by Barry Eisler
Back in the lobby, he considered lingering, but decided on balance the safer move was to just go. Though he wished he could have had a chance to figure out what that pretty lady was up to. And maybe get to know her a little better.
Well, it was a small world, and a smaller town. It seemed like a crazy coincidence, but who could say, she might even have been a professional, here for Sorm, like he was. There was definitely something about her, he just couldn’t articulate what. He supposed he’d keep an eye out later, just in case.
Probably he was wrong, though. Probably it was just a dumb coincidence and he’d never see her again. The thought actually made him sad. He laughed at his own foolishness and headed back out into the Pattaya day.
19
Livia squatted atop one of the stall toilets in the women’s restroom, listening. The big guy with the Texan accent she’d run into on the way in was talking loudly again—to a security guard, or guards, it sounded like. Had something gone wrong? Little had told her there was an anomaly in the camera feed when his people tried to cut it—some kind of interference. So maybe someone had seen her, or the guy? Or come to investigate just because of the anomaly?
She wondered for a moment whether the guy himself could be here on some kind of op, but then thought no. He was good-looking, and she supposed his crazy confidence and talkativeness were somewhat endearing, but it was hard to imagine he was anything other than a tourist party animal who’d gotten lost and just happened to try the club doors the moment Little’s people had unlocked them. Maybe it was an act, but the criminals she dealt with were all skilled at acting, and she had a nose for that kind of bullshit. She didn’t smell it on the Texas guy.
Still, he was talking so loudly out there, he might almost have been trying to warn her. But why? For all he knew, she was just looking for a bathroom, as she’d said. Even if he were some kind of pro, and even if he thought she was, too, why would he warn her?
Because if they find you, they get more suspicious of him.
Well, that was fair. But still, he seemed like nothing more than a hick with a nice smile.
The corridor conversation ended and she heard the entrance doors open and close. It seemed like Texas had left. But she could still hear the guards, talking to each other in Thai. Probably trying to figure out what to do.
She realized maybe she shouldn’t have turned on the bathroom lights—they might notice that. On the other hand, sitting in here in the dark would be impossible to explain. It was a tradeoff.
She stepped off the toilet, eased down her shorts and panties a bit, and sat. If they came in, they’d see her feet now, but she needed to look the part in case she had to support her “I was just in here to pee” story. She imagined them coming in, and decided she might be able to turn things to her advantage. She pulled open the stall door. The club was empty, right? So she wouldn’t have been expecting anyone, wouldn’t have bothered closing the stall door. This way, the sight of her partially exposed on the toilet would shock and fluster the guards if they came in. The idea was to turn around the dynamics—they’d be expecting an apology and a story, and would suddenly feel apologetic for intruding on her instead.
A little bit like Texas was doing, with that bullshit about lodging a complaint with an ombudsman?
Yeah, a little. Maybe. But still.
After a few minutes, the talking in the corridor stopped. The entrance doors opened and closed. There was a loud metallic clack as the lock engaged. She waited, and when a few more minutes had gone by marked by nothing but silence, she stood, pulled up her panties and shorts, and looked around.
She’d been hoping for a standard toilet, with a tank inside of which she could hide the gear. But these were just steel bowls, riveted to the wall. She supposed it was meant to look like minimalist chic. To her, it looked like prison plumbing.
Texas had said something about the bathroom decor. Was it possible he’d been trying to hide something himself? But no, more likely he was just riffing on whatever she said. She got the feeling that was a thing for him. A lot of improvisation when he was hitting on someone.
She considered. Unless there was a panel on the other side of the wall, which would have been odd in a nightclub, there had to be a way to access the innards of each unit in case there was any kind of malfunction or required maintenance.
The wall was covered in small steel circles, each about the size of a silver dollar, the edges almost touching each other against a black background. She didn’t see anything, but . . .
She brushed her fingertips along the spaces between the circles. In a few seconds, she felt an indentation running in a straight vertical line just above and to the right of the toilet. It was nicely done—you couldn’t see it, but you could feel it.
She pushed in and felt a click. She pulled her hand back, and a two-foot-square façade opened toward her, its magnetic lock disengaged.
She smiled, took out the SureFire, and looked inside. Perfect. The innards of a standard toilet tank, concealed behind the wall. And the floor the tank sat on was close enough to reach.
She pulled the Glock and the goggles from her bag, reached into the access area, and placed them on the floor. Then she clicked the façade closed again. Perfect.
She texted Little. Need you to unlock club doors again ASAP. And kill camera feed. For 30 seconds.
A moment later came a reply. Done. Go.
She went. This time, she took the stairs. She still wasn’t sure about Texas. But even if he was just a tourist, he was obviously persistent. She wouldn’t have been shocked to find him in the lobby, waiting for her with that big smile and a line of patter about bathrooms or broken hearts or whatever.
His looks and his confidence had definitely been . . . appealing. But this just wasn’t the time or place. For a moment, she felt oddly disappointed. Then she let it go and went down to the parking garage. She’d leave the hotel that way.
And be back again that night.
