The Consultant Read online

  From within, they heard the sounds of a couple of dead bolts sliding back before the door opened to the extent allowed by the security chain.

  “Yes?” asked the attractive blonde through the three inch opening. All she wore was a rather thin silk bathrobe and, although it was just past nine in the morning, Pierre could smell alcohol on her breath.

  “Mrs. Sommers?” he enquired, giving her a friendly smile.

  “That’s right,” she confirmed with a faint slur. “What can I do for you?”

  “Is Mr. Sommers home?” Pierre politely requested. “We would need to speak to him.”

  “No, he’s at the office,” she sneered, pausing to take a solid pull from the glass in her hand. “Working with that little whore secretary of his,” she added with a sarcastic laugh.

  “I see. Sorry to have bothered you, Mrs. Sommers,” Pierre apologized.

  “Oh, no bother,” she responded in a husky voice as she looked him over. “Maybe you want to come in for a drink or, something?”

  To emphasize the something, she shifted her weight a little and raised one knee slightly, exposing quite a lot of firm thigh as a result.

  “Ah, as appealing as that invitation sounds, I can’t this morning,” replied Pierre, flushing, “Maybe some other time.”

  “Anytime,” she replied throatily, licking her lips before closing the door.

  * * * *

  Blade stood on the west side of Matt’s St-Sauveur residence, carefully scanning the hillside above him. It was damn cold but he was tough and could endure anything. After all, he was an Ace of Death.

  Quite frankly, he didn’t really understand why they were helping these two misfits out; a couple of assholes in suits. But Diamond Jimmy had requested that it be done, so here he was.

  Blade was a small man, barely five feet, four inches tall, with an impressive weight of one hundred sixteen pounds, fully clothed. He had grown up in a tough neighbourhood however, where he had been required early on to compensate for his lack of size. By the time he turned thirteen, he had already earned his nickname and it had stuck ever since.

  He couldn’t see, nor hear anything out of the ordinary in the woods around him. He wondered why he and the other gang members had to freeze out here while the two idiots in suits got to stay inside with that sweet looking dame. Because Diamond Jimmy requested it, he reminded himself once again.

  He continued to survey his assigned area, confident that if anybody managed to attack the house behind him, it would not be from this side.

  * * * *

  “I thought you said we had a lot of work to do?” complained Nancy, her annoyance genuine.

  “We do,” snickered Allan Sommers, ignoring her tone as he squeezed her buttocks with both hands. “I just think that we need a little break. I have to clear my thoughts.”

  “But we just got here, Allan,” his secretary whined, though she knew that her protests were futile.

  “And not a moment too soon,” he cooed, sliding one hand under her sweatshirt and fondling her breasts. “Now, why don’t you get out of those clothes and have a chat with my friend down here. Come on, baby. You know what I like.”

  “You’re the boss,” Nancy sullenly gave in.

  She obediently removed her sweatshirt, exposing her delightful twenty-four year old body. As she began to pull down her tight fitting jeans, the door of the office suddenly burst open, startling both she and Sommers.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Sommers bellowed angrily, fumbling to re-zip his pants while Nancy scurried behind the desk, trying to hide her half naked body.

  “Pierre Tardif, RCMP,” the first man informed him, holding out a shield and I.D. card for Sommers’ inspection. “This is my partner, Paul Landry.”

  “Yeah? Well this is a private office, gentlemen,” snarled Sommers, “And we’re busy right now so you’ll have to leave. Call for an appointment on Monday if you need to see me.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Sommers,” insisted Pierre. “No can do. You’re under arrest for conspiring to import and distribute illegal narcotics...”

  “What? Under arrest? Illegal narcotics?” interrupted Sommers, incredulous. “This is ridiculous.”

  “Mr. Sommers, you represent a gentleman by the name of James Sanchez, don’t you?” asked Pierre. “Otherwise known as Diamond Jimmy?”

