International Incident Read online

  “Oh, don’t worry, we’ll steer clear,” she assured him with a smile.

  “Is there anything else I can get for you before you disembark? Perhaps some bottles of mineral water to take along for the drive? Or a first aid kit or snacks?” He slipped seamlessly back into his valet role.

  She patted her overstuffed tote bag. “I think we’re covered. I’m pretty much a pro at packing a diaper bag for twins. If I don’t have it in here, we likely don’t need it.”

  “Very good. Enjoy your trip. Will you need a porter to carry your bags?”

  “Nope. We’ve got it,” Connelly said.

  At that, Bruce nodded and left the suite. Connelly waited until they heard Bruce shut the outer door behind him, then he said, “Mind telling me what that was all about?”

  She grinned at him. “I thought we should try to give this legal attaché guy something more helpful to go on than ‘some fishing boat in the Gulf of Thailand.’”

  He gave her a careful look. “Unfortunately, that’s the extent of our knowledge.”

  “That was the extent of our knowledge. But I may have led Bruce to believe that I have a corporate client interested in acquiring a fleet of fishing boats that would operate out of this area,” she began, enjoying the growing look of amazement on her husband’s face as she spoke.

  “Did you really?”

  “I really did. I explained that I was just beginning to research the industry and it would be extremely useful to know which were the biggest fleets that operate in the Gulf of Thailand. I told him I was especially interested in fleets that currently have boats out there right now and asked if he could help me out, stressing the importance of confidentiality.” She waved the paper at him. “And our man Bruce came through. It’s a starting point, at least.”

  “You continually amaze me.”

  She recognized both his tone of voice and the look he was giving her. “Well, I’m glad to hear I’ve still got it, but we don’t have time for what you have in mind.”

  Connelly checked his watch then hooked his thumb under the strap of her tote bag and slid it off her shoulder. “I beg to differ,” he half-purred, half-growled.

  14

  Mel Anders turned out to be a tall, brown-eyed blonde with short curly hair that corkscrewed out from her head in every direction, like springs. She spotted them the moment they stepped out onto the dock and strode toward them, elbows pumping. “Sasha? Leo?” she asked, her hand already outstretched. Sasha took it first; the woman’s grip was firm and brisk.

  “You must be Mel,” Connelly said.

  She nodded. “Right. I’ll bet you were expecting a guy.”

  “Well, actually, I was,” he confessed.

  “I get that a lot. But I find it easier to go by my childhood nickname. It just … simplifies things.”

  Sasha could only imagine that the old boys’ club so alive and well in the West was at least equally robust in Asia.

  “I’m sure. Is Mel short for Melissa? Melanie?” she asked.

  Mel gave her a wry look. “Melody. My mom had this dream that I would become a singer. Melody was shortened to Mel pretty quickly once it became clear that I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.” She laughed a raspy laugh then waved them toward her car. “We should probably get going. It’s a long drive.”

  “We really appreciate your meeting us like this,” Connelly said as he folded himself into the back of the dark, nondescript sedan. Apparently, Sasha reflected as she slid into the front passenger seat, government-issued cars were the same the world over.

  “Don’t mention it. I don’t know Agent Richardson, other than by reputation, but my boss has been on assignment with him several times and says he’s a stand-up guy. And Ron gave me clear marching orders: Any friend of Hank’s is a friend of ours.” In one quick gesture, the legal attaché fastened her seatbelt, gunned the car, and peeled out into a flow of traffic that, as far as Sasha could tell, followed no discernible pattern.

  Sasha discretely tugged on her own seatbelt to confirm that it was locked into place. The motion didn’t escape Mel’s notice, and she laughed again. “You’ll get used to the driving around here.”

  “How long have you been stationed here?” Connelly asked.

  She tapped her light pink fingernails on the steering wheel as she thought, “I started out in the Tokyo office, but I’ve been here almost a year now. I like Thailand. It has a different feel.”

