The crimson lights of the Royal Thai Police strobe over the nighttime scene as foot patrol, canine units, and several bomb disposal personnel scour the train yard. At one carriage the brilliant light of a welding torch emits sharp sparks as it cuts into the thick lock of a shipping container.
“That’s them there,” says Dominic, pressing his finger up against the fourth floor window of the hotel’s staircase. Shifting his gaze in the direction indicated by Dominic, Brock spots a gray sedan standing behind a sturdy fence on the opposite side of the tracks.
A man with a strict hairstyle and colourless business suit is standing outside the front passenger side. He’s sprawled over the roof of the vehicle, watching the yard. In the driver’s seat is a woman wearing a black t-shirt, her glossy hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. She’s sitting tensely with her hands in the ten-and-two positions, staring straight ahead. Behind her slumps a large man with wispy hair and a shoddy dark suit draped over his thin frame. A precarious cigarette made mostly of ash dangles loosely from his lips as he leans out of the rear passenger window. All three are wearing identical black sunglasses.
“Sore thumbs,” comments Brock. “I take it that’s the boss in the back?”
“Yup,” confirms Dominic. “Mister Cheng. Joanne’s at the wheel. The other guy’s Victor.”
“I imagined them … different somehow,” remarks Brock. “Smarter, I guess.”
Dominic nods at Brock, directing his attention to Rebekah who has suddenly appeared among the growing crowd of onlookers on the opposite side of the tracks. She slowly makes her way toward Victor, momentarily studies him, then abruptly rams into him from behind.
Brock watches her offer an animated apology to the man who replies by angrily waving his hands around, then dismissively shooing her away. She backs off with a gesture of surrender as Victor returns to his vigil. Soon Rebekah has disappeared around a corner and out of view.
“Oh man,” says Brock with a sheepish grin, “I almost feel bad for them.”
“Except that they tried to kill us,” says Elvis, holding up a reminding finger.
Sitting on a step nearby Dominic cautions, “We don’t know that for sure.”
Brock and Elvis nod lightly in agreement.
“But they’re involved somehow,” adds Dominic.
They nod again.
It’s nine-thirty by the time Rebekah returns to the landing and takes a seat on the steps near them. Hotel patrons and even some staff have now gathered around the window to watch the tense scene outside and to exchange theories.
Speaking with some difficulty to a middle-aged Japanese man and a wrinkly retired German couple, Mirabelle shares her belief that this is all part of some elaborate espionage operation involving a hoax bomb threat to access secret information being transported in a train car. She points at the dark automobile across the tracks and describes how an improvised trap is about to be sprung on the three foreign agents.
Mirabelle’s wacky story receives hearty laughs, followed by a lengthy period of silent inactivity, after which the tourists excuse themselves and leave.
Shortly thereafter Mirabelle, Brock, and Dominic watch as the gray sedan is approached by several edgy police officers. Victor turns around to face one cop, answering his questions with negating hand movements. Mister Cheng steps laboriously out of the car to confront the second officer, choosing to do so with welcoming arms and a conciliatory smile. Joanne is now completely rigid and gritting her teeth as the third policeman motions for her to step out.
Suddenly, the car lurches forward just as the officer nearest Joanne lunges out of the way. By the time the sound of screeching tires arrives at the fourth floor window the car is fishtailing out of its parking spot.
A second later and with the smoke of burnt rubber still thick in the air, the dark vehicle comes to a crashing stop in the back of a small blue delivery truck. The sound of smashing metal takes another moment to reach the hotel and by then Joanne has thrown the car into reverse. She guns the engine again and the tires on the car spin uselessly, the effort serving only to jostle the newly attached truck amidst the cloud of acrid smoke. After a few seconds of futility she releases the accelerator, turns off the engine, and sullenly steps out of the car.
Two additional officers have now arrived from the train yard and one of them pounces on Joanne while the other two shout commands and aim their weapons at her. In the meantime, Mister Cheng is on his knees, hands locked behind his head and facing away from the drawn gun of his uniformed interlocutor. Victor is splayed out on the ground, one hand pinned at his back under the knee of the other officer, the other holding a cell phone that at a distance looks very similar to the ones that the Section are using.
Rebekah is now standing at the window of the hotel watching the takedowns with a pleased smirk. “That one was a freebie,” she says to the glass.
“Pretty bitchin’,” remarks Elvis. “I don’t know that I’d be able to sneak a phone into anyone’s pocket, straight or otherwise.”
“Yeah, that was slick,” includes Brock with genuine admiration. “Oh, and look” — he swivels his head — “we even get dinner with the show!”
Dmitri has just arrived at the landing holding a tightly tied plastic bag stuffed with a number of Styrofoam containers in one hand, in the other a large tray of assorted drinks with straws.
“Did you remember to wipe your prints off?” asks Dominic, grabbing one of the drinks and immediately taking a long pull on the straw.
“Dude, of course,” replies Rebekah cheerfully. “Used a piece of newspaper to hold it. And I made sure it was still dialed in to the cops.”
“That probably wasn’t necessary,” says Dmitri, setting the food down on the low window sill. “As long as the phone’s on the police can triangulate it. That’s why I didn’t turn it on until we were in position.”
“I see,” replies Rebekah nonchalantly.
“I just don’t understand why they came here,” says Brock.
