Tunnel Rats Read online

  Dater’s grin turns into a smile.

  “Jeeze, you work fast, Sam,” he says. “You keep this up, we’ll move you up to intelligence full-time.”

  “I like sky marshaling. It reminds me of my soldiering days in Afghanistan and the Persian Gulf.”

  “I’m not seeing the connection.”

  “In both jobs, I served and protected. Only difference is, I used to do it on horseback in the mountains of Kandahar or the streets of Kuwait City, and now I do it in a metal tube at thirty-three-thousand feet above the earth. Plus, I miss my Mile-High Club lavatory adventures with the ladies. The lonely single ones that is.”

  “You go with the cardboard box salesman cover?”

  “Corrugated cardboard boxes,” Sam says. “I’m here to make some big deals with the Chinese.”

  “Bet Channy loved hearing that one.”

  “Nearly blew his lid.”

  “Okay, we should keep this short in case some third party like the Chinese try to eavesdrop, which they’re sure to do. Even these supposedly secure routers are mega-hackable. You feel confident you can keep a tail without making your POI suspicious?”

  “He had his eye on me the whole flight over. I didn’t give him a reason to stare at me, but he was. It was almost like he could sniff me out.”

  “Maybe he thinks you’re cute.”

  “You think I’m cute.”

  “Ha-ha, but seriously, you think Channy Lin is on to you? You worried about anything?”

  “Do I look worried, Dater?”

  “No, just tired. Take a nap.”

  “I plan on doing exactly that.”

  “In the safe, you’ll find some goodies,” Dater offers. “I assume you got through okay with your service weapon?”

  “I presented the necessary paperwork at immigration, along with a few American greenbacks for a convincer,” Sam says. “Thai immigration cops didn’t even blink.”

  “Different world out there in South East Asia. Money talks. Which reminds me, the hotel concierge, Trah Bing, will help you with whatever you need to make your stay more comfortable and your work easier. Understand my meaning, Sam?”

  “Roger that, boss man. I’ll check in when I know more about Channy’s contacts here in Bangkok. I’ll try and see what he’s up to. What he’s got planned.”

  “That’s the mission. Be careful. Oh, and enjoy your happy ending later.”

  Dater kills the connection before Sam has a chance to respond with something witty. But then, he’s so tired his eyes are watering. Transferring himself from the desk chair to the bed, he lay back, closing his eyes. He’s fast asleep before his head even hits the pillow.

  Sam wakes with a start.

  Where am I? he thinks. What the hell time is it?

  Then it comes to him.

  “Oh yeah, Bangkok,” he whispers to himself. “Channy. New Viet Cong. Possible terrorist attack on Chinese and Americans in the planning. Not if I can stop it first. But before all that, I’m expected to ID all the major players. That’s my mission.”

  Pleased that he’s got his head straight, Sam checks his watch. It’s four in the afternoon. Now startled, he hops out of bed.

  “Holy crap,” he says aloud, “I’ve been asleep all damn day. Guess I really was tired.”

  Knowing a shower and change of underwear are in order, he pulls off his shirt. But then he recalls what Dater said about the hotel safe. He goes to the closet, slides open the door and spots the small safe. He types in the PIN he and Dater had agreed on prior to the trip. In this case, Dater’s birthday.

  The solid metal door opens. Reaching inside, Sam pulls out two bundles of money. The first bundle consists of U.S. dollars. Twenties mostly. The second bundle is a mixture of Thailand Bott and Vietnamese Dongs. Just a cursory glance at the cash stacks tells Sam he could live in South-East Asia for an entire year and not go through all this money. But the money isn’t for him. It’s to buy information, equipment, and services.

  He reaches back inside and discovers another pistol. A smaller model stored in an ankle holster. He also discovers two full magazines of 9mm full metal jacket ammo. There’s a six-inch fighting knife also made to strap to an ankle. Lastly, there is a card that reads, “Massages by Cindy.” The card is good for one free massage. He notices the address of the card is directly across the street.

  “Dater’s thought of everything,” Sam says to himself, not without a smile. “Maybe I’m up for a happy ending after all.”