  Connelly leaned forward from the back seat. “How did you end up assigned to the Southeast Asian division in the first place? Were you an Asian Studies major?”

  Mel shook her head. “I was a math major, if you can believe it. I specialized in a kind of theoretical math called category math. I figured I’d end up a professor somewhere. But, in my junior year, a teaching assistant for one of my elective courses caught my eye. He was a Chinese national. We’ve been married for three years now. When things got serious between us, I decided to learn Chinese so I could talk to his family and found out I have an ear for languages.”

  Sasha glanced over at her. “How many do you speak?”

  She let go of the steering wheel and ticked them off on her fingers. “Let’s see, I picked up Mandarin and Japanese pretty quickly. My Thai’s not bad; and I can also speak Malay and Vietnamese. I just started studying Burmese. Anyway, once I mastered a few foreign languages, I decided that seeing the world might be a little more fun than seeing the inside of a college lecture hall every day. So, instead of signing up for the GRE exam, I wandered into career services and signed up for interviews with the Foreign Service and the Bureau. The FBI hired me.”

  She met Connelly’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “I started out in D.C., and as you know, the Legat Service usually chooses pretty seasoned agents to serve overseas. But I got lucky because my language skills impressed the Tokyo Legat; he pulled all sorts of strings to get me assigned as his ALAT. And the rest, as they say, is history.”

  “ALAT?” Sasha echoed.

  “Assistant Legal Attaché.”

  They drove in silence for a moment or two. Mel whizzed by scooters, open-air buses, and cars, weaving in and out of the flow of traffic with expert timing. There didn’t appear to be set lanes. Sasha focused on taking long, slow breaths and pushed aside visions of dying in a fiery multi-vehicle crash.

  “The traffic will die down as soon as we’re outside the city,” Mel assured her. “Of course, then the road goes to pot. But at least it won’t be so congested—it won’t pick back up again until we get to the next port town.” She laughed.

  Sasha managed a weak smile. “Did Hank explain to your legat why we need your help?”

  “All Ron told me was that you believe you witnessed some sort of crime in the Gulf. You immediately reported it to the captain of your cruise ship, who took no action.”

  “That’s right as far as it goes,” Connelly confirmed.

  Sasha cut to the chase. “I saw the murder of a woman on a fishing boat. She was shot multiple times and her body either fell or was pushed into the ocean.”

  Mel’s eyes widened but she kept her attention on the road. She was silent for a moment then said, “You sound pretty sure.”

  “I am.”

  “Here’s the thing. Women don’t typically go out on the trawlers. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a female on a fishing vessel.”

  “I know what I saw.”

  Mel chewed on her lower lip. “I don’t suppose you were close enough to see any details—the boat’s number or flag or anything?”

  “No.”

  “Sasha did some poking around,” Connelly said. “Go ahead, tell her.”

  “I asked a … um … source for a list of the biggest companies that routinely fish in the Gulf of Thailand and their countries of registry.” She removed Bruce’s list from her handbag and unfolded it. “He was kind enough to star the ones that are known to be out at sea in this area right now. It looks like there are only two—Indonesia Fishery, Inc. and Thale Company.” />
  Mel arched a perfectly shaped brow but didn’t press her on the source. “That sounds right. Most of the big trawlers tend to go out further where there’s less competition. The little guys stay closer to land. Why do you think it’s a big outfit?”

  “The guns, mainly. I think the shooters were hired help. I assume a village fisherman with a single boat wouldn’t have that kind of firepower on retainer.”

  “That’s probably right,” Mel said in a thoughtful voice. “Indonesia Fishery runs a pretty clean operation.”

  “But Thale doesn’t?” Connelly asked.

  “I wouldn’t say that. But let’s just say the family that runs Thale is something of an empire; they have a hand in pretty much every local industry. They’re very powerful and well-connected politically. Wealthy.”

  “Meaning they know who to bribe?” Sasha guessed.

  “Sure. They usually skirt the line—right up to the edge of legality—but when they do get into trouble, it gets taken care of. But that hardly makes them unique. Corruption is part of the culture.”