20
Dox slept for the rest of the afternoon and evening at a trekker hotel, waking at eleven at night. He’d never needed an alarm clock, even on those happy occasions when he’d spent the whole night making love to some pretty lady, or those less happy ones where he woke with a monster hangover. Tonight, he wanted to be refreshed by a few hours’ sleep and get to Les Nuits when it was maximally hopping, which would likely be anytime after midnight. So he’d set his internal alarm for eleven and gotten in a restorative snooze. Now it was showtime. He went to the bathroom and took a long leak and a longer shower, then sat on the bed naked for a few minutes, letting the air dry him, his eyes closed, going through the plan, gearing up for what was coming.
He checked in with Kanezaki, who confirmed that the contractors were in position and everything was good to go. Then he pulled on his skivvies, fixed the bellyband holster in place, and dressed in a pair of designer jeans, a loose-fitting, short-sleeved black silk shirt that would nicely conceal the bulge of the Supergrade etcetera, and some fancy-looking but comfortable shoes he’d picked up for the occasion. He checked himself in the mirror and decided he looked tonight’s part. Then he went out, fired up the Kawasaki, and rode back to Bali Hai Pier.
He found a big dirt lot crowded with scooters and motorcycles and parked the bike, passing the chain through the helmet, and then walked the area for a bit as he had earlier that day, getting familiar with its night rhythms. The famous, or infamous, Walking Street had come fully to life, with neon everywhere, electronic dance music pouring out of the go-go clubs, girls in skimpy uniforms lined up along the entrances shimmying to the beat and calling out to customers. The pushcart vendors were out, too, selling all manner of street food, and the air was redolent with the smells of pork dumplings and fried rice and fish sauce. Rivers of tourists, mostly young Western men, cruised up and down and back and forth in their sleeveless shirts and flip-flops, ogling the girls, sometimes succumbing to their flirtations, other times moving on like dogs who couldn’t make up their minds a
bout which morsels they most wanted to eat.
It seemed like not very long ago he’d enjoyed this kind of scene, all its promise and possibilities. All those pretty girls flirting with him had always felt like harmless fun. But now . . . he just wasn’t seeing it the same way. Some of the girls calling out and flirting from the bar entrances seemed to be enjoying themselves okay. But most of them looked bored. And sad, really. That’s what it was. It all felt sad. This wasn’t a life anyone would choose for herself, was it? Not if she had any better prospects in the world. He’d never given that sort of thing much thought before, but since meeting Chantrea after arriving in Phnom Penh for the whole Gant-Sorm-Vann imbroglio, he was starting to see things differently. Chantrea was a nice girl from a good family, living on the edge of poverty, trying to get a psychology degree and earning a little money on the side working the bar scene. Was that really by choice? And had he been helping her, or taking advantage?
And how many of these girls had no choice at all but were actually being coerced? Coerced by people like Sorm?
And trapped by people like you?
Was that true? Was he like, what, someone selling a fix to an addict? That seemed oversimplified. Or was he just telling himself it seemed that way because denial was more comfortable?
What is with you, man?
He didn’t know. Maybe this whole experience in Cambodia, and now Thailand, would evolve him. He supposed he hoped it would. But he wasn’t going to have much chance to evolve if he was dead. And if he didn’t get his head straight before going into the hotel and taking care of business, he wouldn’t exactly be improving his odds of living.
You’re okay, amigo. Shake it off. You just need to focus.
Right. He blew out a long breath and texted Kanezaki.
About to head over to the meeting. Is our friend there?
Yes. Say the word and I’ll make sure the door is unlocked.
Roger that. Expect to hear from me within the hour.
He purged the messages, shut down the phone and put it in its case, and headed over to Hotel Ruby.
It was past midnight when he got there, and if the place had seemed lively during the day, that was nothing—the lobby was twice as crowded now, cacophonous with echoed conversation, and when he stepped off the elevator onto the club level, there was actually a line of people waiting to get in, everybody looking ghostly under black lights. Music was pulsing from inside the entrance doors, and three no-bullshit-looking guards sporting sidearms were wanding everyone before letting them pass—the former Royal Thai marines Kanezaki had warned him of. Yeah, they looked like tough hombres, too. Fit, unsmiling, and businesslike. The kind of men who did their job and did it well, whether the job in question was running a metal detector or shooting you dead.
While he waited in line, he glanced around, foolishly hoping he might see the pretty lady. He didn’t, of course. Though maybe she’d be inside.
As he got closer, he started grinning and grooving a little to the dance music. When he reached the guards, he placed his cell phone on a plastic tray and said, “How y’all doing tonight?”
One of them gave him a curt nod that suggested this guy had seen it all before and found none of it interesting. He moved the wand methodically from Dox’s scalp to the soles of his feet. Then he examined the cell phone, handed it back to Dox, and nodded again.