  Pocketing the card for his free massage, he carries the weaponry to the desk, lays it out beside the computer, sets down the cash.

  “I’m ready for battle,” he whispers to himself.

  They are the same words he had always whispered when he was about to engage in battle with the Taliban or Al Qaeda. Maybe the enemy has changed along with the battlefield, but the war is still the same. It’s always about good versus evil. His habit of repeating the words is important in these circumstances. Habit is comforting . . . like a rabbit’s foot.

  Inside the fridge bar, he finds a cold Singha beer, brings it with him into the shower. It’s one of Sam’s favorite things in the world. After a long ass flight, you turn on the hot shower and drink an ice-cold beer under the steaming water. Even if his job is to be at the ready at all times, Sam can feel the tension seeping out the bottoms of his feet. He’s so relaxed, he feels like getting back in bed. But as soon as Sam is washed and rinsed, and the beer consumed, the brief moment of heavenly relaxation officially comes to an end. He has work to do.

  First things first, get dressed.

  Second thing, pay a visit to the hotel concierge before meeting up with Channy for their happy evening on the town.

  Trah Bing is standing beside the reception desk on the first floor of the hotel. He’s a tall, forty-something man compared to the other Thai men working behind the long, translucent acrylic counter. He wears a lightweight blue suit and tie. His thick dark hair is slicked back on his head with product. To Sam Savage, he seems like a confident man who is proud of the services he is providing at the hotel.

  “Can I help you, sir?” Trah Bing asks with a pleasant smile.

  But, of course, Trah knows precisely who Sam is and why he’s standing before him in his jeans, lace-up jungle boots, and khaki work-shirt with the sleeves rolled all the way up to his thick biceps. Sam glances over both shoulders at the wide-open hotel lobby. If he were an architect, he’d describe the décor and set-up as post-modern with lots of glass, stainless steel, acrylic counters, and black leather chairs. The women employed by the hotel are exquisite in appearance. They wear tight blue dresses that show off their petite, but somehow voluptuous, curves. Their dark hair is pinned up in back, their eyes dark, exotic, and inviting.

  Sam locks eyes with Trah Bing.

  “I was wondering if you might help me with something,” Sam says, somewhat under his breath. “Is it possible you can tell me the room presently being occupied by a young man named Channy Lin?”

  Trah smiles politely. “It is not company policy for us to reveal the room numbers of our guests, sir,” he says.

  That’s an obvious attempt to cover his ass should a coworker overhear the conversation, Sam thinks.

  “My boss, Mr. Dater, said you’d gladly make an exception,” Sam says, reaching into his pocket, discreetly peeling five twenties from the stack of U.S. greenbacks before he sets them onto the counter under his hand. “There will, of course, be a larger tip if you help me out with a few items I’ll be requiring during my stay.”

  Trah looks one way and then the other. No doubt the proceedings are being filmed via CCTV, but then, what harm is there in offering a nice tip to a helpful concierge? Or so Sam believes.

  “Naturally,” Trah say, his smile having morphed into a serious but eager to please expression. He refocuses his eyes on the laptop computer set before him, taps a few keys and waits. “The person with whom you’ve inquired is presently staying in room five-zero-seven.”

  Sam thin
ks it over for a long beat. His room is already located on the fifth floor, but he needs to have access directly next door to Channy.

  “Would five-zero-six or five-zero-eight happen to be vacant, Mr. Bing?” Sam inquires.

  Trah gazes into the Sky Marshal’s eyes as if to tell say, I fully expected you to ask me that.

  “But is your present room not to your liking, Mr. Savage?”

  Sam offers the concierge wink.

  “My room is fine for sleeping, Mr. Bing,” he says. “The additional room I’m looking to book would be for work purposes.”

  Trah Bing taps a few more keys on the laptop. Sam watches the intense man’s eyes as he goes through the motions of confirming one of the requested room’s availability.

  “It just so happens, five-zero-six is available,” Trah confirms.

  Of course, is it, Sam thinks. It was always available. Available for me, that is.

