Dai asked, “How do I know this isn’t some sort of a trick?”
“For me to take Fitzroy and Fan? I don’t want Fan, and I do want to get paid at the end of all this. Remember our deal?”
Dai went silent now. Court gave him a moment, then pressed. “If you’re scared you will be double-crossed, don’t come yourself. Send Major Xi along with Fitzroy. Hell, send every gun you still have in the country with you. It’s just me and Fan.”
“And the woman,” Dai interjected.
Court said, “No.”
“Why not?”
Court thought a moment. “She’ll have a sniper rifle lined up on Xi’s head. If I don’t walk away with Fitzroy, we’ll kill your men and take Fan directly to the U.S. embassy. I’m sure they’d love to get their hands on him.”
Dai said, “I will do as you say. No tricks.”
Court smiled a little into the phone. “No tricks. Here are my instructions for the handover.”
Ten minutes later, Court still sat at the picnic table, and he waited for a new call to be answered. He picked at the sticky scab on his lip for the first time, and he realized how swollen and sore his face was. He wondered if Zoya thought he looked ugly, or just ridiculous.
“Brewer.”
Court couldn’t hide his exhaustion. It was five a.m. and his body was utterly worn out. “Yeah, it’s me.”
Brewer’s voice sounded rushed through the protocol. “Identity challenge, Stable.”
“Look… I don’t fucking remember. You can hang up if you want, but—”
“It’s fine. Tell me where you were born.”
“Glen St. Mary, Florida.”
“Confirmed. We know about the fight on the Medusa. I presume that was you.”
“That was me.” Court sniffed. “I’ve got him. I’ve got Fan.”
There was a long pause. “And we are learning there has been some sort of explosion or series of explosions along with gunfire at the Chamroon estate on Phuket. Police and federal authorities are there now, but—”
Court said, “There were seventy-five guns in that fight. RPGs, too.”
“Christ.”
“The Chinese lost thirty. Dai is alive, and he still has Fitzroy.”
Brewer brushed the comment away. “No one cares about Fitzroy. Fan has been the objective all along.”
Court clenched his jaw. “All along. You mean all along from the beginning, when CIA and MI6 came up with the plan to arrange the murder of Fan Jiang’s parents so that Fan would be forced to defect to avoid his own execution?”
Suzanne Brewer said, “Whoa. You are going way off mission with that talk, Violator.”
“Right. I wasn’t supposed to figure it out.”
“Look… I don’t know everything. This wasn’t my operation. I didn’t come up with it. I was thrown on board at the same time you were.”
“Maybe so, but you know more than I do.”
“I’m the handler; you’re the agent. I will always know more than you.” She was silent a moment, then said, “I was made aware that there was an operation involving a PLA computer cyber intrusion expert’s defection, and it became an in extremis situation when he went missing once he was over the border in the New Territories, north of Hong Kong. And yes, I was given some background. But most of what you just said I know nothing about. Sounds like one hell of a lot of speculation to me.”
Court said, “I want to talk to Hanley.”
“I’m your handler. You talk to me. Tell me where you are, and I’ll have the SAD men from Bangkok come pick up Fan Jiang. And Zoya Zakharova, as well. We’ll talk to her; she doesn’t have to come back to the States, but we’re going to make a very attractive offer to her.”
Court drummed his fingers on the picnic table. “Okay… Zoya needs medical attention. Shoulder wound, it’s stable; just let Ground Branch know that their medics will need to check it out in the helo.”
“I’m making a note of it. She’ll be taken care of.”
“Good.” Court gave Brewer the address to the guesthouse, even his hotel room number.
“And Fan? I assume he’s there with you?”
Court prepared himself for the fallout of his next comment. “You’ll find Zoya here. Fan and I are going to split.”
“What?”
“I want to talk to Matt. I’ll call you back in twelve hours. If Matt Hanley is not on the line, Fan and I are going to do our own thing. Fan has no interest in spying against China, and I have no interest in cleaning up a dirty mission to murder innocent family members for my country’s convenience.”
Suzanne Brewer almost screamed into the phone, “I’ve about fucking had it with your phony morals, Violator! You’ve killed so-called innocents in the past, and you know it. It’s too late to make peace with God now.” She took a breath. “I know all about your failure all those years ago.”
“I assumed you did,” Court said. “And I don’t give a damn.” Then he continued, “Pick up Zoya. I’ll call you back in twelve hours to speak with Hanley.”
Court hung up the phone, then threw it overhand into a garbage can next to the picnic table.
Back inside the little room, Court knelt over Zoya, checking her wound in the dawn’s light coming through the window. He then looked at her face and found her sleeping peacefully. The medication would have her out for a few hours more.
Despite his injured face, he leaned over and kissed her cheek, then nestled his face in her warm neck behind her ear. He kissed her here, too.
She stirred a little, but did not wake up.
Now he stood back up and turned to Fan, who was tucked in the covers in his double bed. Court gave him a shake.
“Sleep well?”
“What? I just lay down.”
“Gotta go, kid. Shake a leg.”
“I… Where are we going?”
Court looked out the window a moment, gave a shrug, then said, “Off grid.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you and I are about to disappear.”
CHAPTER
FIFTY-NINE
The morning activity was in full swing at the Phuket Backpacker Hostel. The little breakfast room was filled with young men and women from all over the world. Many sat in groups silently, hungover from partying the night before; some of the surfers getting a late start were rushing through their coffee and eggs. A few of the more intrepid guests looked over maps or read details of smartphone destinations to hike in the nearby hills.
The TV was on, but the sound was down, and few if any of the Westerners here knew anything about a shoot-out in the jungle many miles to the north. They were all here on vacation, and it would take an incoming tsunami to draw their attention to the local news.
The breakfast room was open to the lobby, so every head turned when a group of eight men, all bearded Westerners in their thirties and forties, came through the front door, blocking out the harsh morning light with their bodies. They wore sunglasses and ball caps, headsets in their ears, and packs on their backs, and, most notably to every single person in the hostel awake enough to see past their breakfast, all the men had big black and green guns in their hands.
A young lady behind the counter at the entrance said not a word as the men hustled by her, and a couple of young surfers from South Africa moved themselves against the wall quickly as the men approached.
The men shot straight to the back of the hostel and stepped around the door to room twelve, and while three twenty-something backpackers just stood in the hall and stared, some of the intense gunmen opened the door and filed in, while others maintained rear security in the hall.