I’m in the elevator at the Halekulani.
After we returned to the CIL, Kate stayed to go over some documents with the colonel. I took a taxi back to the hotel.
I get off at nine and walk down the corridor to my room, thinking about the answer I gave her. It was bravado, no more than wishful thinking at best. If I’m honest with myself, I’d admit it’s going to take much more than determination to find Sean Surigao. I’ve no idea where he is. I don’t even know if he’s on Oahu. He could easily be on one of the other islands, the mainland, or anywhere in the world for that matter.
The card key performs it’s magic and the door pops open with a precise electronic click. I cross the room, toss my jacket and attaché on the bed, then roll back the floor-to-ceiling shutters. The room floods with light as I step out onto the balcony. I’m leaning against the rail, looking out across the grounds to the sea, working the problem, when I hear a voice. Distant and pleasantly haunting, it fills my head with familiar sounds and makes me smile. Nancy’s voice.
Cal? Cal, I’ve given this situation a lot of thought, and I really think you should let the authorities handle it, she says evenly, reasoning with me as always in her calm, self-assured tone. Really. It’s time to get on with your life. Besides, you shouldn’t be neglecting your business like this. Not to mention our daughters. They both need you. Depend on you. God knows, now more than ever. I know how you feel, Cal, but if you search your heart, I’m sure you’ll find that A doesn’t have to stand for avenge.
It’s good advice.
I’m tempted to take it, tempted to leave Surigao and the rest of this mess to the colonel, the DEA, and the police, and return to Los Angeles. Whatever I decide, it dawns on me that I haven’t spoken to the girls in a couple of days. It’s time to touch base and let them know what’s going on.
I take the phone from the writing desk. It has a long cord, allowing it to be used on the balcony. I settle in the lounger and call Laura. Her roommate tells me she’s in class. I leave a message that everything’s okay, then dial Janie’s number in Arizona. The line’s busy. Janie’s line is always busy. I spend a few minutes wrestling with my decision, to no avail. So, I try Janie again. As I hoped, the hotel phone has a last number redial button. Good thing, because her line’s still busy. I try several more times and am about to press redial again when I pause, my finger hovering above the button as an idea regarding Surigao’s whereabouts strikes me. It’s a long shot, but I won’t be able to look into it once I leave Hawaii, and I know I’ll always wonder. I hang up, go down to the lobby, get in a taxi, and ask the driver to take me to the Theater Arts Complex.
Ten minutes later I’m stuck in a traffic jam, but I can see the distinctive, sawtoothed rooftops in the distance.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” I prompt the driver. “It can’t be more than a few blocks.”
“Yes, but you can’t get there from here,” he says resignedly, reciting what he explains is the unofficial motto of Waikiki’s grid-locked drivers—taxi or otherwise.
I pay the fare and walk the rest of the way, taking the elevator to the top floor of the main theater building. The manager’s on the phone when I enter his office. He waves me in with a big smile, and cuts the call short. “Well, Mr. Morgan, very good to see you again,” he says effusively as he comes around the desk and shakes my hand.
“Good to see you too. Somehow I get the feeling you haven’t rented the place yet.”
“Well, we’ve had some very serious inquiries,” he cautions, gravely. “Needless to say, I’ll be more than happy to tell them the unit’s been leased.”
“I’m afraid my wife had a few questions I couldn’t answer. I thought I’d take another look at it before deciding.”
“Of course.” He fetches the key from the cabinet behind the ornate mirror and turns toward the door.
“There’s no need for you to hike all the way over there,” I say, intercepting him. “I’m sure I’ll have no trouble finding it.”
“I’ll be waiting, agreement and pen in hand,” he says, dropping the key into my outstretched palm.
The elevator deposits me in the lobby. I cross the courtyard and make my way between the buildings to the waterfront condominiums, my hair blowing in the trade winds coming off the water, my hand in my pocket grasping the Beretta. I approach the entrance, looking about cautiously. In the event one or both of the Surigaos have returned for some reason, I ring the doorbell, then go to the window from where I observed the interior last time.
No one responds.
I return to the front door, unlock it, and step inside, going to the kitchen where I recall seeing a wall phone. Does it have a redial button? Is it still in service? I lift the handset apprehensively. Yes, there’s a dial tone and the word redial neatly lettered beneath one of the buttons. I press it and listen to the electronic tones being replayed. Then it starts ringing, three, four, five times.
“Pizza Hut, Kalakaua,” a weary voice finally growls.
“Oh. Sorry, I’m afraid I dialed the wrong number.”