  He taps a few more keys as though securing the room for Sam. Then, locking on Sam’s eyes again, “Will there be any special requests or amenities required of the room, Mr. Savage?”

  In his head, Sam pictures the small hole that will have to be drilled into the adjoining wall while he and Channy are enjoying their massages. He pictures the micro camera that will be installed in the hole and the audio feed that will be Blue Toothed directly to his computer.

  “I believe Mr. Dater has already forwarded a list of my special needs, Mr. Bing.”

  Trah Bing types something else into his computer and grins.

  “Indeed, he has,” he replies. “We’ll need some time to prepare everything for you.”

  Just then, the elevator opens, and Channy Lin steps out. He’s wearing coral colored shorts, sandals, and a loose plain white t-shirt. He left his Yankees baseball hat back in the room, Sam observes, but the terrorist’s thick dark hair is neatly combed, his mustache and goatee trimmed.

  “Hey, Channy,” Sam barks. “Did you have a good rest, my friend? Ready for a little of the good life?” He pulls the card from his pocket. “I have one free massage. I’m offering it up to you as a gift.”

  “You are too kind, Sam,” Channy says in his even-toned voice.

  Sam turns back to Trah Bing.

  “Thank you very much for your help, sir,” he says while digging a few more twenties out of his pocket and placing them in the concierge’s hand.

  Trah nods in appreciation, brings his hands together like he’s praying.

  “Peace to you, sir,” he says. “Please enjoy your evening.”

  Now facing Channy. “Let’s go get happy, buddy,” Sam says.

  “Happy, happy,” Channy says. “Happy, happy.”

  Massages by Cindy is located across the street behind a tuck-tuck stand. Channy and Sam walk side by side toward the parlor. The evening is humid and hot, and even though he is on duty, Sam can’t wait for another cold beer. They head inside the two-story concrete structure and are greeted by an attractive young woman standing behind a counter, a ceiling fan blowing cool air on her.

  Sam hands her the card for the free massage. The young woman glances at it.

  “One free massage,” she announces while glancing into Sam’s eyes. “And that will be for?”

  Sam’s built-in shit detector kicks in.

  She gets it, he says to himself. She knows exactly who I am . . . who I work for.

  “My friend here is taking that one,” Sam says. “His name is Channy.”

  “Excellent,” the young woman smiles.

  She picks up the phone and dials a number. Bringing the extension to her ear, she speaks something in her native Thai. A door opens at the far end of the room, and another pretty young woman appears. She’s not wearing much more than a pair of shorts and a black t-shirt that fits her tightly. She’s a knockout, or so Sam can’t help but notice.

  “This is Sapphire,” Young Woman says. “She is for Mr. Channy.”

  Sam pats the suspected terrorist on the back.

  “Go to it, bro,” he says. “With a name like Sapphire, how can you go wrong?”

  Channy nods politely at the masseuse, and together they disappear behind that same door at the far end of the room. Sam turns back to Young Woman.

  “Cindy is waiting for you upstairs, Mr. Savage,” she says. “Go now.”

  Sam spots the staircase that leads to the second floor. Nodding at Young Woman, he makes his way to the back of the room and climbs the staircase.

  He opens the door at the top of the stairs and enters a dark, windowless room containing a half dozen thin bedrolls laid out on the floor. Three ceiling fans circulate the warm, humid air around the long room. The odor of the room is surprisingly pleasant—like rose petals.

  “I’ve heard so much about you, Mr. Savage,” comes the voice of a woman.

  Sam quickly peers over his left shoulder. He spots a woman seated in a wicker chair in the far corner. It’s dark, so it’s difficult to make out her face. But he can see that her legs are bare, and the black cut-off t-shirt she wears is identical to the one Sapphire was wearing. Her ebony hair is also pulled back into a bun held together with several long pins.

  “I’m Cindy,” she says, slowly rising from her chair. She walks toward him.

  The closer she comes to Sam, the more he can see just how beautiful the forty-something woman is. No, not beautiful, Sam thinks. Stunning. Stunning is the better word for her.

  “Take your clothes off,” she commands.

