“No match for an AK,” Alex observed.
“In the jungle? How close are we going to be? Fifty yards? Tops? Although I agree, which is why I requested a pair of AKMs for us. Bulkier, but a lot more stopping power and range.” Spencer fieldstripped the ugly little gun with sure hands. “Didn’t see any reason to saddle them with any more than they’ll need.”
“I have four Beretta 9mm pistols as well,” Anurak said.
“Where did you get the H&Ks?” Alex asked.
“Pakistan. They manufacture them under license there. These, as you can see, are new. Only test fired to verify they’re in good working order.”
“And the AKs?”
“Chinese. Quite good, I think you’ll agree. Accurate to at least three hundred meters.” Anurak peered over his spectacles at Spencer. “Depending on the shooter, perhaps farther.”
Twenty minutes later they were done with their inspection and had accepted the arms. Each pistol came with three full magazines and belt holsters, and the MP5s and AKMs with six full magazines each. They exited the shop, with Alex carrying the heavy bag, and retraced their steps toward the hotel. Spencer glanced at Alex as they made their way down the blistering sidewalk and noted the sweat beading on his forehead.
“I can take it for a while. We can trade off,” Spencer suggested, and Alex nodded and handed him the duffle.
“We’ll swap every couple of blocks.”
“You want to grab a taxi? Or a tuk-tuk?” Spencer asked after another block, the swelter almost overwhelming with the heavy load, referring to the motorcycle-based tricycles that carried a pair of passengers in addition to the driver, ubiquitously used in Thailand for cheap transportation.
“Might as well.”
The sound of a powerful motor roared behind them. They spun just in time to see the grill of a dark sedan bearing down on them, two of its wheels up on the sidewalk. Spencer threw himself out of the way; Alex was right behind him, but a split second too late. The car slammed into his legs, throwing him into the air like a rag doll as the vehicle accelerated and sped away.
Alex struck the ground with a sickening thwack, and Spencer could see in an instant that at least one of his legs was broken, and likely his pelvis as well. Spencer glared at the departing sedan, its license plate unreadable due to muck smeared across it, and then forced himself to his feet and ran to where Alex lay in the street.
“Can you talk?” Spencer asked, kneeling beside him.
Alex fought for breath. The pain had to be blinding, Spencer knew, and he recognized the signs of shock in Alex’s pallid complexion. He stood and looked around and saw a woman on her cell phone, frozen in place.
“You. You speak English?” Spencer called out.
The woman nodded. “Little.”
“Call the police and an ambulance. My friend’s hurt. Please.”
“All right,” she said, and terminated her conversation and dialed emergency. After thirty second she hung up. “They coming.”
“Thank you.”
“Crazy man in car.”
“Yes,” Spencer said, suddenly remembering that he had a bag full of guns and ammo. Perhaps the police wouldn’t be that understanding of his presence under those circumstances. He knelt beside Alex again and whispered to him, “Nod if you understand.”
Alex managed a weak nod.
“Help’s coming. You carrying anything that would give your cover away?”
A small shake of Alex’s head, almost imperceptible.
“Okay. I’m going to get out of here. Hang tough.”
Alex nodded again and Spencer stood, the wail of an approaching emergency vehicle all the warning he needed. He turned and, without saying another word to the woman, jogged to the corner and disappeared down the side street, and then sprinted as fast as he could manage with the bulky duffle toward the boulevard two blocks down.
By the time he made it to the wide street, more sirens were klaxoning toward Alex. There being nothing left he could do for the fallen agent, Spencer flagged down a tuk-tuk. He gave the driver the name of a hotel a block and a half away from his, and then sat back in the seat, the duffle beside him, his brow furrowed in thought as he tried to piece together what had just occurred.
Chapter 14
Senator Arthur Whitfield looked up from his reading at the knock on his office door, scowling at the interruption. Dark rings lined his eyes, though as usual his full head of silver hair had been carefully styled to minimize the bald spot at the crown of his head. Behind him, oil paintings of Revolutionary War battles in golden frames adorned the walls, with the area opposite floor-to-ceiling bookshelves devoted to the War Between the States. He thumbed the sides of the hundreds of pages of the latest bill that was coming up for a vote and growled a command.
“Come in.”
The heavy cherry-wood door swung open and his aide, Alan Sedgewick, stepped in, an apologetic expression on his face.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but the gentlemen from the agency you asked to see are here.”
Whitfield nodded and checked the time. “Very well. Show them in.”
Collins and the deputy director of the CIA, Edward Cornett, entered. Sedgewick showed them to two burgundy leather chairs beside a polished mahogany oval table. Whitfield rounded his desk and took a seat opposite them.
Sedgewick made to leave, but Whitfield stopped him with a curt gesture. “Pull up a chair. I want your input on this,” Whitfield ordered.
Sedgewick did so, opting to sit near the door.
Whitfield addressed the newcomers. “What have you got for me? Tell me it’s good news. I’m beside myself with worry.”
Cornett shook his head grimly. “I’m afraid nothing definitive. We’ve deployed a team and will be commencing a search of the area. But the odds aren’t good of finding anything but confirmation that she didn’t make it. I’m sorry.”
Whitfield exhaled noisily and stared at the ceiling molding before addressing Cornett. “Why has it taken this long?”
“Unavoidable, Senator. Laos isn’t particularly friendly, what with the unexploded Vietnam conflict ordnance that’s still scattered around the country, and Myanmar… well, you of all people understand the situation there.”
“I want the details. How big a team, what methodology they’re using, how long you estimate it will take… the works.”
Cornett nodded. “As per your instructions, we’re going in soft. We’ve obtained the cooperation of a civilian group that is a guarantee to get the necessary permits, working under the pretense that they’re looking for a national treasure.”
“Why would Laos and Myanmar grant them that latitude?”
“For Laos, it would be an important historical find,” Collins said. “For Myanmar, we all know they’re destitute, so they’re motivated by self-interest. In both cases we’ve used some operational cash to lubricate the way.”
Whitfield grunted. Among other things, Whitfield sat on several intelligence agency oversight committees, and knew all too well that the CIA had any number of undisclosed income sources it could leverage to achieve its ends.
“We’ve arranged for one of our most seasoned hands to accompany them,” Cornett added, “and they’ll have access to a helicopter we chartered in Thailand to perform the search. Only we will know their true objective.”
“What’s your take on the timeline?” Whitfield asked.
“Three to four days. Weather permitting.”
“Why so long?”
“It’s not a small area, Senator. They need to be methodical.”
Whitfield sighed and looked over at Sedgewick. “Anything I left out?”