The Night Trade (A Livia Lone Novel Book 2)

by Barry Eisler

  “I need three yeses if this is going to work.”

  “Give me a few hours.”

  She clicked off and tried without much success to sleep. And then, when the sun was just coming up and she was finally beginning to drift off, her phone buzzed. Little.

  “Good news,” he said. “Three yeses.”

  “Tell me.”

  “The hotel and club are brand new. State-of-the-art systems, with everything centrally controlled—lighting, door locks, HVAC, alarm system, everything. And I have people who can gain control of all of it.”

  It was what she’d been hoping for, and at the same time trying not to. She pushed away her excitement and focused on the plan. “Does that mean you can get me into the club during the day, when it’s empty?”

  “That’s exactly what it means.”

  The next part would require a little more . . . explanation. “What about while it’s operating? Could you cut the lights?”

  There was a pause. “Everything but maybe the bathrooms, which apparently are manual. Why would you want me to do that?”

  “I want to check it out when it’s closed. Learn whatever I can learn. But I’m guessing what I’m looking for won’t be there during the day. So I’ll need to go back at night.”

  “But the club will be open at night.”

  “The club will be open. The parts I want to get into will be closed. I want you to unlock them. And at the same time, cut the lights. Just for a minute. Long enough for me to slip inside places I’m not supposed to be.”

  “I think I get it. But if the lights are cut, how are you going to see?”

  She was ready for the question. She might have told him she’d have a flashlight handy. But he would have called bullshit, because in the dark, people would see the flashlight. So she told him the truth. Or part of it, anyway. “I have night vision.”

  “Night vision? How the hell did you get night vision in Bangkok?”

  “Are you going to keep asking me how I do things, or are you going to help me get them done?”

  “I’m just impressed, that’s all.”

  “I’ll bring in the night-vision gear during the day, when you pop the locks. Find a place to hide it. Have a good look around, then come back at night, get the goggles, and, when I’m ready, give you the sign. At which point you kill the lights and pop the locks, and I have a good look in places I’m not supposed to go. Sound like a plan?”

  “I knew this was going to be a beautiful friendship.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself. And brew some coffee. When I go in the first time, off-hours, it’ll be the middle of the night for you, assuming you’re in the States.”

  “Don’t you worry about me. I’ll be too excited to sleep.”

  She imagined herself in the club, hiding not just the goggles, but the Glock she’d taken from Dirty Beard.

  Yeah, she thought. Me, too.

  18

  Dox rode the Kawasaki to Bali Hai Pier—the southern side of the city, and the western end of Pattaya’s famous Walking Street. This was the jumping-off point to surrounding islands in the Gulf of Thailand, a place busy throughout the day with ferries, speedboats, fishing charters, and scuba outfitters. Hundreds of people were coming and going when Dox got there. No one would notice, much less remember, yet another tourist taking in the sights.

  He parked the bike, locked the helmet to it, adjusted the mailbag, and started strolling along, sticking to the shade when he could, just picking up the vibe, getting a feel for the place. It was more crowded than he remembered, and definitely more frenetic. But the overall feel of it was the same—an overbuilt Southeast Asian beach town selling sun and surf and sex. The big orange Pattaya City sign was still there, perched on a green hillside, the city’s answer to the Hollywood sign across the Pacific. The biggest change was just to the left of the sign: a massive gray building, fifty stories tall and shaped like a backward lowercase h. The Hotel Ruby. With Club Les Nuits, according to the hotel website, occupying the entire fifteenth floor all the way across the horizontal line of the h.

  He spent an hour just moseying around, moving with the crowds, making sure he knew his best routes out if the shit went sideways. When he was satisfied with his recon, he headed over to the hotel. The building was visible from half of Pattaya, but the main entrance revealed itself only after a walk along a curving, bamboo-lined flagstone path. And what an entrance it was: fifty feet of soaring glass and steel, with three giant granite fountains in front shooting synchronized arcs of water from one to the other. Dozens of people were lined up to watch the show, the sounds of their laughter and conversation periodically drowned out by the splash of the jetted water landing in the fountains. Most of the people were holding up cell phones and taking pictures, maybe video. Dox was glad to be wearing shades and a baseball cap—not the best disguise in the world, but a whole lot better than nothing.