Dox put his palms together in a wai. “Thank you, sir, for the vote of confidence and for the important work you do here.” Then he moved inside, into a roiling sea of laser lights and lithe bodies dancing to throbbing house music, the air heavy with the smells of aftershave and dance sweat and fruit cocktails. There were fog machines at work, too, or haze machines, or who could say what, but the dance floor was filled with billowing clouds cut by roving overhead colored lights. He threaded his way through the crowds, circumambulating the place, trying not to get distracted because My God, if some of these women aren’t straight-up tens, then a ten just doesn’t exist. Of course, the lady he was really hoping to see was that intriguing one from earlier, but he saw no sign of her. He told himself that was good—if she was back, it could only mean she was a pro, and things might get complicated. But even so, he would have liked to see her. Well, just ships that had passed in the night, he supposed, and probably for the best.
He made sure to stay screened by a healthy number of people as he moved past Sorm’s VIP room. Okay, three black-clad dudes flanked in a semicircle in front of a big, solid-looking door, a red velvet rope line just behind them keeping the crowds back. The men were scanning the club, and looked at least as badass as the Thai marines by the entrance. Earpieces, combat boots, and armored vests. No sidearms he could see, but if these guys weren’t packing heat in small-of-the-back holsters, he was Fred Flintstone.
He rolled on by, flowing with the crowd, and came to the karaoke room where he’d emplaced his gear. He’d been hoping it would be unoccupied, but knew by virtue of Murphy’s law he wouldn’t be that lucky. And indeed, when he peeked through the door window, he saw a group of a half dozen young Americans—college boys and girls, from the look of them—happy and prosperous, with their drinks and their feet resting on the ottoman, one of the boys belting out something into a microphone, his expression suggesting that whatever it was, he was really feeling it.
It would have been easier if he’d had some kind of hotel uniform. On the other hand, in his experience the main thing in these matters was “Act as if,” and he’d never met anyone who could act as if quite the way he could. Okay, he thought. Here we go.
He pushed open the door and strode in with great purpose. The guy with the microphone was singing “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me,” and not doing a half-bad job of it, either. He was so intent on his musical stylings that he didn’t even hear Dox come in. But the others looked up.
“Excuse me,” Dox said loudly. “I apologize on behalf of hotel management for the interruption, but we have a report of unsafe furniture in this room.” The door swung shut behind him, cutting off the worst of the dance music from outside.
They all looked at him with more-or-less identical What the hell? expressions, with the exception of the kid with the mic, who also looked crestfallen. Dox understood—he’d been singing the part about how his cuts need love to help them heal, and that was about the best moment in the whole song. The singer lowered the mic, and for a moment the room was filled with nothing but the wordless orchestra.
One of the girls, a pretty little blonde number in a silver cocktail dress so formfitting that if it wasn’t painted on, Dox didn’t know what was enabling her to draw air, said, “What?”
“Thank you, ma’am, if I could trouble you to just pause the music. I need to check that ottoman.”
They all looked at each other.
The blonde shook her head as though to clear it. “What?” she said again.
“Please, ma’am, this really should take no more than a minute. We’ve received a report that the ottoman in this room is structurally unsound, whether from a defect in its manufacture or because of misuse, we have not yet determined. The hotel takes very seriously its responsibility to ensure the safety of all its guests and club patrons. So please, although it is a lovely song and sir, you were doing a very fine job of singing it, if you could please pause the Elton John.”
The girl looked dumbfounded and shook her head again, but she did pick up the remote and, after searching for a moment, pressed a button. Beyond the bass notes of dance music from the surrounding club, the room was suddenly quiet.
“Thank you, ma’am, that is very helpful. I need to check that ottoman, and it has been my experience in over thirty years of furniture inspections that music and safety do not mix. Now, if I could have those of you with your feet up on the ottoman slowly lift them—slowly, sir, please, I don’t want to take a chance on anyone injuring themselves—and place them on the floor. And now your drinks—feel free to enjoy them, but we need the glassware off that unsafe ottoman for just a moment
.”
They all moved their feet and lifted their drinks, staring at him as though trying to decide whether he really was an authority figure or whether he was crazy, or maybe both. He’d been lucky so far—alcohol was unpredictable, sometimes making people more susceptible to a little social engineering, other times less so.
He stepped close to the ottoman, reached under the edge, and popped it up on its side so it was between him and the college kids.
“My God,” he said. “This is terrible. Even worse than I feared. Someone could have been badly injured.”
He reached into the hole he’d created, felt the butt of the Supergrade, and quickly extracted it, slipping it into the bellyband under his shirt. Then he did the same with the spare mags, the Emerson, and the flashbang.
When he was done, he returned the ottoman to its normal position, then stood and held up the broken pieces of plywood. “You would be amazed at the number of injuries caused each year by defective ottomans,” he said, looking at each of them in turn. “I’m relieved no one has been harmed tonight. Please go back to your socializing, and ma’am, I have to add, that is an absolutely stunning dress; silver becomes you. Enjoy the party, and you don’t need to worry about this piece of furniture any longer, but I would advise for safety’s sake that you refrain from placing your feet on it until such time as we have completed more comprehensive repair operations.”
The singer shook his head. “What the . . . You’re saying we were in danger from the ottoman?”
“In these matters, sir, it’s hard to say how much. But it’s certainly better not to take chances. The main thing is, you’re perfectly safe now and the ottoman has been defused. Thank you again for your cooperation, and again, please enjoy Club Les Nuits.”