  “That must make your job challenging.”

  Mel nodded. “You could say that. It took some getting used to. Let me tell you, though, it’s nothing like Korea …” She trailed off, shaking her head.

  “Could you see Thale commissioning a murder?” Connelly asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Their fleet is registered out of Cambodia,” Sasha noted. “Indonesia Fisheries boats are registered out of Indonesia.”

  Mel grimaced. “Most of my work is on land, but the maritime industry here is significant enough that even I know Cambodia’s a problem.”

  “A problem how?”

  “It’s a notorious flag of convenience country. Cambodia runs an open registry, no questions asked. Cambodia-flagged ships have been implicated in everything from illegal smuggling to safety violations to you name it. The country cashes the checks and turns a blind eye.”

  “What’s our first move? It sounds like reporting Thale to the Cambodian authorities would be futile. Would Thai law enforcement be willing to investigate?” Sasha asked.

  It seemed reasonably clear that Thailand would have the legal authority to prosecute a Thai company. But she’d had enough interactions with the criminal justice system to know that jurisdiction and motivation were two separate animals.

  Mel shrugged. “I’m not sure, honestly. We need to get you to the embassy and sit down with Ron. He’ll know the political situation better than I do.”

  * * *

  While Sasha and the assistant legal attaché discussed whether the United Nations’ International Maritime Organization might be the appropriate agency to handle the murder inquiry, Leo shifted his attention to the countryside outside the window. The condition of the road had deteriorated almost instantly once they were outside the city limits, and he bounced slightly on the backseat as the car bounced along. The road twisted along the sapphire water’s edge. Birds, trees, and waves made up most of the view. Every so often, a weathered road sign would appear, hammered into the strip of grass that separated the road from the beach. He couldn’t read the lettering, but based on the numbers, he assumed they were announcing the distances to Bangkok and interim points of interest.

  His stomach rumbled, and he waited for a pause so that he could inject himself into the conversation.

  “Are we getting close to a town?” he asked.

  In the rearview mirror, he could see Mel’s brown eyes narrow in response to the question. “Pretty close. Why?”

  “Why don’t we stop for a quick bite and a rest? I know Ron’s made a reservation for dinner tonight but I also know the Bureau well enough that once we sit down and start talking about murder, that reservation’s going to get pushed back, then pushed back again, and then finally cancelled. And I’m not interested in eating microwaved ramen noodles out of a Styrofoam cup while we’re all hunched around a conference room table. Are you?”

  With a tilt of her head, Mel conceded that he had drawn a fairly accurate description of her working dinners. He wasn’t surprised. U.S. Embassy in Bangkok, Department of Justice headquarters, or the Academy in Quantico—the Bureau was the Bureau was the Bureau.

  She nodded her head. “Not really. But this next town is a bit sketchy.”

  Sasha piped up, “I’m not really hungry. Why don’t we push on? I’d like to get the ‘doing our duty as good citizens’ portion of this vacation behind us and return to the ‘enjoying cocktails and sunsets’ portion.”

  “Duly noted. But I’m starving.” Then he moved in for the kill, “And I’m sure the coffee’s abysmal at Mel’s office.”

  Mel snorted. “It’s drinkable in the morning, but the Embassy is full of tea drinkers. By mid-afternoon, the only available coffee is the burnt, warmed-over mud left in the bottom of the pot.”

  Sasha jerked her head back as if she’d been slapped. “Tea? Well, I guess a quick stop for a snack for you two and a cup of decent coffee for me wouldn’t hurt. Do you need to call Ron and run it by him?”

  Mel, whose face said clearly that she did, waved away the notion with one hand. “No need to bother him. We’ll be quick.”

  “Is it safe to stop? You just said it’s a tough town.”

  “It’s no worse than any East Coast city in the States. As long as we stay out of the neighborhoods near the piers we should be fine,” Mel assured her.