  “Uh, yes, Mr. Sanchez is one of my clients,” responded Sommers uncertainly, taken aback by the question. “But I don’t understand what that has to do with your ridiculous accusation of drug trafficking.”

  “We have a witness who’s testified that this office is used for narcotics transactions and storage,” Pierre explained.

  “This is outrageous,” Sommers nervously argued. “This is a law office. Not a goddamn drugstore.”

  “Listen, Mr. Sommers,” Paul Landry spoke soothingly. “We’re just doing our job, acting on a tip from a witness. We were told that there was some cocaine stored here right now. Do you mind if we look around? If we don’t find anything, that’ll take a lot of credibility out of the witness’s testimony.”

  “You want to search this place?” responded Sommers, gaining back some confidence. “Go right ahead. Search the fucking place. You won’t find anything. But let me warn you right now. You haven’t heard the last of this.”

  Having received consent, the search began and silence ensued safe for the sounds of Paul Landry opening the drawers and doors of the various pieces of furniture in the room. Within moments he had completed his search and had found nothing.

  “What’s back there?” he asked, pointing to the door behind Sommers’ desk.

  “Conference room,” snapped Sommers, now fully composed. “Go for it. Search that too. It’ll just cost you more when I sue you guys for false arrest, harassment, invasion of privacy and defamation of character.”

  Paul moved into the conference room and continued his search while the others remained in the main office. After a moment or two, he appeared in the doorway with a strange look on his face. He stared at Sommers as he spoke.

  “Would you come in here, Mr. Sommers?”

  Sommers rose from his chair, his look of uncertainty having returned, and walked into the conference room.

  “Would you like to explain what those are, Mr. Sommers?” Paul demanded, pointing to two bags of white powder on the conference table.

  “I-I don’t know w-what those are,” Sommers stammered. “They’re n-not mine. W-where did you find them?”

  “In those binders,” Paul replied, pointing to two large empty binders, also on the table. “Excellent hiding place, Sommers. I nearly missed them, right there, out in the open in the bookcase.”

  “So, this whole drug thing is outrageous, Sommers?” challenged Pierre, stepping in. “Then what the hell is this?”

  He reached over and picked up the two bags which he tossed at Sommers.

  Instinctively catching the bags, the latter pleaded. “These aren’t mine. I’ve been set up. You’ve got to believe me.”

  Dazed, he dropped the bags back on the table as Pierre approached and proceeded to handcuff him. “Mr. Sommers, you are under arrest for possession of illegal narcotics.”

  Sommers’ eyes suddenly narrowed as rational thought superseded the shock of the last thirty seconds.

  “You set me up, you motherfucker,” he screamed at Paul Landry. “You brought that shit with you, you bastard.”

  “Get this guy outta here,” ordered Pierre, signalling Bobby and Jim, who stood at the door of the main office.

  The two officers escorted the screaming, handcuffed lawyer out of the office and down the hallway towards the bank of elevators. Pierre walked out of the conference room to find the young lady still cowering in the corner behind Sommers’ desk. She had since put her clothes back on and appeared extremely frightened.

  “What’s your name?” he asked gently.

  “N-Nancy...Tessier,” she replied in a tearful voice.

  “Okay, Nancy. Do you know anything about Mr.
Sommers being involved in drugs?” Pierre continued.

  “N-not really,” she stuttered with fear. “I-I n-never saw any drugs but some of h-his clients are g-gang m-members. I s-see their pictures in the p-papers sometimes.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Pierre. “You haven’t done anything wrong. But we might need you to testify about what happened here today. What did you see?”

  “Y-you guys came in and found some drugs in the conference room?” she answered hopefully.

  “That’s right,” Pierre responded, smiling slightly. “Did Mr. Sommers give us permission to search his office?”

  “Yes he did,” she replied, her expression brightening. “And the conference room.”

  “Good girl,” Pierre nodded. “And Nancy. When we arrived, as far as I’m concerned, you were sitting in a chair writing notes or something while Sommers spoke.”

