JET II - Betrayal (JET #2) (10 page)

Once through immigration she collected her sparse luggage and set out for the taxi stand, where again, the attendant rattled off a question in Thai, and then, realizing his error, he switched to English before blowing on a shrill whistle and waving a car forward.

The driver placed her suitcase into the trunk and waited expectantly for direction. She told him to take her to the Dynasty Hotel, located a few hundred yards from the entrance of the Nana Plaza – one of the five major sex tourism destinations in Bangkok – and near the site of Lap Pu’s main brothel. He nodded and opened her door for her, then rounded the car and jumped into the driver’s seat.

Driving in Bangkok was more of a suicidal rite of passage than mere transportation. She was convinced they were going to collide with motorcycles, bicycles and other cars at least a dozen times every few blocks, and by the time they reached the hotel, she’d concluded that the locals had a death wish.

Jet checked in, noting the predominantly Caucasian male clientele, many accompanied by young Thai females. She was pleased to find that her room was nicely appointed – and quiet. Her travel had taken over twenty-six hours between getting to Los Angeles, the layover and then the Thailand flight, and because of the turbulence, she hadn’t gotten much rest. She turned down the bed, unpacked her suitcase and locked her valuables in the safe, and then set out the Do Not Disturb card on her doorknob.

The Bangkok skyline was breathtakingly beautiful, with skyscrapers beaming out every color of the rainbow. The recent rain had scrubbed the city clean, for a time, and it was as radiant a jewel as any she’d seen. She took in the display from her window for a few minutes as she sipped a bottle of mineral water, and then pulled the curtains closed, ready for some serious sleep. Tomorrow would be a big day. She was supposed to touch base with Arthur in the morning and arrange a meeting with the CIA operative who ran the Bangkok station. Hopefully, he’d been productive over the last twenty-four hours while she’d been in the air.

~ ~ ~

Jet had agreed to meet Edgar, the CIA’s point man, at one o’clock at Benjakiti Park, a half mile south of her hotel. When she arrived, she spent five minutes reconnoitering the rendezvous spot before moving to a cluster of trees on the edge of the expansive pond, where a group of children were playing under the watchful gazes of their mothers. She was there an hour early, wearing sunglasses and a forest green baseball cap she’d bought from a sidewalk vendor.

Dressed in jeans and mauve blouse, she blended in easily with the office workers eating lunch on the grass – she could have been a low-level clerk or a shopkeeper on her break. The rental boat pier that was the meeting place teemed with tourists, milling about and taking photographs of each other with the impressive edifices of the skyline as a backdrop.

At the agreed-upon time, a man matching the description she’d been given walked to a bench and sat down, taking off his red windbreaker and folding it by his side. He removed a bag from his satchel and unwrapped a sandwich. Jet watched as he munched on it and then walked by as he was finishing.

“The boathouse, thirty seconds,” she said in English and continued ambling towards the pier.

He rolled his wrapper into a ball and dropped it into the bag, then stood and picked up his windbreaker and walked to the boathouse, Jet now out of sight. He waited expectantly, but was still surprised when she materialized behind him, seemingly out of thin air.

“Damn it. You scared me,” he said with a grin, then hugged her. She returned the hug and then moved down to the rental boats, holding his hand with the abandon of a lover.

“I rented one. Come on,” she said playfully, and within two minutes, they were pushing away from the dock in a floating swan-shaped contrivance, pumping the pedals with their legs.

Once they had traveled several dozen yards from the pier, he began speaking.

“I’m Edgar. You must be Kyra.”

“Correct,” she lied. “What do you have for me?”

“We’ve narrowed down our man Hawker’s likeliest associates to Lap Pu. We think he’s definitely in regular contact with him and that they meet once every few weeks up in Myanmar or Laos. Our intel says Hawker is now involved in facilitating human trafficking – girls from Laos or Myanmar, sometimes just children, for sex work in Thailand. Lap Pu has a host of bordellos here, most of them masquerading as ping pong clubs with motels or rooms available for rent by the hour.”

“Ping pong clubs? That wasn’t covered in the file.”

Edgar explained the concept – a sex show involving everything from ping pong balls to snakes.

