Authors: Mark Haskell Smith
He took another sip of his beer. It was selfish, he knew, but he didn't care who they wereâkidnappers, terrorists, headhunting cannibals, or crazed fansâhe was determined to get her back. Turk was going to get Sheila back, and he didn't give a flying fuck what the U.S. government thought about it.
Turk went to his dop kit and shook out an Ambien. He downed it with the rest of his beer and closed the window. He needed to get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a big day.
â¦
The nights are extremely pleasant in Bangkok. The traffic dies down and the wind clears the smog out of the air. The temperatures average around seventy-seven degrees in the hot season, and blooming plants scent the air with their fragrant pollen. But when the sun comes up, the temperature rises dramatically, and nine million people start their cars, motorcycles, trucks, and scooters.
Marybeth had grown up in Los Angeles. She'd experienced gridlock. She'd been a victim of traffic snarls caused by various Sigalerts, Amber alerts, brushfires, earthquakes, and mudslides. She'd seen the 405 freeway backed up with six lanes of traffic for as far as the eye could see. She'd spent an hour trying to go two miles on a road so clogged with cars that it moved slower than magma.
But she'd never seen anything like Bangkok at rush hour.
It didn't help that she had to pee. Marybeth realized she should've gone at the airport, but there had been so much commotion, all those people waving at her with flyers offering cheap hotels, guided tours, places to eat, cars to rent, things to do; it was overwhelming. She had grabbed her suitcase and wheeled it out to the taxi stand without thinking. She just wanted to get out of there. Get in a car. Get to the hotel.
But now she was stuck in an ungodly mass of slow-moving metal. As if the entire country of Thailand had decided to park their cars on the road and let the engines idle for a few of hours.
Maybe this is the cause of global warming
.
While the cars weren't moving, all manner of two-wheeled transportation was flying by in the narrow gaps between vehicles. Countless motorcycles and scooters raced past, shooting down the narrow lanes created between cars as if they
were on the wide-open road. Marybeth saw one sagging Honda 250cc, a man driving it, a woman sitting behind him with a small child sandwiched in between them and a toddler perched on the handlebars. She thought it was strangely unfair that only the man was wearing a helmet. Shouldn't they all have helmets? Shouldn't they be in a car? Marybeth wished she had a helmet. She'd pee in it.
When the taxi finally pulled into the driveway of the Oriental Hotel, Marybeth handed the driver a scrunchy wad of funny-looking Thai money and took off running. She ran in a kind of hunched-over scuffle, one hand holding her crotch, applying pressure to keep the urine trapped in her bladder until she reached a toilet.
The bellman understood right away and led her down a hallway past some expensive boutiques to a bathroom. Had anyone been using the toilet when she entered, Marybeth would've killed them. Or she would've stood on the counter and peed in the sink. As it happened, the stalls were unoccupied and Marybeth was able to squat and let loose what can only be described as a torrent of urine worthy of a drunk elephant. She shivered with relief.
After she'd checked in, gone to her room, taken a quick shower, and put on new clothesâa flouncy hippie skirt, no underwear, and her Metal Assassin T-shirtâshe went to look for Turk. Her first stop was the bar, where she was surprised not to find him. Then she tried the restaurants and the Authors' Loungeâlooking slightly surreal with its white wicker furniture, like Alice had gone to a tea party and ended up in Bangkok. She even looked in the spa. She called his room and left a message. She asked the bellman and the concierge if Turk had left the hotel.
She finally found him eating lunch outside on the veranda.
“You're a hard man to track down.”
Turk looked up at her and smiled.
“Marybeth.”
He stood up, wiped the spicy Thai noodles off his lips with a napkin, and planted a kiss on her cheek.
“Have a seat. Please.”
Marybeth joined him as a waitress appeared and handed her a menu.
“Don't you want to eat inside? It's fucking hot out here, dude.”
Turk mopped some sweat off his face and took a long drink of cold Singha.
“Once you eat the food, you forget about the weather.”
Marybeth looked at him and smiled. “You look good.”
“Considering.”
