Chapter 25
Because of the bombings, Bangkok’s morgues were overflowing with bodies. The excess corpses were in body bags, lining the basement hallways of every hospital in the city.
It had taken Davi about an hour to locate the body Morrell had asked for.
It had also created a firestorm of questions.
She had wanted to know everything, starting with why Morrell wanted the body, how he had come to possess a photo of the deceased, and what his involvement had been in the man’s death.
To his credit, Morrell had tried to remind her that their exchange of favors had been based on no questions being asked. To her credit, Davi reminded him that she had agreed to the deal before she knew it involved a murder.
What’s more, it didn’t take her long to hear about the additional bodies discovered at Tommy Sombat’s and to suspect that all of it was connected somehow to Morrell and his new American visitor, Scot Harvath.
Her ask had paled in comparison to what Morrell wanted her to do.
All she wanted was for the United States to quietly run a partial fingerprint they had pulled from the mysterious Glock at Teens.
Thai authorities had run it against all the dead bodies on the scene, as well as through all of their own databases, but had come up empty.
Knowing that U.S. intelligence services could access almost any database on the planet, she had hoped Morrell could help her ID who the pistol belonged to. Thailand was pulling on any and every string, trying to get to the bottom of who perpetrated the bombings.
Time was slipping away from them, and the country needed a win. If Davi could deliver that win, it would be very good for Thailand, and her career.
Which was why, even though it went against every rule in the book, she had agreed to help Morrell.
After the orderlies had placed the man’s corpse in the back of the van Morrell had borrowed from the embassy, she waited for them to head back inside before addressing her ex.
“I want that body back before sunrise,” she stated. “Understand me?”
“You have my word.”
“I don’t want your word. And I don’t want any of your bullshit either,” she replied. “You text me the minute you’re back and then you and I are going to have a chat.”
“About?”
The ISOC officer glared at him. “Everything.”
“We’ll be back with the body by sunrise,” Harvath interjected, closing the van’s rear doors, eager to get things moving. “And I’ll make sure he texts you. Thanks for your help.”
Morrell stood there for a moment, seemingly unsure of how to close out the conversation. Awkwardly, he stuck out his hand and parroted Harvath, “Thank you for your help.”
Exhaling a disgusted breath of air, Davi shook her head, turned on her heel, and headed back to her car. “Before sunrise,” she ordered, as she walked away without looking back.
“It’s not a put-on,” Harvath said, watching her go. “She really doesn’t like you.”
“Fuck you,” Morrell responded, following her with his eyes.
Harvath gave the man a moment longer and then, slapping the side of the van, stated, “We’re burning darkness. Time to move.”
Morrell slid behind the wheel, and drove while Harvath traded messages back and forth with the team, who were already at the periodontist’s office.
While Ashby and Palmer had circumvented the locks and rudimentary alarm system, Haney had kept watch downstairs as Staelin went up to check out the roof.
By the time Harvath and Morrell arrived on scene, all the advance work had been done. The only things they needed to do were to conduct a quick reconnaissance and then to bring the body inside.
Thankfully, they found a spot in front of the building, and the body bag had straps, making the corpse easier to transport.
Deadweight was still deadweight, however, and Morrell bitched all the way from the van to the elevator, nicknaming their dead body Wei Too Phat. It made no difference that the man was just as fit as his colleagues.
Palmer met them on the roof with the medical supplies he had “liberated” from the periodontist’s office.
“Where are we propping up Mr. Phat?” Morrell asked, unceremoniously dropping his side of the body bag.
“Over there,” Harvath replied, nodding at an AC condenser unit.
Reaching down, Morrell picked up his end again, and they walked the bag across the roof.
When they got to the unit and set it down, Harvath could already tell they had a problem. Unzipping it, his fear was confirmed. Rigor mortis had set in.
It usually happened within two to six hours after death. Warm weather, and it was plenty warm in Bangkok, only helped to speed up the process.
The jaw and face were where the stiffness began.
From there, it spread, and the rest of the body followed.