Jet didn’t say anything, her face stony.

“And this is legal?”

“No. Not technically. But the laws aren’t enforced, and bribery is rampant. Many times it’s the police or politicians who own the clubs. In this case, Lap Pu pays the right people, so he’s untouchable.”

“And there are many of these places?”

“Tons. And the only real customers are
farangs
– white men. Thai men wouldn’t be caught dead in one. It’s a cultural thing.”

“How noble. So the clubs are sort of a freak show for sex tourists.”

Another swan boat, containing a laughing couple precariously pedaling away, veered towards them before straightening out and continuing on its way.

“Correct. And of course, there’s the prostitution angle. Nothing like picking a girl after the show to help you relax…”

“How is the target involved in this?”

“It’s unclear. Could be he just uses Lap Pu as his eyes and ears on the street, or could be he’s helping traffic minors in the slavery trade.”

“I read the report. Fully forty percent of the prostitutes are under eighteen?”

“Supposedly not, but the truth is that number might be low.”

“And this is culturally acceptable?”

Edgar rubbed his face. “No. It’s condemned. But the biggest customers for prostitution are actually Thai men, so what they say and what they do are two different things. The view about sex here is different. While it’s not really out and out acceptable to frequent sex workers, it’s tolerated, and in some cases viewed as a reasonable choice for males.”

Jet digested that.

“And what about the women?”

“That’s also a mixed bag. Many of the adult workers view it as a legitimate way to make money in an environment where they have no other options.”

“There are always options.”

“Try telling that to a fifteen-year-old with a fourth grade education who hasn’t eaten in a week and is culturally expected to do everything possible to support her family. Prostitution is an economic crime, in the end, whether it’s males or females. Many of these kids are starving to death wherever they live, so a life of sex work is preferable to death. It’s a pretty stark reality many westerners don’t understand. They can’t imagine a world where there isn’t a safety network to catch those at the fringes. But here, it’s not the fringes. Most of the peasants in northern Thailand as well as Laos and Myanmar live in extreme poverty. It’s the same everywhere human trafficking is rampant.”

“I’m not from the U.S..”

“Hmm. Anyway, the attitude in Thailand is different. There isn’t as much of a stigma to being a sex worker. For many, it’s their only chance at making more than sustenance wages. If you have a family of brothers and sisters and two sick parents all depending on you, it’s a vicious circle and the money’s compelling. But anyway, let’s not get hung up in the detail. The point is that Lap Pu operates some ping pong clubs, and we know which ones, and we’re currently staking all of them out, so we’ll know whenever he shows up.”

“That’s fine, but it could take too long. I’m thinking I need to get my hands dirty and start nosing around at the street level,” Jet said.

“Fair enough. Arthur wanted me to tell you that he’s allocated a resource for you to use. An experienced field agent who speaks perfect Thai and who has a lot of depth in sanctions.”

Jet bristled. “Absolutely not. I work alone. He knows that.”

“He thought you would feel that way. He gave me a message – you should call him for more detail, but this isn’t negotiable. Look. I know this guy. He’s extremely good, knows the lay of the land, and it will make any information-gathering way easier due to the language and also because a couple looking for some kinky fun is way more believable than a woman alone asking questions. Think it through.”

Jet had to concede that he had a point. It was a far more plausible cover. But she still had no idea who she could trust and who Hawker might have compromised.

“Is he Caucasian?”

“Yes. A local would raise eyebrows. This way you could be husband and wife or girlfriend and boyfriend looking for something exotic and forbidden. A lot of couples come over looking for a little spice. It’s not that unusual. But never a Thai couple – it would be socially unacceptable, or at least harder to explain, especially given that you don’t
speakee speakee
.”

“Who is this agent?”

“I’ll introduce you tonight or tomorrow, if you like. His name’s Rob Phillips. Twenty-nine, been here for six years. Smart, quick and dependable.”

“How much contact did he have with Hawker?”

“None. He was in the south, Hawker ran the north. Need-to-know and all that. We don’t have an annual dinner or anything for spooks. I probably wouldn’t know half the people working here, and I’ve been the top dog since Hawker went off the reservation.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. He’s clean.” Edgar paused. “You take my satchel when we get out of the boat. There’s a satellite phone in there, along with a Beretta, as you requested, and a butterfly knife.”

