His condition, which Dr. Struthers had diagnosed earlier, had a clinical name—reactive mutism—and was usually caused by trauma or abuse. RM was more prevalent among young people like Alex with an existing autism spectrum disorder. Treatment was problematic, especially for those in their teenage years.
Since Alex was already taking the serotonin reuptake inhibitor Paxil to help deal with his social anxiety, Struthers thought of recommending a medication designed to affect a broader range of neurotransmitters, such as Effexor or Serzone. But she suspected that they wouldn’t work either. The more she observed Alex and realized how intelligent he was, the more strongly she believed that his mutism was a conscious choice—a silent angry protest against the cruel injustice of the world, for which there was no cure.
The six members of Black Cell flew United from Dulles seven hours and twenty minutes to Heathrow. They then boarded British Airways Flight 9, which covered another 5,928 miles in a little over eleven hours to Suvarnabhumi Airport.
Crocker passed the time playing chess with Mancini and Akil, watching Mel Brooks’s High Anxiety for about the fifteenth time, discussing the pluses and minuses of some new handguns and sniper rifles with Cal, eating, drinking beer, snoozing. He was dying to do a workout by the time he felt the plane descend and saw the giant double hoops of the terminal rising from a vast expanse of vivid green marshland.
He loved the lushness of the tropics.
The high-tech, futuristic airport stood in striking contrast to the wild marshland. It contained huge halls with soaring metal arches lit with blue neon and white lights. As they waited in line for immigration, a young woman on a video screen on the wall explained that the terminal had been opened in 2006 and boasted the world’s tallest freestanding control tower (434 feet), the world’s fourth-largest single building terminal (over six million square feet), and handled approximately forty-eight million passengers a year.
“I feel like I’ve arrived on a friendlier planet,” Akil said as beautiful hostesses dressed in purple checked to make sure they had filled out the appropriate forms and were standing in the correct line.
After they passed through customs, the SEALs-turned-businessmen arrived in the baggage claim area, where they saw a medium-height white guy with a middleweight’s muscular body and a thick mop of black hair standing next to a nice-looking dark-skinned man holding a sign that read “Sonnex Petroleum.”
Akil nodded toward the sign and whispered, “Look, boss.”
“I see it.”
Sonnex Petroleum was the name of the shell company the six SEALs were allegedly working for. They were traveling as oil company executives and engineers. Crocker’s alias was Tom Mansfield, VP of exploration and research. What he really knew about oil exploration could fit on the head of a pin.
The taller of the two men introduced himself with a strong, confident handshake as Emile Anderson. Black Cell couldn’t do what it did without the help and support of local agents.
“Welcome,” he said to Crocker, full of nervous energy. “We’re on kind of a tight schedule, so as soon as you get your bags, we’ll take off into town to try to beat the traffic. Lieutenant Colonel Petsut of the Royal Thai Police is meeting you for dinner.”
“The sooner we get started, the better,” Crocker replied, looking down at his watch, which had adjusted automatically to the local time zone, 1652 hours.
He stood at Baggage Claim Station 3, surveying the international crowd—a polyglot of Asian, East Asian, European, young and old, dressed in business clothes and casual. The diversity reminded him of the movie Blade Runner, but here everything was clean, orderly, and efficient.
Including Anderson, who handed him a large manila envelope and said, “I’ve already prechecked you into your rooms. Your electronic room keys are in there, along with seven hundred bucks’ worth of baht to get you started. My friend Daw here will be your driver.”
“Hey, Daw. Nice to meet you, and much appreciated.”
The short man with the round pockmarked face smiled back with a serene look in his eyes.
“Anything you need, you tell Daw or you call me on this,” Anderson continued, handing Crocker a shiny new Samsung cell phone. “Both our numbers have been programmed into it, along with an emergency contact at the Station. Only use that in case of an emergency. Try to call one of us first. We’ll be at your disposal twenty-four/seven. You need anything, and I mean anything, call.”
“Thanks. What’s the exchange rate?” Crocker asked.
“A hundred baht is worth about three dollars and twenty-six cents.”
Large photos of a smiling King Bhumibol Adulyadej and Prime Minister Yingluck Shinawatra and her husband hung on the walls. The local people seemed amiable and gentle.