The guy hangs up on me.
I drop the handset onto the hook and stand there for a moment, reasonably certain the only connection the Surigaos have to Pizza Hut is hunger. I’m coping with the disappointment when I vaguely recall seeing another phone someplace. The desk. The one I’d searched. I make my way to the wall of built-ins in the den and lower the hinged writing surface. There’s a phone inside, and like the other, it has a redial button. There are many more tones this time. I lose count at thirteen. This isn’t a local number. The ring is a series of harsh, pulsating buzzes.
A woman answers. In a soft, lilting voice she says something that sounds like, “Deuce it than he save thee.” Several more phrases in the tonal cadence of an Asian language follow. It’s not Vietnamese, which I’d recognize.
“Excuse me, do you speak English?”
“Of course, sir,” she replies in an Australian accent. “How may I help you?”
“Well, for openers, I’m not sure I have the right number. Who am I speaking to?”
“This is the reception desk at the Dusit Thani Hotel, sir.”
“Yes, of course. I need to know where you’re located, please?”
“Nine-forty-six Rama IV Road just across the canal from Sala Daeng Circle. It’s a white building with a golden spire on the roof. It sort of resembles a large pagoda. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding it.”
“I’m sorry. I meant in what country?”
“Oh. Thailand, sir. Bangkok, Thailand.”
I swallow hard, trying to suppress my reaction. “Ah, I thought that’s where they said they were going. I was right after all. I’d like to speak with one of your guests—a Mr. Surigao?”
“Mr. Surigao? I’m sorry, I believe I saw them leaving a short time ago.”
“You mean they’ve checked out?”
“Oh, no. We expect them to be with us for a while longer. Would you like to leave a message, sir?”
“No, thank you. That won’t be necessary . . .” I hang up before adding, “I’ll deliver it personally.”
My fist tightens in triumph, but my pulse rate is surprisingly steady now. It’s my mind that’s racing, making the connections: Surigao—Actor—Bangkok—Thonburi Film Studios—Ajacier. I remain in the condo long enough to get the number of the Sheraton Waikiki from information and call Kate Ackerman. She’s not in her room. I try the CIL next. Mrs. Oldham says she left about twenty minutes ago, which means she’s probably en route to the hotel. I return the keys to the manager and make a beeline for the taxi stand at the entrance to the Theater Arts Complex. Then, with visions of being caught in another traffic jam, I reverse direction and start walking.
About fifteen minutes later, I’m in the Sheraton’s lobby: massive dated gold-veined mirrors and glitzy chandeliers, corridors going off in every direction lined with boutiques, and airline and car rental desks. I call Kate’s room from a house phone. The line’s busy. I take the elevator to her floor, hurry down the corridor, and knock on the door.
“Kate? Kate, it’s Cal Morgan.”
I knock several more times before the door opens.
“Oh, hi,” she says, a little surprised. “Sorry, I was on the phone. Come on in.”
I follow her into the room. It’s a clean, simply furnished tourist accommodation that faces the apartment building across the street.
She sweeps her eyes over me and frowns curiously. “You okay?”
“Couldn’t be better. Why?”
“You seem a little hyper.”
“I have good reason to be.”
“You found the guy?”
“Sure did. In a hotel in Bangkok.”
“Oh?”
“He and his wife. She works at the CIL. I think you know her. Carla Surigao?”
“Carla?” she repeats slack-jawed.
“The one and only,” I reply, going on to brief Kate on the Surigao’s involvement: that Carla had tipped her husband to my inquiry, that he’s the one who’s out to kill me, that there’s some kind of drug smuggling connection.
She stares at me in stunned silence when I finish. “Gosh,” she finally says. “That’s really strange. I mean, I don’t know him at all. But Carla’s the nicest person you’d ever want to meet.”
“Haven’t had the pleasure. Anything else you can tell me about her?”
“Not really. We’ve only met a few times. Here several years ago, and on occasion at the meetings in Washington. She’s very easy to get along with. The kind of person who’ll go out of her way to help you.”
“Yes, even to kill someone.” Kate shrugs, mystified. “Do you need a visa to get into Thailand?”
“Not for a short stay.”
“How short?”
“Up to fifteen days, I think.”
“You give any more thought to going?”
She breaks into a wry smile and nods. “I was just talking to that businessman in Bangkok I told you about. He couldn’t believe it when I told him John had survived. He said he’s going to check his files for new information.”
“Does that mean you’re going?”
She hesitates briefly, then nods.
“When?”