Jet nodded. “Ammo?”

“Fifty rounds. I’ll get you whatever else you need within twenty-four hours of you asking for it.” He smiled. “We aim to deliver good service here in the Far East…”

“Silencer?”

“Yes. As you stipulated. But try not to use the Beretta here. The Thai police tend to be very anti-gun in the hands of a
farang
.” Edgar hesitated. “How much do you know about Thailand and Thai culture?”

“Just what I read on the flight over.”

“This is a very polite society, at least on its surface. Everyone smiles at you, and it’s conflict avoidant. Nobody is direct about anything – it’s considered impolite. But as a foreigner we’re
farangs
. And Thais view
farangs
as fat, dumb, clumsy barbarians – which I suppose is true of many examples they see of us. It’s a racist society, too, as are most. Darker skin from the north is lower class, and there is tremendous class consciousness. Lighter skin, like yours, would be viewed as superior. But if you’re a foreigner, you’re almost subhuman from their standpoint – although part of the weird self-hatred that’s endemic to the culture is that marrying a white man or woman would be viewed as elevating one’s station in life. Mainly because it’s a society that worships money, and most white foreigners have more money than the average Thai.”

Jet shook her head. “I’m not planning on marrying anyone here.”

“I’m telling you this because you need to recognize that, in this environment, you’re the minority, so you have little chance of anyone opening up to you. Even though you look like you could be part Thai, you don’t speak it, so you’ll be treated like a
farang
, which means that you’ll be smiled at a lot but also lied to about anything that matters. It’s just the way it is.” Edgar increased his pace on the pedals, and Jet matched him. “If you have any problems, it will be automatically assumed that whatever happened is your fault. In any sort of situation where it’s a question of a Thai or you, the Thai will win. You need to understand that you’re operating at a distinct disadvantage at all times, and err on the side of caution, or this could go very badly for you before you’ve even begun your mission.”

“I appreciate the background, and I’ll watch my step, but I still don’t like the idea of dead weight tagging along with me.”

“Rob’s not dead weight. He’s anything but.”

“He’s a kid.”

Edgar smiled grimly. “So are you.”

Jet conceded the point. “I probably have more experience than the average fifty-year-old agent.”

“Perhaps. Obviously, Arthur is hoping that will make a difference. Time will tell.”

“Let’s head over to the far shore,” Jet said, and they adjusted course. “So what’s your plan for meeting this Rob tonight?”

“If it’s okay with you, I’d say hook up at a restaurant. A crowd. Although I know you’re staying at the Dynasty. The Die-Nasty, the locals call it.”

She was annoyed that he knew where she was staying, but then remembered. “That’s right. The tracking chip.”

“I’m the only one who has access to that info.”

“Except for Arthur. And whoever is doing the actual tracking. Which is three more people than I’m comfortable with. It’s a stupid idea. Invites disaster.”

“I’m afraid it’s not subject to debate.”

“I know.”

It took them six minutes to cross the pond in the swan boat, and when they bumped land Jet scooped up the satchel and stood.

“Sorry about the sandwich remnants,” Edgar said. “I also stuck a cell phone in there for you. I’m speed dial number two. There are no other numbers on it.”

“I guess since I’m one huge GPS tracking beacon right now, I don’t need to worry about the cell phone being a liability.”

“Freeing, isn’t it?” Edgar’s smile had no trace of genuine humor.

“I’ll call later to find out where my dream date is going to take place tonight.”

“Give Rob a chance. You may find that he’s not so bad.”

Jet stepped onto the shore and disappeared into the crowd of pedestrians moving around the water on the perimeter path.

Edgar fished a phone out of his windbreaker.

“How did it go?”

“She agreed to the meet, but I think she’s suspicious.”

“Of course she’s suspicious. She’s not an idiot,” Arthur said.

“She wasn’t happy.”

“No, I bet she wasn’t. Do you think we’ll have a problem?”

“Too soon to know. I read her the riot act about the locals. I hope she’s as good as you say or she’s going to be eaten alive before she gets within a hundred miles of the jungle.”