Individuals with less body fat experienced rigor mortis faster, as did those who had been involved in strenuous physical activity right before death.
Not only was their corpse trim, but he’d also been involved in a serious footrace in advance of his ticket being punched.
One of the telltale signs of rigor mortis was when the smaller muscles of the face tightened, creating the appearance of a grimace as the jaw and eyes locked into position. This guy had one of the worst grimaces Harvath had ever seen.
At some point in his career, Harvath had learned about Nysten’s Rule, which dictated the sequence of facial effects. First the eyelids stiffened, then the jaw and mouth, then the overall face and neck.
People used to believe that a corpse’s facial expression somehow reflected their emotions or state of mind at the time of death.
In reality, as Harvath knew, the entire rigor mortis process was a chemical reaction that “froze” muscles in whatever place they were in when their ATP, or energy reserves, were depleted.
Facial stiffness, along with stiffness in the rest of the body, reached its peak anywhere between six and twelve hours. Normally, rigidity disappeared in about twenty-four to forty-eight hours, with the facial features being the first to relax. Harvath, however, didn’t have that kind of time.
Unzipping the bag the rest of the way, he said to Palmer, “I’m going to need a good-sized bowl of warm, soapy water. The warmer the better. But not scalding. I’ll need some towels or rags too.”
Flashing him the thumbs-up, the young operative headed back downstairs to get him what he needed.
“Okay,” Harvath continued, motioning Morrell over. “Let’s see if we can sit him up against the condenser.”
On the count of three, they lifted the corpse out of the bag—Harvath handling the torso and Morrell the legs. The body was rigid and difficult to position.
“We need to put something on his left or right side, so he doesn’t tilt over.”
As Harvath donned a pair of latex gloves and began massaging and stretching the man’s muscles to break up the rigor and make him more pliable, Morrell disappeared to the rear of the roof.
He returned with two pallets, followed by a stack of cinder blocks—typical, and more importantly, believable Bangkok roof garbage.
“What now?” the CIA man asked.
Harvath tossed him a pair of gloves. “Roll up his left sleeve. That’s where we’ll put the IV.”
Exposing the man’s forearm, Morrell retrieved the bag of saline from the pile of medical supplies and began to probe the corpse’s arm for a vein.
“You don’t need to stick him,” Harvath instructed, as he worked the body into position. “Just tape the IV to his arm. Make it look good.”
“Good. Because I am not a fan of needles.”
Harvath was about to jab him for having a needle phobia, when he saw Palmer reappear, carrying a large, stainless-steel bowl and a stack of hand towels.
While firm, steady pressure could break the chemical bonds of rigor, you had to be extra careful when it came to the face.
Washing it first made it safer to massage the deep tissue, helping to avoid surface damage and tearing.
It also helped to reduce the appearance of gooseflesh—another symptom of rigor mortis.
They moved as quickly and as carefully as possible. The corpse didn’t need to be perfect. It just needed to be passable.
Once the dead man’s eyelids had relaxed enough to be closed, Harvath glued them shut.
His corneas had already become opaque due to the rigor and lack of moisture.
But the literal “dead” giveaway would have been that his eyes weren’t blinking.
Better to make it look as if he had patched himself up, started an IV, and activated his emergency beacon before passing out.
After placing a bandage along the man’s right cheek and at his left temple, Harvath stood back and took in the totality of his work.
The corpse’s clothes were covered in blood. Without an actual, physical inspection, however, there was no way to know what had happened to him or the extent of his injuries.
This was as good as it was going to get. There was nothing else Harvath could think to do. So, with the scene set, all that was left was to invite the audience.
Taking out the Breitling Emergency watch, he used the same piece of rebar Morrell had wedged between the cinder blocks to hang the IV from and cinched the watch to it with a piece of surgical tubing.
“Everybody in place?” he asked over his radio.
There was a chorus of “Roger that,” “Good to go,” and “Standing by.” Morrell flashed him the thumbs-up.
Adjusting the bezel, Harvath made ready to depress the lower crown and began to count down, “Activating the locator beacon in three, two, one.”