“No. You just plain old look good.”
She turned on her smile. Turk nodded. “Thanks. You look nice yourself.”
Turk used his spoon to scoop up some food and pop it into his mouth.
“Don't they have chopsticks?”
Turk swallowed. “They don't use 'em here. Everybody eats with a spoon. That's the proper way to do it.”
“Who told you that?”
“A waitress at the resort set me straight.”
The waitress came over and Marybeth ordered eggs Benedict and a large orange juice. Turk smiled at her.
“You come all the way to the other side of the world and order eggs Benedict?”
“I bet they're good here.”
Turk shook his head. “Yeah, you're probably right.”
Turk realized that he was sounding a lot like Sheila. Chastising someone for ordering eggs Benedict in Bangkok was something she'd do.
“Is Jon meeting us out here?”
“He couldn't make it.”
Turk's face fell.
“Don't worry. He sent me. That's why I'm here.”
“To tell me he can't come?”
“No. No. No. I'm here to help you. I'll do anything you want. Whatever you need. I'm here for you.”
She smiled again, and Turk caught the meaning behind the smile.
“I want to get Sheila back.”
Marybeth kept smiling.
“Right. Exactly. Dude, that's why I'm here. But that doesn't mean I can't help you with your needs. When you pull up to my pump, it ain't self-serve. I'm a full-service personal assistant.”
The eggs Benedict arrived, two soft round poached eggs slathered in a bright yellow hollandaise and jiggling on a couple of toasted muffins.
â¦
Jon Heidegger was a good manager, and what a good manager does is anticipate his clients' needs. That way when they ask for something, it's already done. Heidegger had made a few phone calls and tracked down a security consultant in Bangkok. He'd already called and spoken with this man and
learned that he was an expert in ransom and retrieval, often spending a good deal of time negotiating the “escape” of American students from Thai prisons, personally escorting them over the border to Cambodia or down to Singapore, where they would be reunited with their wealthy and worried (and, admittedly, disappointed by their children's lack of judgment) parents. He'd also handled the ransom and release of a famous Hong Kong director who had been snatched from a Patpong brothel by a gang of unemployed Thai actors. A former Australian special forces commando, he was well qualified for the job, and Heidegger had already made the appointment for Turk and Marybeth.
â¦
It hadn't occurred to Turk that someone from the government might be following themâhe assumed he'd given them the slip with his coded messageâso he hadn't taken any particular precautions, like using cash to pay for his food or wearing a disguise (not that he would have known what to do if someone was following him) as he and Marybeth got in a cab and gave the driver the address of an office building a mile or so down Silom Road.
â¦
Ben sat in his cab and watched as Turk and Marybeth entered the office building. Having come to the decision that he was going to keep the million dollars, he'd also come to the decision that he had to keep Turk from ransoming his wife. If Turk
was successful, he would inevitably get in touch with the Bureau of Immigration and Customs Enforcement and ask for his money back. This would cause complications for Ben, because he had no intention of giving the money back.
In Ben's perfect world, the kidnappers would become bored with holding Sheila hostage and release her. That would be ideal. He could then spin a web of reasonable untruths, telling Turk that it had been a “backdoor negotiation.” Of course, he'd exaggerate the story, detailing how he'd violated U.S. law and paid the ransom. Turk would commend Ben for his bravery, for putting compassion and humanity above the law. Ben, in turn, would make Turk swear an oath to never tell a soul; they'd be two men bonded by a secret. Maybe he'd even put Ben + 1 on the guest list at all of his shows. Or better yet, give him an all-access pass.
The next best thing would be for the kidnappers to get bored with holding Sheila and do what frustrated kidnappers do: kill her. Then he could say he gave them the moneyâagain risking his job by putting humanity ahead of U.S. lawâbut they'd double-crossed him. Ben would make Turk swear an oath to never tell a soul and they'd become two men bonded by tragedy.
The third option, and least palatable, was that Turk would persist with his Don Quixote rescue mission and Ben would have to kill him. It wasn't unheard of. A lot of people had been killed for less than a million dollars.