  He headed past a line of fancy cars and hustling valets, then a platoon of bellboys in vests and ties, and went inside. The place was impressive, no doubt. All that glass, and trees in the lobby growing right up to the soaring ceilings. There must have been a hundred people, sipping coffee in the lounge, checking in at reception, gawking at the sights, and the sounds of all their comings and goings echoed in the vast space. He tended not to care for places that practically tried to make you cry uncle with their own opulence, and this was clearly one of them.

  There was free Wi-Fi in the lobby, and he called Kanezaki using Signal. “Hey, amigo. You ready to get me into places I’m not supposed to be?”

  “On your mark.”

  “Okay. Exactly five minutes from when we click off, kill the camera feeds and open the club locks. I’m about to get into the elevator and might lose the Wi-Fi reception. Though from the look of this place, I’m guessing they have Wi-Fi everywhere, probably even in the swimming pools.”

  “They do. Not the pools, but yeah.”

  “Okay, good to know. If there’s a problem, I’ll holler. If not, I’ll check in when the equipment is in place. If you don’t hear from me, call the president.”

  “He’s standing by.”

  Dox chuckled and clicked off. He checked his watch, then headed up to the fifteenth floor, shedding the operational feeling, getting into character.

  The elevator was wood-and-leather lined, and fast enough to pop his ears. He got out on the fifteenth floor. Just a long and satisfyingly empty corridor, floor-to-ceiling glass on both sides with views of the harbor. At the end of the corridor stood a pair of massive, black-lacquered doors, each emblazoned with a bold sign reading Les Nuits in gold script.

  Above the door was a camera—no surprise, and not a problem, either. He gawked out the windows like a tourist until his watch said the five minutes was nearly up. Then he continued slowly down the corridor, just a visitor awed by the sights and with no particular purpose. He paused before the massive black doors and stared up at them for a moment as though in wonder, in case there had been a problem and Kanezaki hadn’t managed to cut the camera feed. Then he reached out, gripped an oversized bronze handle, and pulled. For a second, he thought it was locked—but no, it was just that the door was heavy as a damn mountain. He pulled harder and it opened right up. He smiled and headed in, letting the door swing slowly shut behind him.

  The inside was completely crazy—like the designers had studied the glitziest Las Vegas clubs and decided to merge them all in a parody. In the light coming through the partially draped windows, he saw giant blown-glass chandeliers, and gilt-framed Renaissance-looking paintings, and high ceilings all done up like the Sistine Chapel. The walls were papered in gold lamé, the carpet was deep green and plush enough to sleep on, and the chairs and tables were all mahogany with gilded edges. He stood for a moment, taking it all in, marveling that people thought hillbillies like him were the ones with the bad taste.

  He figured his best place to hide the gun and the flashbang would be a bathroom, so he found one, went in, and flipped on the lights.
But rather than the expected porcelain, behind or inside of which he could easily tape the hardware, he was confronted by the most minimalist nonsense he’d ever seen. Instead of urinals, there were just short metal shelves protruding from the mirrored walls. Hell, did they really expect a drunk to be able to direct a urine flow with that kind of precision? He was a damn marine sniper, and he wasn’t sure, three Bombay Sapphire martinis in, he’d be able to manage it himself. And the stall toilets were worse—just the crapper, set against the wall with nowhere to tape a package out of sight, and not even a tank you could put something inside. Damn, back in the day, Rain had once hidden himself underneath a bathroom vanity using a mountaineering rig. Here, you couldn’t hide a baby hamster.

  All right, time to improvise. He killed the lights and went back out to the club. He imagined it later on—noisy, crowded, darker. With people around, he’d need his back to a wall so he’d only have to worry about being seen from one direction.

