Book 2: Operation Detour

Episode 9

© by William Arthur Holmes

That Night

As Dobie sleeps in his room, Riva takes a quick shower, gets dressed, and slips out into the night.

Somewhere in Europe, Serge’s scantily-clad young male assistant, Rupert, drops papers onto his desk and pronounces with dramatic flair, “Ludwig is dead!”

When Serge fails to respond immediately, Rupert says, “Did you hear me?” When there is still no response, he asks, “Should we send out another agent?”

Sighing deeply, taking a moment to think, Serge shakes his head. “No, Rupert. Put Riva and this Dobie person on the Terror Watch List and leave the rest to the authorities. If they are apprehended by airport security, great. Otherwise, we just let them go... for now.”

He turns his chair toward the window and, with another deep sigh, gazes outside. “It is a big world out there. She will make a mistake soon enough, especially if she keeps that stupid American with her. We will bide our time. We will get her eventually.”

~ ~ ~

Walking the streets of late-night Kuala Lumpur, Riva is watchful for anyone coming out of the shadows, but no one comes. On the phone, she says to the woman on the other end, “Get me on the first private jet to Bangkok.”

~ ~ ~

The next morning, I am on the beach early, just out of reach of the waves. With one hand, I absently attempt a sandcastle, if it can be called that. More like a mound of sand. Nothing like what the determined young boy several yards away is constructing. I do a double-take and admire the kid’s vastly superior sandcastle-building skills.

He appears to be working alone, but then a man, presumably his father, appears from behind the castle to admire their shared masterpiece.

Returning to my own thoughts, I watch as the waves roll onto the beach, crawling toward me just shy of my little fortress, only to be pulled back out to sea.

“You coming, or what?” Riva asks, approaching from behind.

“Just waiting for you,” I smile and turn toward her. “I think maybe my entire life, I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Oh, please!” she is genuinely embarrassed, as intended.

I stand and dust myself off while she sniffs the air around me.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Just wondering what you’ve been smoking,” she laughs. In her deepest voice she quotes me, “’I think my entire life I’ve been waiting for you!’ Give me a break!”

“Some people just can’t take a compliment,” I shake my head. “I was joking, anyway.”

I’m not joking.

~ ~ ~

An hour later, we are on a remote private landing strip, riding a golf cart across the tarmac to our waiting plane.

“This is all you have to do to avoid airport security?” I ask, incredulous. “Rent a private plane at a private airport?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” she says. “Makes you wonder why they have all that security at the major airports, doesn’t it? Real terrorists with bombs can simply do what we’re doing now.”

“That’s what I was trying to say back at LAX!” I say. “I think. I was on drugs. I guess I was saying that. No, yeah, I said that. So, where are we going?”

“Bangkok, for starters,” she says. “It’s one of the best places in the world to get lost and lose anyone who might be following you. From there, anywhere we want.”

~ ~ ~

We board our plane and settle into our seats for the relatively short flight to Bangkok.

With a charming smile, she asks, “So, where will it be after Bangkok? Where have you always wanted to go but never had the right girl to go with?”

“I don’t speak anything but English,” I say, smiling, “so probably need to go where that’s the language.”

Nodding, she says, “England is not an option.”

“Not sure I’d like it, anyway. Wherever we go, I assume my unlimited credit card was canceled by your people, and I’ll need to work for a living again.”

“The card doesn’t work like that,” she says. “Again, I don’t know the details, but from what I am told, all it does is fool the credit systems into thinking it is approved, no matter what the amount, no matter which system is verifying it. There is not an actual account attached to it. It might not work forever but is impossible to track.”

“I know where to go,” I announce proudly.

“Where?”

“Serge and company will be expecting us to get as far from here as possible, right?”

“Probably.”

“So, let’s do the opposite.”

“Okay, where?”

“I hope you like umbrella drinks! Turn this plane around, we’re going to Fuckit!”

“Excuse me?”

“Fuckit. It’s spelled P-h-u-k-e-t.”

“Ah, yes,” she laughs briefly before a sadness comes over her.

“What? You don’t like umbrella drinks?”

“Not especially,” she scoffs, “but that’s not the problem.”

“What’s the problem?”

“I cannot help but think you are falling in love with me.” She says this as if it happens all the time... because it does. I normally find such presumption unattractive but let it slide. You can’t fault a person for knowing the truth.

“And,” she continues, “you think you and I are on some grand adventure and will live happily ever after.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say, though that is exactly what I was thinking. “I mean, yeah sure, that would be nice, but….”

We then say, simultaneously, “You’re not my type.”

