“So maybe they can take home thirty to forty thousand dollars a year?”
“Again, depends. I’m not an expert at this, but what I’ve heard is that it’s a big piece of the Thai economy. Imagine if your options were making five or six hundred dollars a month as a bilingual schoolteacher, for instance. Starting to see where the financial driver is here?”
She was tired from the multitude of experiences and psychically drained by the exposure to so much corruption. Bangkok was a black hole, a dwarf star for energy. At the moment, it was hard to imagine that anything good existed in the world.
Jet said goodnight, and Rob promised to get in touch as soon as he knew something. They parted ways on the sidewalk in front of the Nana hotel, a multitude of older male tourists laughing loudly as they exited, on their way to the sex mall for a night of abandon.
Her hotel was only a two-minute walk, and she’d never been so happy in her life to be back in a small room with working air-conditioning and a sturdy lock so she could hose off the accumulated filth that seemed to have coated her entire being — and wake up to a new day that wasn’t steeped in toxicity.
Chapter 12
Rob’s voice sounded excited on the cell phone the following afternoon. “We’ve got a lead.”
“What is it?”
“Lap Pu sighting late last night at his largest club. An informant slipped us the tip. Apparently, he’s got some meetings tomorrow night.”
“That’s great news. Whose informant?”
“Friend of one of the bouncers. Works club security on the evening shift. Saw the great man himself at midnight with an entourage. Overheard him agreeing to get together tonight and meet tomorrow. So we have two nights, at least.”
“How long since his last trip north?”
“It should be time for another one within the next week. He disappears for a week at a time. Nobody knows what he’s doing.”
“What do you suggest for tonight?”
“We meet up for dinner at nine, eat, then go to the club and throw some money around. I noticed you didn’t drink last night. Do you have a problem with alcohol? Because it would help if you could throw a few back in the bar.”
“No problem. I just don’t like it very much.”
“Have any preferences for dinner?”
“Anyplace but British cuisine.”
“I’ll call you later.”
Rob hung up, and she returned to her table, where a slew of photographs of the man known as Lap Pu were spread out on the table, courtesy of Edgar.
The dossier on Lap Pu proffered a paucity of real insight. Fifty-something years old, a Bangkok native, started out life with a couple of his family’s markets, gravitated to the sex trade in the late Seventies. Opened a bar in Soi Cowboy, then another in Phatong, and from there moved up the food chain until he was a major player in the business. Lived a lavish lifestyle, with homes all over the country, including several resorts on Phuket. Friendly with every administration, he had never been arrested and was considered a stand-up fellow. Except for the rumors that he was one of the top sex slavers in Bangkok and had an elaborate network of smugglers moving females from Myanmar and Laos to Thailand, many underage. But like so much in Thailand, rumored truths were not an impediment to his prosperity, and he had kept his nose clean — or at least as clean as someone in the sex trade in Thailand could.
His main enterprises were brothels catering to specialized tastes, the kinkier the better. Ping pong shows, ladyboys, every sort of domination and submission, groups…if you could imagine it, chances are that Pu offered it in one of his establishments.
The last team that had disappeared had followed Pu into the jungles at the northernmost edge of Thailand. But that was Jet’s only hope of finding their target. Other than Pu, the CIA had nothing, and even with him they hadn’t gotten far.
She opened the safe, extracted the Beretta and stripped it, studying the various components to verify it was in good shape. It looked almost brand new. The silencer was new, showing no evidence of having ever been used. The magazine held fifteen 9mm rounds, with enough stopping power to handle most urban situations, provided that she didn’t require accuracy over fifty yards. The silencer would drop that some, but then again, she wouldn’t be shooting apples off anyone’s heads.
The problem was that it was unwieldy and problematic to conceal with the silencer, so discretion would have to take a back seat to practicality. She retrieved the butterfly knife and expertly flipped it open, confirming that the blade was razor sharp. Pacing the room, she flicked it open, closed, open, closed in a reassuring motion as she thought through the permutations of scenarios.
Rob seemed as competent as anyone she’d met with the American intelligence service, but she was still uncomfortable going into the field with a partner. If he did anything stupid or unpredictable, it could be disastrous. She would need to keep a close eye on him — her daughter’s ultimate future depended upon this mission going successfully, and she couldn’t afford any slips.
As Jet reassembled the pistol, she decided that she would carry it in her purse without the silencer. If there was any shooting, then it wouldn’t be a secret — she’d take that risk. There was actually far greater chance that her purse would be stolen than her getting into a gun battle, she knew, and reminded herself to keep it glued to her, especially once in the club.
She debated calling Edgar to request a more compact weapon, and decided that it was warranted.
“I need it as small as they come. But not a.22. Has to have some heft,” she instructed over the phone.
“Let me see what I can get on short notice. Shouldn’t be a problem. How about something clandestine — if I can get a disguised weapon will that help?”
She described her likely evening’s agenda, and he grunted.
“Let’s see what the spy armory can come up with. I have a few ideas. I’ll call as soon as I know something. Is it okay if I send it along with Rob, or should we meet before?”
“I think I’d like some time with whatever you get, so we need to meet.”
“I’ll call within an hour. The park work for you again?”
“Always.”
Four hours later, Jet was back in her room studying the two pieces Edgar had slipped her. The first was a Sig Sauer P238 sub-compact pistol with a six round clip, five and a half inches long and easily concealed. Accuracy would be considerably lower than the Beretta, due to the shorter barrel, but in a club it would be effective enough. She hefted it and was surprised by how light the evil-looking little weapon was.
The second item was what appeared to be a working Nokia cell phone, but with an undocumented feature — it held three.32 caliber rounds which could be fired using the center select button after punching the call button. Edgar had told her that it would only be effective for ten to twelve feet, but it might come in useful in an emergency situation.
She shook out a tiny micro-transmitter from a plastic bag and inspected it, then powered on the cell phone gun, which had another feature: it could track the chip up to a distance of fifteen miles. The screen illuminated, and a street map popped up with a red dot glowing. It showed her position accurately, and Edgar had said it was the latest technology — good to within one foot. Civilian GPS was only accurate within eight yards. Military GPS could get that down to under three yards with dual frequency technology that compensated for atmospheric disturbances to the transmissions, and with augmentation it could get down to sub one-foot accuracy, but that would require a team tracking the chip at Langley and then forwarding on the information, which was inefficient and cumbersome. Better to be able to track him real-time on the phone.