  He moved along briskly, not seeing quite what he wanted, mindful that if a security guard had noticed anything weird with the camera feeds, he might have only another couple of minutes. The rooms seemed to be done up in different themes—some kind of Greek or Roman thing going on in one, Michelangelo on acid in another, priapic Louis XIV in a third . . . and wait, what was this, a set of karaoke rooms. No locks on the doors, either—they swung right open.

  Inside it was dark. He didn’t want to try the lights, in case a guard were to come along, so he pulled a duct-tape-wrapped mini light from his cargo shorts and used that instead. The room was done up in gold and black velour, with a giant flat-panel screen, a long cushioned built-in bench, various leather chairs, and—bingo—one giant leather ottoman.

  He held the flashlight between his teeth, flipped the ottoman up on its side, and ran his fingers along the lining at the bottom. It felt like plywood underneath. He rapped it with a knuckle, and yeah, just thin wood to keep the batting in place. Okay, good to go.

  He opened his trusty Emerson Commander and started hacking into the plywood near one of the legs. After a minute, the floor had a bunch of plywood chunks on it, and there was about a six-inch-square hole in the underside of the ottoman. He reached inside and felt around. Nothing but batting. Good. He pulled the gun, spare magazines, and flashbang from the mailbag and slid them all inside. After a moment’s thought, he slid in the Emerson, too. He doubted he’d miss it in the short term—his backup, a Fred Perrin La Griffe, was dangling from a lanyard around his neck as always, and this way he’d only be unarmed briefly, on his way back into the club and before retrieving his gear.

  He pushed in the plywood chunks and returned the ottoman to its place, making sure to line up the legs with the indents they’d worn into the carpet. He took the flashlight from his teeth and swept it over the area. Perfect. Even if he’d missed a few wood splinters or sawdust, it would be concealed under the bulk of the ottoman itself.

  He straightened, cracked his neck, put away the flashlight, and walked out through the swinging door. Those crazy toilets had thrown him for a minute, but he’d found something even better. He moved quickly back through the club. The entrance doors were just twenty feet away now. No guards in sight and mission accomp—

  One of the entrance doors swung open. Not a security guard, though—a pretty woman with a Thai face but a stride he made as American. Had she just wandered up here and randomly tried the doors, only to find them unlocked? He realized he should have thought of a way for Kanezaki to lock up while he was inside. But he’d expected to be only a few minutes.

  For one bad second, he flashed on the sword guy. Was it possible this was another damn setup? If so, the only possible explanation would be Kanezaki.

  But whether she was good news or bad, the approach was the same. He continued right on toward her and switched reflexively into character, calling out, “Well, hello there. I had a feeling I was early, but it looks like we can get this party started after all.”

  She watched him, casual in shorts, a tee shirt, and hiking sandals like his. The strap of the leather bag she was carrying ran from her left side and over her right shoulder, pressing between her breasts along the way. Damn, she really was attractive, but there was also definitely something no-nonsense about her. He stopped a few feet away—he’d planned on moving in closer, but got the feeling she wouldn’t be overly welcoming about too little body space.

  “I’m just looking for a bathroom,” she said evenly.

  He wasn’t sure what she was here for, but he could tell it wasn’t him. There was just none of that missile-lock vibe he’d gotten from Zatōichi. In fact, she seemed as surprised to see him as he was to see her, and more discomfited besides. It occurred to him that he might probe her story a little. If she was some kind of operator, it would be good to know it. And if she wasn’t . . . well, she sure was pretty. More than pretty. And alluring for some other reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  “I just used one myself,” he said. “Strangest decor I think I’ve ever seen—heavy on form and light on function, in my opinion. But then again, any port in a storm, I always say.”

  She looked at him like she was trying to figure out what his deal was. It was okay. He was feeling the same way about her, though hopefully hiding it better.

  “Right,” she said. “Thanks for the restroom wisdom. I’m just going to go use it now. You have a good day.”

  “I’ll tell you what could make my day better.”

  She looked at him, and he sensed she was losing patience—whether because he was interfering in some kind of op or because she got hit on a lot, he wasn’t sure. Weirdly, he hoped it was the first one. It was more intriguing, and honestly, more of a turn-on.