“Even if we did get together at some point,” she continues, “...I don’t think it will last. We are too different.”

I can’t believe she’s giving it any consideration at all, but pretend to take it in stride.

“So, we play it by ear,” I say. “See how it goes. At least we’re in sync about not being in sync. If I’ve learned anything through all of this, you never know what might happen.”

“True.”

“Two weeks ago,” I continue, “my life was completely different. Has it only been two weeks? Wow. Anyway, you come along and... oh wait, you screwed up everything, didn’t you? I’m not sure if I should kill you or kiss you.”

“We might have a future, after all. I was wondering the same thing about you!” She gives a hopeful laugh, leans in and caresses my arm.

Her touch sends a charge through my body.

“I should warn you,” I say, still buzzing from her touch, “the last girl I dated said I have a dark aura. A dark blue aura.”

“If you have a dark blue aura,” she scoffs, “mine is pitch black. Just shut up and kiss me.”

I move in – almost in disbelief – and gently place my hand under her chin. I turn her lips toward mine while looking deep into her eyes. Those amazing eyes.

We touch lips. I slide my hand up her back, under her blouse. When I reach her bra, she pulls my arm back out.

“Not in front of the pilot, dragă!”

I have to settle for kissing.

“We don’t need to turn the plane around,” she says between breaths. “Phuket is still ahead of us. And that’s how it’s pronounced, by the way: poo-GET. Not ‘fuck it.’ They hate it when tourists think they’re funny and pronounce it like you did.”

“Good to know,” I say, now in a buoyant mood.

Change of Heart

Serge originally intended to let Riva go. He didn’t have the heart to chase after her. Always had a soft spot for her. For a moment there – and this is very rare for him – he is happy to let her live her life however she chooses.

He smiles as he pictures her on a beach somewhere, happy. He imagines her swimsuit. A thong, knowing her. He misses their little trysts. A twinkle comes to his eye.

“Rupert!” he calls his barely-dressed young assistant into his office.

“Yes, my lord,” he addresses Serge as instructed.

“Change of plans. I need you to bathe and dress me. Something serious, yet tropical. You decide. You have a knack, but we must hurry.”

~ ~ ~

Riva is lounging on a beach chair somewhere on Phuket Island. It is late afternoon and she is wearing a blue bikini, dark glasses, and a straw sun hat with matching blue sash. She looks just like the girl in the travel poster that Dobie fell in love with back at LAX.

Her bag, also straw with matching sash, sits between herself and the empty chair next to her. She has finished her drink and sent her man servant off for a refill.

This little stretch of beach is essentially the backyard of the most expensive private bungalow she could find to rent. She charged it to that unlimited credit card.

Her man servant is now slaving away inside, making umbrella drinks, happily singing The Pina Colada Song. He is making Mai Tais but doesn’t know any Mai Tai songs.

He hears something behind him, toward the front door, and turns to look. There is no one there and he shrugs it off. Must be the wind.

~ ~ ~

It has been several minutes now, and Riva, still in her beach chair, is wondering what is taking so long. “How long does it take to make a couple of Mai Tais?”

“That depends on the ingredients,” says a familiar male voice behind her, “and, of course, the bartender.”

She turns while reaching for her gun. Ludwig flies into her like an NFL linebacker, deftly grabbing her gun in the process.

“Lulu!?” she gasps, now underneath him. “You’re... you’re dead! I killed you myself!”

“Bullet-proof vest, my dear,” he says, catching his breath, keeping her pinned down. “At such close range as in the storage room,” he speaks as if to a student, “aim for the head. Make the kill shot.”

“But there was blood,” she is confused.

“Yes,” he laughs, “it was a very special bullet-proof vest that spurts fake blood upon impact, inspired by Hollywood.”

~ ~ ~

Inside the bungalow, Dobie hears another, closer rustling sound behind him just as he has completed his man servant duties. He slides the little paper umbrellas into the Tiki-god-embossed glasses and sets them onto the bamboo tray.

He turns around, with the tray now in his arms. There, in front of him, is a rotund, smiling, middle-aged man of average height wearing horn-rimmed glasses, Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts and sandals. The man looks familiar from somewhere.

“I’m sorry,” Dobie gives an affable laugh, one tourist to another, “but you must be in the wrong bungalow. I know. They all look alike, right?”

“Yes, they do,” Serge says with a smile, “but, I assure you, Dobie, I am in the right place.”

“And you are...?” Dobie asks.

“Where are my manners?” He sticks out a hand and says, “My name is Serge. I’ve heard so much about you!”