  * * * *

  From his natural hideout, offered by a series of conifers oddly growing in a circular formation, Jonathan had been observing the guard posted on the west side of the St-Sauveur residence for forty-five minutes. During this time, he was confident that he had established the small man’s informal patrolling routine.

  After four or five minutes of careful scrutiny from his central watch point at the base of a large oak, the biker would stroll to his right several hundred feet, past where Jonathan sat, nearly to the gravel road which snaked up the incline. He would then return, past his oak tree, walking some four hundred feet to the edge of a deep ravine which horse-shoed around the rear of the property. There, he would scan the portion of the ravine visible to him for several minutes before returning to the foot of the large oak tree to recommence the process.

  Satisfied, Jonathan waited for the guard to remake his way to the ravine, absently playing with a length of strong but thin nylon rope in the interim. Within a few minutes, it was time and he quickly and stealthily made his way to his chosen point of attack; the large oak tree.

  Blade returned from the ravine and settled once again at the foot of the big tree. He was getting bored and cold. He wished the stupid fucks inside would bring him a cup of coffee or something. After all, he was protecting them. The least the bastards could do was show a little consideration. God, it was cold.

  He wondered if the cold would bother him less if he was stoned and decided to find out. After all, nothing was going on, and if something did happen, it wasn’t the fact that he’d have smoked a joint that would change anything. A good old THC buzz actually sharpened one’s senses, he had always believed.

  He pulled a joint from his cigarette pack and lit it, sucking the heavy smoke deeply into his lungs and holding it for several seconds before exhaling. He smiled, already feeling the effect after one toke. It was grass, Thai, but its quality and potency surpassed that of any hash he’d ever done, even Kashmir or black Colombian. He pulled in another lungful of the wonderful smoke, holding his breath until he’d counted to thirty. He chuckled to himself and leaned his back against the large tree, content. Getting stoned, he decided, definitely helped ward off the cold. He took another hefty toke and chuckled again.

  Several feet above Blade’s head, the trunk of the mammoth oak tree branched off rather symmetrically into four massive limbs. Sometime in the past, a prior owner of Matt’s property had begun building a tree house, using the four large branches as the natural foundation for the structure. For reasons unknown, construction had ceased once the floor had been completed, rendering the tree house into simply an observation platform, some eight feet off the ground. It might not have served much purpose in the past, but on this day, Jonathan thanked its builder, whoever and wherever he was. For today, the platform, on which Jonathan was now perched, was a gift from heaven. Its existence almost made the task at hand too easy.

  Below him, the small man had lit a joint a few minutes earlier and, judging from his almost continuous, quiet chuckling, was obviously quite stoned; another gift from heaven.

  Ever so slowly, Jonathan raised himself to a kneeling position, praying for the old grey boards not to creak. They didn’t. The Lord was generous today. He inched to the edge of the platform and soon could see the small man, his head, just a few feet away.

  His rope ready, he tossed the noose quickly, expertly, landing it perfectly around his target’s head. With a forceful, upward yank, he jerked the small biker’s body a couple of feet off the ground. Although he’d heard the unmistakable crack of the neck snapping, he held on, keeping the body suspended until it stopped twitching. He then lowered it slowly, intent on avoiding to make any unnecessary noise.

  After descending from the tree and ensuring that the guard was in fact dead, he picked up the body and hurried quietly through the woods, away from the house. Several hundred yards further, a cluster of pine trees supplied appropriate cover for the corpse.

  He dumped the body and returned towards the house, erasing his tracks as he went. He hoped Chris was getting along as well as he was.

  * * * *

  Thai Airlines’ Flight 835 in from Hong Kong landed right on schedule at Phuket International Airport; 8:17 p.m., local time.