She smiles and fetches a pad from the desk. “There’s a flight every night at eight-thirty,” she replies, referring to her notes. “Gets into Bangkok at nine-fifteen in the morning. There are also several that leave daily between eight and noon, but I’d rather not waste a day.”
“I can’t afford to. Mind some company?”
“No. But I’d prefer traveling with someone who wasn’t being hunted by assassins.”
“I gave that a lot of thought on the way over here. I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t think it was safe.”
“Want to tell me why?”
“I’m pretty sure they think I’m dead. I mean, I’ve been expecting them to come at me again and they haven’t. It finally dawned on me that Surigao wouldn’t have left Los Angeles, let alone gone to Bangkok, unless he thought he’d gotten me.”
“Seems to make sense.”
“I’m counting on it. It gives me an advantage. So if you don’t mind traveling with a dead man—”
“I think I can handle it. By the way, do you have your passport with you?”
“Always. I’ve got several international clients. You never know. Get us some reservations on the eight-thirty. Make ’em first-class.”
“Whoa. That’s way out of my league, Morgan.”
“I’ll cover the difference. You have a place where you stay?”
“I know a hotel.”
“It isn’t the Dusit Thani, is it?
“No. Way too expensive. You want to stay there?”
“Any place but there. Long as it’s first-class.”
Her head tilts to one side as if something’s dawned on her. “You’re rich, aren’t you?”
“Comfortable. I don’t see you worrying about getting back to the office.”
“I watch what I spend. I have some savings.”
“So do I. So does Donald Trump—”
“Did.”
“What I make in a year still wouldn’t cover his phone bill. I figure you only go around once. Why not enjoy it as much as you can?”
“Yes, why the hell not?” she says, brightening. “The Oriental’s probably the best, then there’s—”
“We’ll stay there. See if you can get us a couple of rooms.”
“Hey,” she protests with a troubled frown. “I’m not your secretary, Morgan.”
“Thank God.”
“That cuts both ways, mister.”
“Feel better now?”
“Much.”
“Good. This is no time to take offense. You’re the expert here, Kate. I’m acknowledging it.”
She studies me, and breaks into a little smile. “That’s pretty good.”
“I meant it.”
Kate goes to work on the phone. I return to my hotel and do the same, reviewing business projects with the office and briefing my daughters on my plans. Then I make a quick trip to a bookstore just down the street and buy a travel guide to Bangkok, spending the rest of the afternoon reading it.
Hours later, the island is shrouded in darkness as our flight takes off from Honolulu International and makes a big looping turn out over the Pacific, leaving Waikiki’s glittering lights behind.
Kate and I are comfortably settled in the first-class compartment of the stretched 747. Singapore girls are rustling about the aisles in their sarongs. The laptop is at my feet, the Beretta concealed inside. The foldout map that came with the travel guide is spread over my tray table. It delineates highways, streets, canals, places of interest, train stations, and major hotels in great detail. I’m interested in the Oriental, on the Chao Phraya River, which meanders through the center of the city. The Dusit Thani is slightly more than two miles away at the far end of a nearby canal.
I’m circling these locations when Kate glances over and offhandedly asks, “By the way, how’d you leave things with the Colonel?”
“Unsettled. He’s going to run it past someone he’s been working with before making any decisions.”
“That someone wouldn’t be with the DEA, would he?”
“How do you know about that?”
“The League. It was in one of our newsletters. We’re hoping the crop substitution program helps when it comes to repatriations.”
“Yes, the Colonel mentioned that. He said a lot of MIAs were lost in opium-producing regions.”
“A hundred thirty or so—less the seven that were just repatriated.”
“I didn’t realize they were lost up there.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You sure about the number?”
“I’m the unofficial expert, remember? Why?”
“Sounds like a lot. I mean, out of five hundred forty-seven that’s more than twenty percent. Twenty-three point seven six six to be precise.”
“I’m positive. I’ve always cross-referenced who was lost when and where on my mailing lists so I could connect families who wanted to share information. You know, stuff from letters home, stories from buddies, anything that might help them cope.”
“This list on a computer?”
“Uh-huh, at home.”
“I can think of a few calculations I wouldn’t mind running.”
“Why?”
“My guy was in the drug business—might be some kind of a connection.”
“Then you better get that thing booted up,” she challenges, taking a thin plastic case from her handbag. It contains a high-density 3½” computer diskette. “I always have a backup with me. God forbid the house burns to the ground, twenty years of work won’t go up in smoke along with it.”
“I know the feeling.”
