Free Hunt the Falcon by Don Mann, Ralph Pezzullo Page A

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.
    â€œIt’s gotta be a scam,” Crocker said.
    â€œNo, 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.”
    â€œYeah, and I’m really a six-foot-six black basketball player named Michael Jordan. You ever hear of Michael Jordan?”
    â€œYou, Michael Jordan the basketball player? You crazy!”
    A topless young woman waved to them from a window above a dress shop.
    â€œPerky,” Mancini commented.
    â€œFriendly, 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.”
    â€œThank you, Colonel. This is my associate Mr. Mark Jones.”
    â€œSit 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.”
    â€œJack, 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.”
    â€œYes,” 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.
    When Petsut mentioned