Afterword
All-in-all, things went well in our case, except for the brutal, untimely deaths of Denny Williams and Jimmy Boonchai. Those were tragic events that couldn’t be undone. I paid my respects and offered my condolences to Denny’s wife Terri and his children Chris and Jeff. There was little I could say or do to relieve their angst and grief. It was so damn unfair to them and I was largely responsible for his death by hunting down Kris Amar. The bastard needed to die, but I’d carry the guilt around with me for the rest of my days for what I’d done to my good friend. I was surprised Terri had even agreed to my visit since she must’ve surmised I was responsible in some way for her husband’s death.
Albert Wu submitted a claim to the department for the two million dollar reward and I’d fully endorsed it. He deserved every penny by risking his life and facilitating Kris Amar’s entrapment in Nong Khai. Jersey Briggs initially balked at the idea until I reminded him of what I’d told him before I’d left for Thailand: informants were not the salt of the earth. Fortunately, he remembered and withdrew his objection. That was critical because he chaired the interagency committee that doled out the reward money.
Albert was off the hook with the Thai National Police given his cooperation in the investigation and now back to running his mortuary once again, even accepting the occasional Christian for burial or cremation. His naming of coconspirators in Bangkok resulted in the arrests of several midlevel traffickers who now awaited their day in court. The Nong Khai-Bangkok distribution link had been shattered forever.
I joked with Albert about branching out into the field of cryogenics for wealthy Thais who didn’t believe in reincarnation or oneness with the cosmos and yearned to live forever in their present forms. I mentioned a couple of large freezers and an emergency generator would do the trick. He wasn’t sure if I was teasing or not, but said he’d consider it. Knowing Albert, I didn’t doubt him.
I made sure Chi received a generous bonus from the consulate. It was the least I could do for his valuable contributions to our little team. He was later named Foreign Service National Investigator of the year by the Diplomatic Security Service. There was a cash award and an all-expense paid junket, I meant official trip, for he and his wife to Washington, D.C. included in the package.
Jimmy Boonchai’s wife was awarded a sum of money for funeral expenses and a modest, monthly stipend from the consulate’s employee association. She refused Albert’s kind offer to immolate her husband’s remains free of charge.
As to Angie, I convinced Albert to give her a half million dollars from the reward money and he’d agreed, knowing I had some influence in the decision regarding his claim. It would be more than sufficient to get out of her shady dealings and away from her underworld friends. She could start a new life anywhere she desired. I also presented her with the Hmong clutch purse showing my personal gratitude for the risks she’d taken on our behalf. She seemed genuinely touched by the gesture.
I got a royal ass chewing from Jersey when we finally met in his office to review the case. He was still sorely pissed that I blew off his order to promptly return home empty handed. He not-so politely reminded me that he was the approving official for my travel voucher and things better be in order—or else. I wasn’t sure what he meant by the remark, but suspected it wouldn’t be good. So I politely genuflected before leaving his eminence’s presence. This time I didn’t bother to leave a rude calling card at the door.
However, as expected, Jersey was again receiving the laurels from the fruits of my labor on the case. I didn’t really care, but I certainly didn’t want to end up in a Club Fed for voucher fraud. Three hots and a cot didn’t appeal to me whatsoever. It would also be my luck the minimum security facility probably served fish every Friday! I wasn’t Catholic, lapsed or otherwise. Holy mackerel simply wasn’t part of my vocabulary or diet.
Before leaving for home, I stopped by Mother State, more properly referred to as the Harry S. Truman building, using the C Street, diplomatic entrance. I immediately turned right in the lobby and viewed the large, and growing, marble plaque. It was a memorial to those Foreign Service colleagues who’d given their lives in the line of duty. It was easy to spot Denny’s name since it was the newest one and its bright gilt characters stood out from the rest: Dennis L. Williams, it simply read.
I removed a sheet of vellum and a small piece of charcoal from my jacket pocket and rubbed Denny’s name against it. I vowed the sketching would stay with me forever. But I just couldn’t stanch the sobbing and flow of tears running down my face.
My body was shaking. I was experiencing an emotional meltdown in plain view of my colleagues and mother! I was terribly saddened at what I’d done to a great friend and fellow agent.
I went home to my empty condo and poured several glasses of wine to ease my anguish. Perhaps, I was a borderline alcoholic as some suggested. But which side of the border was always in question. It then dawned on me. I really was an unrepentant wino after all. My few virtues and many vices had finally caught up with me and I was ashamed of myself, but couldn’t stop my drinking. Nor did I want to stop, at least not yet, maybe tomorrow though.
Hung over, I called Jersey the following morning and asked if he could send another assignment my way. This time, one with a little meat left on the bone would be nice for a change. Hey, what are friends for buddy? I laughingly joked as I fought back the feelings of humiliation by asking for another handout from Mother State.
I promised Jersey to clean up my dissolute lifestyle and play by his rules if he threw me another case. Scout’s honor, boss!