  He waited a moment for a response, and when none was forthcoming, he went on. “A drink with you. Not here at fabulous Club Les Nuits, of course, they were obviously unprepared for our arrival, and their loss, too. But maybe some other place in the neighborhood. What do you say?”

  “I say it’s very nice of you to ask. But no, I’m going to meet some friends.”

  “You could bring me along. People say I’m personable.”

  “I can tell you are. And maybe we’ll run into each other again somewhere in Pattaya. But not today, okay?” She gave him a moment’s cool stare, then walked on past him.

  “And then she left,” he called out after her. “And broke my heart.”

  She headed into the women’s restroom without even a backward glance.

  He stood for a moment, uncertain. He couldn’t help thinking about the hiking sandals. Or the bag, which was big enough to conceal a gun or who knew what else. Was it possible she was here to emplace something, just like he was? If so, she was going to hate that bathroom.

  Maybe he ought to stick around for another minute. See what happened when she came out. If she did have a gun—or, hell, a sword, for that matter—and she’d been intending to use it on him, it would already have happened; she could have dropped him clean as he was walking toward her, and he would have had nothing to do in response but die. Yeah, he could stick around. Get a better sense of what he was dealing with. Maybe even get to deal with it. After all, if no security guards had shown up yet, it seemed unlikely he had anything to—

  The club doors swung open again and two uniformed hotel guards strode in. Dox shook off the surprise and immediately headed toward them, giving them a big wave as he moved.

  “Well, thank God,” he called out, loudly enough for the woman to hear from the bathroom. “What does a man need to do to get a drink around here?”

  The guards looked at each other, then at him. “Sir,” the one on the left said, “you not supposed to be here.”

  “Not supposed to be here? Ain’t you the bartenders?”

  They looked at each other again, and again the one on the left spoke. “No. Club closed. Open at nine. How you get in?”

  Maybe the one on the right didn’t speak English. It didn’t matter. “I just walked in. Are you te
lling me I’m too early? No wonder nobody’s here.”

  “Yes, club closed. Doors locked.”

  “Locked? I don’t believe so. I just pulled and the door opened easy as pie.”

  They looked at each other again. This time, the talkative one said something in Thai to his partner, which began a lively exchange. Then the English speaker looked at Dox again. “These doors supposed to be locked. Club closed. You no should be here. Please, sir. You have to go.”

  “Wait a minute, are you telling me these doors were left unlocked by accident? Now that concerns me. You see, if the doors are supposed to be locked and they’re left unlocked, that’s a problem, I’ve been in establishments like that and I promise you, sir, it is never good, there is a danger of pilfering and lord knows what else. I’d like to offer my services in assisting you in lodging a formal written complaint, to your ombudsman or some other appropriate authority, detailing the deficiencies in hotel security.”

  “Please, go. Go. Club not open.”

  “Well, sir, if you’re satisfied that the club is secure, all right, then—I don’t want to create a problem, but I would advise you—”

  “Please, sir. Please. It’s okay. Club closed. Just go. All okay.”

  “All right, if you’re really certain everything is okay. I’m just glad we managed to identify the problem with the doors. Even though I was initially hoping you were bartenders and disappointed to learn I was mistaken, I salute you gentlemen for your courtesy and professionalism.”

  “Thank you, sir. Please go now.”

  He gave them each a crisp salute and headed out. He hoped they weren’t fixing to search the club now—if they did, they might find that pretty lady, whoever she was. And the presence of another intruder would only reignite their suspicions about him.

  He doubted they’d bother too much, though. If they were the careful type, they wouldn’t have let him go so easily in the first place. He got the sense they were more concerned about covering their own asses and not having to fill out paperwork than they were about securing the club. Besides, as Kanezaki had pointed out, it wasn’t like the place was a bank or military installation. This Sorm guy would probably have his own bodyguards, who could be expected to provide stiffer opposition than a couple of hotel rent-a-cops. But for now, he had a feeling he was okay.