  15

  Jan forced himself to slow his stride as he neared the front door of the bar. It would be unseemly to appear eager or enthusiastic, as if he needed to visit. He held himself to strict rules and limitations regarding his indulgences. In his view, it was the only responsible way to fulfill his professional duties and satisfy his appetite. A girl in a bar in Hong Kong had told him there was a name for someone like him—a ‘chipper.’ Chipper sounded much better than the alternatives—junkie, user, doper, all unsavory names for unsavory characters.

  He pushed open the red door and walked inside the dimly lit bar. He hesitated in the doorway until his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Then he continued through the small dining room in the front, past the raucous bar, already half-full with men from the fisheries and women from heavens-only-knew-where, and through a narrow corridor. Behind the restrooms, he hung a left and walked to the end of the hall. He stopped in front of a door that seemed almost deliberately nondescript. Plain light wood. No sign. No indication of what lay behind it.

  He raised his fist and rapped twice on the wood. He cleared his throat and clasped his hands together behind his back to still their anticipatory trembling.

  Muffled footsteps sounded on the other side of the door. A moment later, the door cracked open. Jan recognized the burly Thai who peered out at him but couldn’t match a name to the scarred face.

  The man stared at him impassively, waiting.

  “I have a reservation,” Jan said in a voice that cracked ever so slightly.

  The Thai nodded then looked him over from head to toe. “No kit?”

  “No. I prefer to smoke. The cigarettes,” he specified lest the man try to hand him a glass pipe. Only an addict would use a pipe or, even worse, inject himself with heroin. And sliding a tube around on a piece of aluminum foil was undignified. A nice, hand-rolled cigarette suited him just fine.

  Another curt nod, then the door opened wider, and Jan stepped inside.

  16

  Mel led Sasha and Connelly along a narrow street until they reached a chic-looking building. The façade was painted a glossy black and the front door was bright red. A sign overhead read ‘Bar Pavot’ in curly lettering in English with the Thai script below.

  “This is it,” Mel announced.

  “It looks pretty nice.” Sasha couldn’t hide her surprise. Given Bruce and Mel’s warnings about the fishing towns, she’d expected something much grittier.

  “The town’s going through a transition. It’s still very rough around the edges but the tourism industry is picking up. This place is one of the ne
wer, more upscale bistros. It caters to a foreign crowd even though I believe it’s locally owned,” Mel explained.

  “‘Pavot’ is French isn’t it? Some kind of flower, I think,” Sasha mused, half to herself.

  Connelly snorted. “You aren’t going to pretend that you speak French again, are you?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I explained this to you when we were in Quebec City. I took French literature. I can read French, not speak it.”

  Connelly turned to Mel. “And by ‘read it,’ she means she can read poems and stuff by dead guys like Balzac and Baudelaire. She doesn’t mean she can read anything useful like a map or a restaurant menu—just so we’re clear.” He pulled Sasha in a half-hug to lessen the sting of his needling.

  Mel laughed. “I think it means ‘poppy.’ Anyway, they serve good French coffee and a great meat and cheese board. Something for everyone.” She pushed open the door, and they stepped inside.

  A smiling hostess in a black-and-white striped dress whisked them to a window seat in the cozy dining room in the front of the bistro. As they settled into their seats, Connelly and Mel studied the menu, and Sasha studied her surroundings. The bar, which was located behind the dining room, was rocking. Laughter and loud voices rose over the sound of live music.

  “Are you sure you just want coffee, Sasha?” Mel asked.

  She turned her attention back to the table and scanned the menu for a moment. “Are we really going to miss dinner?”

  “It’s a definite possibility,” Mel admitted. “Ron’s going to want to get a very thorough statement from you given that you’ll be leaving the country tomorrow night.”

  Sasha sighed. “I guess I’ll have the mussels.”

  “Well, if we’re all eating, we might as well get a bottle of wine. It’s what the French would do, you know,” Mel said.

  “I don’t think we need a whole bottle. Let’s just each get a glass,” Connelly suggested.