“What kind of software you use?”
“All of ’em. Great bridge program too. You play?”
“No. Sorry. It’s WordPerfect, by the way.”
“Good. I’ll hang on to this, if you don’t mind.”
“We’ve more than ten hours to go. Why wait?”
I let out a long breath, then leaning close to her, I cover my mouth and explain about the Beretta.
Kate’s eyes widen in surprise. All of a sudden she’s not sure what to make of me. She’s about to say something when a flight attendant approaches, handing out blankets and pillows in preparation for the long haul to Bangkok. My itch to get at the data is about to be satisfied. I drape the blanket over my chest and legs, then slip the computer from the carrying case and pull it onto my lap.
“What’re you doing?” Kate whispers.
“Changing the battery.”
She rolls her eyes and looks away.
My fingers find the access panel and open it. I remove the pistol and slip it into my pocket, then dispense with the blanket, retrieve the battery from the carrying case, and insert it.
Minutes later, I’ve got the probability analysis program working with Kate’s diskette in the “A” drive. I extract the MIA losses by province—547 men spread over 16 provinces—and graph them. In 14 out of 16 the deviations are within the range of statistical acceptability, even in southern provinces along the Ho Chi Minh Trail where the greatest number of losses occurred. But Luang Prabang and Houa Phan approach the top of the graph. I break the losses down into the subtotals—136 for Houa Phan and Luang Prabang combined, and 411 for the remaining 14, then calculate the per province ratio—137:2 × 410:14—which works out to 68.5 to 29.285.
“Hmm . . . ,” I say, making another calculation.
“Hmm?”
“We’re looking at a deviation of two point three three nine between the two opium-producing provinces and all the others.”
“That’s important?”
“Could be. In my business anything varying from the norm that much sends up a flag. But I need more data to determine the significance.”
“Like what?”
“Number of ground forces deployed; number of missions flown—”
“Don’t look at me.”
“The number of MIAs repatriated to date from each province would be a start.”
“From each? Would you believe less then forty from all of Laos?”
“I had no idea. I’m afraid it’s not much help.”
She nods, then cocks her head thoughtfully. “You know, now that you mention it, there’s something that’s always bothered me.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, these guys were lost in the so-called secret war, right?”
“Right.”
“The way I understand it, when it comes to secret wars, or secret missions, we always make a special effort to get our dead and wounded out.”
“Yes, so they can’t be used to prove we’ve been there. We had a hard and fast rule in Special Ops: Never, never leave any evidence behind.”
“That’s my point. Information on men who were lost in Laos was easy to come by because it was used in enemy propaganda campaigns.”
“But nothing on the guys lost in Luang Prabang and Houa Phan,” I say, sensing where she’s headed.
“Nothing much. Especially in Houa Phan.”
“Like they never existed.”
“I know one did,” she says wistfully.
I notice her eyes starting to glisten, and direct her attention to the screen to take her mind off it. “What’s with these names?”
“They’re next of kin.”
“I know. I meant the asterisk.”
“Oh, it means deceased.”
“Sorry I asked.”
“Hey, it’s okay. Really. Parents, wives, even children sometimes, pass away. I have to keep track of it. I lost a good friend about five years ago.”
“MIA wife?”
“Wrote the book. Made me look like I was standing still. I mean, always pressing, always at the CIL, always digging for information. Off to Thailand every chance she got. A real gadfly.”
“What happened to her?”
“She was up north somewhere. Probably trying to get into Laos. Went off the road in a monsoon.”
“She was killed in an automobile accident?” Kate nods matter-of-factly.
“Where was her husband lost?”
“Houa Phan. Same as John. One of the reasons we became close.” A moment passes before it dawns on her, before she turns to me with a spooky look in her eyes. “I’ve got this weird feeling all of a sudden.”
“I know.”
“Maybe ifs the connection you’re looking for.”
I shrug, trying to keep it in perspective. “Then again it might be we’re seeing conspiracies everywhere. Remember, my guy wasn’t anywhere near those areas.”
“True,” she says wearily.
“It’s been a long day. Let’s get some rest.”
She sighs, then pulls the blanket up around her shoulders and turns her head into the pillow. “Good night,” she says softly.
“Good night, Kate.” I shut down the laptop, and settle in for the night. The cabin lights dim. Air hisses quietly past the fuselage. A half hour later, I’m still awake, staring at the ceiling. The numbers are inconclusive, and the loss scenarios don’t match, but I can’t help thinking that maybe Kate’s right. Maybe I’m not the first.