  The variety of tourists disembarked from the 747 onto the runway and climbed into the bus which would drive them to the airport terminal, a walking distance away. Hans Fritz had been here often in the past and had always found amusing, this bus ride which lasted all of thirty seconds. His theory was that the airport authorities had purchased the bus in haste when the airport had been built and were too proud to admit their error. Therefore, any traveller arriving was required to board the bus for a half minute trip, a process which sometimes took as much as fifteen minutes from start to finish.

  Hans had remained close to the door inside the bus and was one of the first to go through customs and immigration.

  “Passport and declaration, please,” barked the stout customs officer with the mock sternness such public servants display worldwide.

  Without a word, Hans complied with the man’s request.

  “The purpose of your trip, Mr. Fritz?” demanded the man as he examined the passport.

  “Mostly business, I’m afraid,” replied Hans with a warm smile. “I am here to help export some more of your lovely pearls.”

  “You are staying how long?”

  “Only two days, unfortunately,” answered Hans, his tone one of disappointment.

  “Please try to visit our beaches,” suggested the officer, dropping the tough facade. “Have a nice stay.”

  “Thank-you. And I will try to visit your lovely beaches but, as they say, business before pleasure.”

  He strolled into the small terminal, searching for a familiar face and they saw each other at the same time. Neither had ever met before but they had each been faxed photos of the other and they knew of each other’s reputation through the grapevine.

  “Mister Fritz, I presume,” she said as she approached with an extended hand.

  The photograph had not done her justice. To say she was gorgeous would have been an understatement.

  “Miss Tahashi, a pleasure,” he replied, taking her small but firm hand in his and shaking it warmly.

  “Call me Kim, please. And I will call you Hans,” she proposed, flashing a heavenly smile. “Come. I have a Jeep waiting outside.”

  They left the terminal in silence, each evaluating their first impression of the other. Once settled into the Jeep with Kim at the wheel, they headed south on highway 402.

  “So, you are the famous Jeweller,” stated Kim, concentrating on the narrow winding road.

  “Infamous, perhaps,” Hans chuckled. “And you are the famous Teacher. What brings a Japanese English teacher to Phuket?”

  “I was actually here for a week of vacation when I received the call,” she replied. “I had flown in from Tokyo last night. How long will you be here?”

  “A couple of days only,” he sighed. “I was due to make a trip shortly to visit some suppliers so it will be done. You’re staying at Le Méridien?”
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  “Yes I am. And you?”

  “The same,” he said. “Perhaps once we’re done, I could have the honour of buying you dinner?”

  She smiled before replying. “I have already reserved a lagoon-side table at Pakarang for 10:30. I trust that that gives us sufficient time?”

  He looked at his watch which read 8:47. “Yes, my dear. More than enough time.”

  * * * *

  “I’m worried about Sandy and Chris,” Cathy stated, interrupting her husband’s reading once again. “I call and there’s no answer. When I try their cell phones, I get the message service.”

  “They could be gone shopping, skiing, you name it,” Dave replied, a touch of exasperation in his voice. “Honey, what’s the matter with you? So what, they’re not home? You know Chris and Sandy. They’re always on the go.”

  “Sandy never called me back yesterday,” retorted his wife, her tone equally impatient. “That’s not like her. Don’t believe me if you don’t want to but something is wrong, Dave.”

  “Cathy?” he called as she stormed out of the dining room.

  Receiving no response, he shrugged and returned his attention to his newspaper. One thing was certain. She would not disturb his reading for a little while.

  * * * *

  The building had existed on the outskirts of Phuket City for about ten years. One hundred feet wide and about sixty deep, it housed the operations of a clothing manufacturer and employed seventy-five locals who worked for the pittance wages often customary in many Asian countries. T-shirts and other sportswear were the major product lines, mostly produced for export to Europe and the Americas.

  Although the operation was profitable, in recent years it had become a cover for a much more lucrative business. For within the two-storey building’s high barn-like roof was probably Asia’s most highly advanced heroin refining laboratory. Few people were aware of its existence as access to this part of the structure was well concealed and the lab itself was perfectly sound-proofed.