Ben didn't follow Turk and Marybeth into the building. He didn't have to. He knew who they'd be seeing.
â¦
Lampard International Consulting was one of the largest and most experienced security firms in the world. Headquartered in London, it had more than sixty international branch offices. It handled everything from bodyguard services, personal protection, and risk and threat assessments to the planning, design, and implementation of security systems for your home, office, or corporation. LIC experts handled crisis management, corporate espionage investigations, and hazardous materials situations. They could do just about anything you might want someone to do for you.
The company's specialty was crisis intervention. Say your head of marketing is stuck in some godforsaken country due to a natural disaster or political upheaval; an LIC “quick response team” could be mobilized within the hour to plan and execute a precise extraction of your valued executive from the hostile environment.
LIC had an entire division dedicated to kidnap-for-ransom cases. Due to the frequency of abductions in Latin America, this had become a booming business. Executives and their companies frequently bought kidnap insurance, and LIC worked with the insurers to “protect against financial and accidental loss.” Many times this meant tracking kidnappers in Mexico City or Caracas and abruptly putting an end to the
secuestro express
âbasically an extended shopping spree, with the victim using his or her credit card to treat the kidnappers to electronic goods, clothes, and luxury items at gunpointâby planting a well-placed bullet in the kidnapper's cranium.
It was an effective strategy, and LIC had a very high success rate.
â¦
Turk stood in the air-conditioned lobby of the Southeast Asia bureau of Lampard International Consulting studying the framed photographs of cities around the world. There was Rio de Janeiro, Mexico City, Tokyo, Cairo, Johannesburg, and Sydney. Turk smiled when he saw them. They were all places Metal Assassin had played on its world tours, and despite his age and the sheer volume of conquests, Turk could still recall the myriad sexual encounters with fans, groupies, and all kinds of innocent bystanders in porno-film detail.
Funny how a picture of the Sydney Opera House can give you an erection
. Otherwise the office was austere, like a clinic. To the point of being drab.
A nice-looking Thai woman in a red silk dress came out of the back room, greeted them with a
wai
, and escorted them into a conference room. Turk tried to imitate the
wai
, and Marybeth laughed at him. Turk looked at her with some annoyance. He didn't know why, but for some reason the longer he stayed in Thailand the more he wanted to be polite. He liked the way Thais were unfailingly polite to each other; maybe it was contagious.
The conference room proved to be much more impressive than the foyer. Decked out with a state-of-the-art video conferencing system, computers, global tracking monitors, satellite communicators, and some nifty designer furniture from Italy, the conference room was like a high-tech command center. Just standing there you felt better, at ease, like everything was under control.
Before Turk or Marybeth had a chance to sit down, a tall and ruggedly handsome man with short blond hair and a sunburned nose strode into the room. He spoke with a cocky, self-assured Australian accent and gave Turk a warm, confident handshake.
“Mr. Henry? I'm Clive Muggleton, your case officer.”
“Thanks for seeing us.”
Marybeth shook his hand, the extremely fit Aussie holding hers for longer than he needed to.
“I'm Marybeth. We spoke on the phone.”
“Nice to put a face to that voice.”
Clive actually winked at Marybeth, then turned to Turk.
“You're here because you want your wife back. Safe and sound.”
Turk nodded. “Absolutely.”
Marybeth pulled a Metal Assassin CD out of her purse. “I brought you this. So you'd be familiar with the band.”
Clive took the CD and studied it. It was easy to pick Turk out on the back cover. He was on the far left, outfitted in black leather pants and some kind of straitjacket made from chain mail, glowering and baring his teeth like a rabid dog.
“Do you know the band?”
Clive cleared his throat. “I've heard of them, of course. Who hasn't? But I can't say I listen to a lot of this kind of music; not really my cup of tea.”
Turk tried to steer the conversation back to rescuing Sheila. “What about Sheila? Can you rescue her?”
Marybeth looked at Clive. “Like what bands do you like?”
Turk looked at her, annoyed. “Marybeth, for fuck's sake.”