Authors: Greg Dinallo
“Don’t. Please don’t say it, Morgan. You’re starting to sound just like my father. Okay?”
“Okay.”
We continue walking along the seawall. The air is ripe with the smell of salt and creosote. Kate seems deep in thought. My mind drifts to her husband’s picture. The confident smile is a frightened stare now. He’s trapped, desperate, being hunted in the jungle like an animal. I’m imagining an enemy patrol closing in on him . . . when a boat whistle pierces the silence, pulling me out of it.
“Is this what you usually do when you’re upset? I mean walk like this.”
“I’m not upset,” Kate replies sharply. “I’m making a decision.”
“About what?”
“Going over there.”
“Over where?”
“Thailand.”
“Thailand? What for?”
“Look for John. He was based there.”
I’m somewhat stunned and not sure how to react. “You mean you think he’s still alive?”
“I have no proof he’s dead. You know there’ve been over fourteen hundred sightings of live Americans. Most have been resolved. But there’re still about sixty or so that haven’t.”
“Those are pretty long odds.”
“Only ones I’ve got.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m not sure this is the best time to be making these decisions. Live with it awhile. Think it through. I mean you’re going to be dealing with a whole other culture. The language alone is—”
“De chan hu té Kungthep khoub nung peé.”
“Pardon me?”
“That’s Thai,” she replies with a little grin. “I said, ‘I lived in Bangkok for almost a year.’ ”
“I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”
“Khow chai na cee.”
“Which means?”
“Loosely translated—‘You bet your ass you did.’ ” I can’t help laughing.
“That was a lot of years ago,” she goes on. “Nineteen seventy-five.
It’s hard to explain the feelings I had. I mean, the war was so, so remote. When John didn’t come back I didn’t have anything, no places, no images, nothing real that I could grab on to and put away. It wasn’t just me. Most of the MIA wives I knew had this ‘thing,’ this emotional drive to be where it happened.”
“You mean the exact spot?”
“If possible. Some of them pulled it off, too. I didn’t, but a few who were able to find out where the crash site was hired private guides and helicopters and spent some time there.”
“Did it help?”
“I think so. Yes. Of course, now the League’s totally opposed to free-lance excursions.”
“I picked up on that.”
“Can’t say I blame them. No matter how well motivated, one irresponsible act can set back negotiations for years. The Rambos, the Bo Gritzes, they’re really bad news.”
“What was the government’s attitude?”
“Our government? In those days, they weren’t doing anything on the issue except sweeping it under the rug. Even when they finally got into it, nothing really happened for a while. It was pure torture. I mean every time the phone rang, or a piece of mail with an official return address came, my heart would start racing, and then . . .” She shrugs and adds, “Back to square one.”
A high-pitched whine rises in the distance. It comes from a military jet taking off from Hickam Air Force Base across the lagoon. The sleek fighter streaks down the runway and, in a matter of seconds, is soaring directly overhead, pounding us with its thundering roar. Kate stops walking and watches as it climbs into the sun, then she sits atop the seawall.
“Anyway,” she resumes as I settle next to her, “I was getting sick and tired of waiting for word that never came. I get hyper. I like to be in control of things. I’m not very good at standing around while other people who are supposed to be doing something aren’t. I heard about some families who had gone over there and gotten information from villagers and refugees, and I finally packed up and went.”
“Make any headway?”
“Not really. I was desperate and naive. I fell prey to every crackpot scheme. There were all kinds of people working these scams. Still are. The League and the DIA, that’s the Defense Intelligence Agency,
spend a lot of time debunking them. There’s this one guy over there, a retired Air Force colonel, who keeps sending letters to MIA families claiming he’s real close to obtaining the release of live POWs, but he’s running short of funds and has to raise fifty thousand dollars by tomorrow to buy their freedom or else they’ll be killed. The last letter said his boat had been wrecked by a hurricane and he needs money to repair it. The League found out it hasn’t been out of port in over two years and the last hurricane in that area was in ’87. I never had a run-in with him, but before I made those connections I was telling you about, I bought a lot of information about crash and burial sites. Paid people to take me to them, too.”
“And they turned out to be phony.”
“Of course. Somebody even tried to sell me bones once.”
“Bones?”
“Yes, a box of bones. Can you believe it? I didn’t fall for that one.” She laughs softly and emits a reflective sigh. “Going to Bangkok probably wasn’t the smartest thing I ever did. But it satisfied that itch to do something.”
“I understand.”
“I thought you might. All John’s letters came from a place called Udon Thani. It’s up north near the Laotian border. I never really understood what he was doing until I got there.”
“The war in Laos.”
She nods solemnly. “It was a big secret at the time. Like the Colonel said, we’re just starting to acknowledge our involvement.”
It was no secret to me. For almost thirteen years—1960 through 1973—the United States fought to save Laos from being taken over by the North Vietnamese and Pathet Lao forces who had completely ignored the Geneva Accords, which guaranteed its neutrality. For the most part, we provided air support for government troops in the northern provinces, where Vientiane, the capital, and other major cities—Luang Prabang, Xieng Khouang, and Sam Neua among them—are located. This military action took place far from the Ho Chi Minh Trail along the South Vietnamese border—where U.S. air and ground forces were also fighting to stem the flow of North Vietnamese troops and supplies to the south, where the majority of men missing in Laos were lost, and where I was wounded.
“To make a long story short,” Kate goes on, “I learned the ropes, got to know the customs, made some contacts. All the government
agencies worked out of the embassy. Still do. I got to know a lot of people.”
“They were helpful even though the lid was on and you were there unofficially?”
“It was different once you got over there. It always comes down to individuals. The CIL was based there at the time. The Colonel was terrific.”
“You two do go way back.”
“Uh-huh. I also worked with a guy in the embassy’s communications section. He seemed to be more involved in getting information than any of the others. Set me up with what proved to be two very valuable contacts.”
“Communications. Probably CIA.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I never asked him. Really sweet guy.” She pauses reflectively, deciding whether or not she’ll share the rest with me. “He kept asking me to go out with him, but I couldn’t get involved in a relationship. Some wives had no trouble handling it. To tell you the truth, I envied them. But I just couldn’t. It’s still hard.” She takes a deep breath and exhales loudly. “I guess I’m kind of weird that way.”
“I don’t think you’re weird, Kate.”
Her eyes lower demurely.
A wave breaks against the seawall, showering us with spray. Another crests and comes rolling in. We scramble to safety and start walking back in the direction of the CIL.
“So, you’re going to go over there and do what? Make all the same mistakes again?”
“No, I’m older and wiser now.”
“Sounds like famous last words to me.”
“Hey, I meant what I said about having contacts, Morgan. One of them was a guide. An American serviceman who’d stayed over there after the war ended. He helped a lot of families who came looking for men who were lost. The other was a Bangkok businessman. He did a lot of refugee work. You know, brought them out, got them jobs. In the process he asked them about things that happened in their villages during the war. We’ve gotten a lot of POW/MIA information that way. I’m going to start with him.”
“You’re really serious about this.”
She nods, her jaw set, her eyes hardening with determination.
“Well, good luck, Mrs. Ackerman.”
“Thanks. What’re you going to do?”
That stops me. I haven’t really had a chance to give it much thought, not today anyway. Now Kate’s forced me to think about it. My mind has just begun working the problem when my gut tightens and I hear myself say, “What I came here to do. Find the bastard who killed my wife.”
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.”