“From the moment they tangled with us everything about Shindan’s been slipshod,” suggests Dominic. “They were probably acting on paranoia.”
“They may have a point,” notes Rebekah.
“Yeah, but the way they did it,” replies Dominic. “All three of them rolling up like that and looking so conspicuous. No precautions. It’s just so obviously bad. And what about the suits? They didn’t even try to look like tourists. Sunglasses at night didn’t help either.”
Looking him in the eyes Rebekah puts on a broad, mischievous grin and slides on her own sunglasses. He rolls his eyes and holds up the drink tray. “I got Coke, Sprite, some kind of fizzy orange, and water,” he says, offering her the beverages.
Over the next hours the agents compare the progress of their sobriety as they slowly drift back to normalcy. During the process the chicken pad thai, spicy coconut curry, and tasty fried rice hit the spot. Then, having finished they take turns leisurely walking around the neighbourhood to assess the ongoing situation.
By about midnight the police presence has been significantly reduced and only two cops guard the shipping container. It’s been cleared of any explosives, then resealed with only a few thick zip ties and a police ribbon. At the far end of the tracks three more officers patrol the gated exits to the street beyond. The car that Joanne was driving has long since been towed, its occupants driven off in cuffs, the debris swept up.
The operation to retrieve Shindan’s records resumes.
This time it’s Mirabelle hopping over the yard wall with Dmitri and Elvis. In addition to their mobile phones they’ve also taken along a pair of sturdy scissors that they borrowed from the front lobby of the hotel. Once in position, Mirabelle and Elvis take a few moments to mentally prepare and then the trio split up, Dmitri taking the top of the container and Elvis with Mirabelle gliding together along it’s side.
Moments later the pair are leading the two puzzled cops to one end of the container while Dmitri slips down the other side, directly in front of the re-secured door. With a few quick snips he removes the zip ties and official police ribbon, gently lifts and rotates the large vertical latches, pulls opens the sizable metal door, slips inside, and closes the opening behind him.
The creak of the hinges attracts the attention of one guard who manages to get only halfway before Elvis and Mirabelle lure him back. The cat-and-mouse game continues for a couple of minutes as the two agents scurry and dodge between train cars, leading the bewildered police on a futile chase.
In the meantime, Dmitri reports that most of the container is inaccessible — but he’s found a locked file cabinet with Shindan’s name near the entrance. “Looks like it might’ve been put here after everything else was packed,” he says with whispered optimism. “If I can get one drawer open then the others should be easy.”
Outside the container the visibly shaken police abandon their posts and walk uncertainly toward their colleagues at the other end of the yard. In a few moments they’re pointing back at the train and acting out their bizarre experiences. Finishing their performance they try to convince their fellow sentries to help them investigate. Some hesitation follows before the other officers agree to leave their posts to help out.
“Dmitri, grab whatever you can and get the hell out of there now,” says Rebekah with urgency over the group chat.
With a vigorous motion, the tall door of the container swings open, blocking the view of the startled guards. Dmitri emerges holding a weighty paper box sealed with wide plastic straps. He scrambles off the edge of the train, over the couplings of another, and dashes madly toward the wall with the heavy container held awkwardly in front of him. Mirabelle and Elvis watch helplessly from the shadows nearby, trapped between the train and the sight lines of the approaching police.
“Run! Run!” shouts Rebekah, giving voice to the Section’s collective anxiety.
“Whadya think I’m trying … ” responds Dmitri breathlessly.
In a few moments the box is tossed over the wall. Dmitri’s hands follow and the large man slowly hoists himself up. With one heaving effort he pulls himself over, grabs the slightly crushed container, and continues running past the hotel.
Three of the officers have gathered around the open end of the container while the other two continue cautiously in Dmitri’s general direction. “I don’t think they got a look at you,” Rebekah says over the group chat.
“Good,” acknowledges Dmitri, still winded.
She watches Elvis and Mirabelle dash toward the opposite end of the yard and away from the preoccupied police. There the agents search frantically for a way over the tall fence.
Rebekah spots a cage embedded into the fence, barred security doors sealing the two ends of the structure. “Guys, I think I might’ve spotted a way out,” she says. It doesn’t take long before Elvis and Mirabelle locate the potential exit but before they have a chance to examine it Brock nervously broadcasts that two of the pursuing officers have turned around and are heading in their direction.
With few other options the two agents quickly decide to leap into a nearby guard booth, crouching down below the tiny hut’s flimsy windows and pressing their backs against its particleboard walls. In the few seconds before the two officers arrive at their location the hushed but panicked voice of Elvis says, “We’re stuck in the guardhouse.”
Watching with deep concern from the fourth floor landing of the hotel Rebekah ponders the situation. Standing beside her, Brock and Dominic shift uneasily, deep in their own thoughts. Within a few moments the two guards have taken up positions near the exit while the others continue their search around the opened container. Poking up slowly from inside the tiny structure Mirabelle takes a cautious peek at her surroundings. Ducking back down she silently gestures her assessment to Elvis; they’re unnervingly close to the two officers and making a dash through the gates would end badly.
Suddenly, Rebekah snaps her fingers as an idea forms in her head. “Brock, would you say that you respect me?” she asks forthrightly.
His uncertainty is palpable as he answers, “Yeah, sure. Why?”
She responds, “Good. Then you won’t mind slapping me around a little bit.”
“Oh?” he asks, curiosity piqued.