or anyone to take Chekhov out. I'm ready to flick across the border, just like old times, if there's any attempt on my life, blah, blah,' I finished. We all knew the plot.

‘Let's go do it,' said Karl.

33

As we flew in to Bang Sai Deng, I was all eyes. A map and a distant memory were not enough to go on when you were about to put your life on the line. The pilot brought us down almost to within tree-hugging height as we came in on a circuit from the north. We were trying to keep our arrival as low-key as possible. Despite the lack of height there was a lot to see, including a shit load of jungle. We brushed past the shoulders of hills and flashed over little patches of agriculture. A few small villages were dotted around. We could see Vientiane off in the distance and the mighty Mekong showed as a dark ribbon against the green of the jungle just a few hundred yards north of us.

Behind us the borrowed Iroquois kept just as low. Although painted in civilian livery, the old Huey was actually a Thai Air Force machine, one probably used for Black Ops work.