“Sounds like a real page-turner,” Ritchie said with a smirk.
The room they entered was spacious and clean, with two king-sized beds, a TV mounted on the wall, and a bathroom that stank of lime-scented disinfectant and mold, Mancini quickly pointed out, being the fussiest member of the group. His wife, Teresa, described him as Martha Stewart in an alligator-wrestler’s body.
“Two men to a room,” Crocker announced. “Akil and I will take this one.”
“How come you two always room together?” Ritchie asked. “Kind of makes me wonder.”
“Because you can’t fall asleep without the TV on, Manny snores like a wounded warthog, and Davis talks to his wife in his sleep,” Crocker answered.
“It’s true,” Davis said.
“What about Cal?”
Crocker handed out the electronic key cards and said, “Unpack, wash up, jerk off, whatever…And reassemble here at 1855.” That gave them roughly twenty minutes.
“You hear the part about washing up, Akil?” Ritchie cracked as he exited. “That’s a not-so-subtle hint that you need to take a shower.”
“Kiss my hairy Egyptian ass.”
Crocker stacked his clothes carefully on the wooden shelves in the closet, showered, clipped his salt-and-pepper mustache, and changed into a fresh black polo and black cotton pants. Exiting the bathroom he found CNN News blaring from the TV and Akil on the floor by the window doing crunches.
He turned down the sound and said, “You’d better get ready.”
On his way to the bathroom, Akil said, “I think I’m gonna like this city.”
“We’re not tourists,” Crocker reminded him. He remembered leaving a bar early one morning the last time he’d been in Bangkok and coming to the aid of two drunken Aussies who were getting the shit pounded out of them by a gang of Thai toughs. The toughs claimed the Aussies hadn’t paid their thousand-dollar bar bill. One of the Aussies shot back, “How could two skinny bums like us drink that much shitty Thai beer?”
He considered calling home, then realized it was something like 6 a.m. in Virginia. When the rest of the SEALs returned, Crocker quickly briefed them on the reason they were there and said, “I’m taking Mancini with me to meet the Thai colonel. I want the rest of you to grab some grub and return to the hotel. Hopefully, we’ll get a location on the terrorists and execute a raid before the sun comes up. So no drinking or fucking around. I need all of you focused and ready. And don’t expect to sleep tonight.”
Ritchie turned to Mancini and asked, “Any place you’d recommend nearby for dinner?”
“For good Thai food try Tom Yum Kung on Khao San Road. If you want Italian, look for a place called Scoozi. They’re both affordable.”
Cal pointed to Ritchie’s new watch and advised, “If we’re going walking down Khao San Road, you might want to leave that in the hotel safe.” It was a Jaeger-LeCoultre Master Compressor diving watch with a Super-LumiNova dial visible underwater, and it retailed for a little over ten thousand dollars-a marriage proposal gift from his girlfriend.
Cal, Ritchie, Davis, and Akil left first. When Crocker and Mancini descended to the lobby, they found Anderson dressed in a black silk shirt and cream blazer. With his hair slicked back, he looked like a character from Miami Vice.
They sat in the lounge and ordered Singha beer.
“What do you think of Admiral Olsen’s statement about women performing combat roles in special ops?” Anderson asked out of the side of his mouth. Admiral Eric T. Olsen was the former head of U.S. Special Operations Command (USSOCOM), which oversees the various special operations commands of the army, air force, navy, and marine corps, including SEAL Team 6, Delta Force, and the air force’s 24th Special Tactics Squadron. He had been replaced by the current commander, Admiral William McRaven, in August 2011.
“Asinine,” Mancini answered.
“If they want to and can hack it, why not?” Crocker asked.
“Because it’s wrong,” Mancini answered.
Crocker, who was getting antsy, leaned toward Anderson and said, “We’d like to do this tonight, if possible. Can you get us everything we need?”
“Within reason, of course. Expect Colonel Petsut to set the parameters.”
After paying the check, Anderson led the way to Khao San Road, a colorful stretch of shops, restaurants, sidewalk masseuses, sex parlors, bars, stalls hawking T-shirts, counterfeit watches, purses, bongs, and even Botox treatments, populated by tourists from all over the globe, including lots of young kids in tank tops and shorts, sporting cornrowed hair and bad tattoos. They pushed past shady local characters offering to sell them Armani suits for fifty dollars, “refurbished” iPhones and iPads, drugs, and every variety of sexual activity known to man. Several tuk-tuk drivers offered to take them on a tour of the city for twenty baht, the equivalent of sixty-five cents.
“It’s gotta be a scam,” Crocker said.
“No, mister,” one of the drivers countered in Tinglish-a combination of Thai and bad English. “We get money from gov’ment for every tourist we take.”
“Yeah, and I’m really a six-foot-six black basketball player named Michael Jordan. You ever hear of Michael Jordan?”
“You, Michael Jordan the basketball player? You crazy!”
A topless young woman waved to them from a window above a dress shop.
“Perky,” Mancini commented.
“Friendly, too.”
They turned into an alley that led to a wider street and the dark marble front of a somber, modern four-story structure. Anderson announced his name into the intercom and they were buzzed in. Two men in dark green uniforms checked them with metal detector wands, then pointed to a little elevator that took them to the top floor.
A pretty young woman in a tight white tunic and black skirt, her hair pulled back and decorated with a pink-and-yellow orchid, met them there.
Mancini whispered, “She smells nice,” as they followed her into a dark room that looked like an empty cocktail lounge. Norah Jones crooned “Come Away with Me” over the sound system. The young woman pointed her delicate arm at a tan banquette in the corner where three men in uniform sat. They bowed.
Recognizing Anderson, the man in the middle stood, smiled, and offered Crocker his hand. “Mr. Mansfield, welcome to my country.”
“Thank you, Colonel. This is my associate Mr. Mark Jones.”
“Sit down, please. What would you like to drink?”
Lieutenant Colonel Petsut of the Royal Thai Police was a little man with big ears and a scar that ran from the tip of his nose across his mouth to his chin. Short black hair greased back, mischievous dark eyes. He said something to one of his aides in Thai, and the man disappeared. Pointing to his other companion, he added, “I want you to meet my assistant, Captain Jakkri Phibulsongkram. You can call him Jack.”
“Jack, it’s a pleasure.”
A lovely young waitress arrived with a tray of drinks, including a local tom yum, which featured lime vodka with Thai chili garnish. Crocker sipped it while Petsut talked about his time as a young man studying criminal justice at the University of California, Irvine, that apparently involved a love affair with a young Southern California girl named Linda and a proposal of marriage. He said that the two had not married but remained friends. As evidence he showed them a picture of Linda, her husband, and two daughters standing with him and his family in front of a huge reclining gold Buddha known as Wat Pho. As he stuffed the photo back in his wallet, he said, “I suppose you won’t have time to visit the temple and stroll around the grounds. It always puts my spirit at peace.”
Crocker said, “We’re here on business.”
“Yes,” Petsut answered, sounding sad. He spoke about the terrorist attacks and the panic they had caused, as appetizers were set on the table-meang kum, Baan Thai spring rolls, pumpkin tod, chicken satay, crispy tofu, and chicken served with sweet sauce and crushed peanuts. All done gracefully and without interrupting the flow of conversation.