  “You work fast,” Sam says, not without a grin.

  She hands him a pair of very thin blue pajama shorts.

  “Put these on,” she adds.

  “What’s the fun in that?” he says.

  “You’re here for work,” she says. “Not fun.”

  Sam undresses in front of her. She watches him the entire time, her arms crossed over her chest. Dutifully, he puts on his blue pajama shorts. There’s a cloth belt attached to the waist of the shorts which he ties in a square knot.

  “Happy?” he says.

  “Very,” Cindy says, the corner of her lips turning up into a smirk. Then, “Lie down on your stomach. Stretch out your arms.”

  “Your English is great,” he says, dropping to his knees on the mattress and immediately falling onto his stomach. “No accent at all. And a name like Cindy. Very western.”

  “I was raised in the States,” she says. “California. West LA. But you probably know that already.”

  “What brings you here? Far cry from Beverly Hills.”

  “There was a placement to fill. They saw me as the round peg that fits into the round hole.” She giggles. “No pun, of course.”

  Sam didn’t want to say too much, in case they were being listened to. The last thing Cindy needed was her cover to be blown. “They, huh?” He had a hunch who they were, and they likely had the initials CIA.

  He hears a commotion and realizes she’s lowering herself onto his back, knees first. The pressure of her knees pushes into his lower back, and when she takes hold of both his wrists and pulls his arms back, a grunting noise that sounds like his muscles are tearing eminates.

  “Hope I’m not hurting you,” she says.

  “Hurts so good,” Sam utters through gritted teeth.

  She pulls and stretches the muscles in his shoulders and gnaws at the muscles in his arms with her stronger than expected fingers.

  “You’re very tight, Mr. Savage,” she says. “Too much weight lifting, I think.”

  “I gotta keep up with the younger guys,” he says, his voice straining from the sting of the deep tissue massage.

  “Age is the great equalizer. You work too hard at trying to stay young. Youth is so very fleeting, and death inevitable.”

  “Age is just a number, Cindy. But it eventually catches up to you.” Another grunt. “Now, if we’re done with the dueling clichés, do you have anything else I need to know that doesn’t involve my fading youth?”

  She releases his arms and gets back up to her feet before making her way to a shelf a
few steps away. She fools with something stored there. Classic rock n’roll begins to fill the room from speakers Sam can’t see that must be installed within the walls. Or so he deduces.

  While David Bowie sings about his China Girl, Cindy returns to Sam. Once again, she drops to her knees and begins working on his neck, kneading the muscles that surround his upper spine and throat as if they were bread dough. He feels her shift once more, bending her body until the edge of her lips grazes his neck.

  “They just exploded a bomb outside the American embassy in Beijing,” she whispers into his ear. The fact that she’s turned on music and is whispering tells Sam there are spies listening everywhere, even when it appears they are alone. “Not even the press has jumped on the story yet. If the NVC take credit, it will prove their reach extends beyond Vietnam.”

  NVC . . . New Viet Cong, Sam thinks. Despite the massage, his muscles tighten at the news.

  “Any casualties?” he asks quietly.

  I feel a wreck without, my little China girl, David Bowie sings.

  “None I know of,” Cindy informs. “But soon, the news reports will come in and so will a statement of responsibility, and then we’ll know for sure what’s happening.”

  “Channy’s got somewhat of an alibi,” Sam says. “He’s been here with me the entire time, other than the few hours after we got off the plane. But even then, he’s still a hell of a long way from Beijing.”

  “His army is not large, but it is growing. He has suppliers in Bangkok who are sympathetic to his cause.”

  “What exactly is he buying here?”

  “Guns,” she says, working on the mid-section of his spine. “Explosives. Ammunition.”

  “How’s he paying for all that?” Sam asks.

  “The NVC has backers in the U.S. Left-wing radical outfits mostly. Their pockets are very deep. They believe in destroying any vestige of U.S. and Chinese capitalist imperialism.”

  “And this hotel Channy wants to attack in Ho Chi Minh . . . do we have an exact address for it yet? Can we even be sure the attack will be taking place in Ho Chi Minh?”