by Barry Eisler
Her native language was Lahu. She had learned Thai in school. And even that had been a long time before.
“I’ve forgotten most of it.”
“Well, I’m sure it would come back quickly. And there’s another advantage—you’re a woman. They’ll underestimate you.”
She already knew she was going to say yes. But she also knew she had to continue to play it reluctant. The moment he sensed the answer was what he wanted would be the moment she lost her leverage.
“You don’t have any Asian female federal agents?”
“We have a few, yes. But a federal agent would be wrong for this. We’ve tried that route and I told you, it’s led nowhere.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I want someone to liaise with the Royal Thai Police under the guise of learning more about international trafficking networks. A city cop, who combats trafficking at the street level. Someone who works the demand side, and could be even more effective via a closer understanding of the supply side. A holistic approach.”
It sounded like jargon. Though to the people who approved the budget, she imagined it would sound cutting edge.
“You said ‘under the guise.’”
“Correct. Not that there would be no independent value to the exercise—I expect there will be, otherwise the subterfuge would fail. But no, the ostensible purpose of your visit is intended to conceal the actual purpose.”
She didn’t like the way he had transitioned from “would” to “will.” And from a generic “someone” to specifically her.
“And the actual purpose?”
“Well, to analogize for a moment to the war on drugs, we’re doing street-level busts, we’re getting points on the board, but cost is down, purity up, availability unaffected.”
“You’re saying the supply isn’t being disrupted.”
“Correct. Why are only street-level traffickers getting taken down? Because Thai officials are cooperating with, or complicit with, or protecting the higher-ups. Which is ultimately where the money flows. A street-level bust is like cutting off a tentacle. Hell, the tip of a tentacle. The animal will barely notice. We need to go after the head. So our actual purpose is, find out who’s protecting whom, and how we can get around that protection. Or through it.”
Now it was “our purpose,” something she taught her women’s self-defense students to recognize as “forced teaming,” when a person suggests he has something in common with his intended victim to get her to drop her guard.
“How do you know so much about Thai government complicity?” she said.
“Well, obviously there’s the fact that there are nothing but low-level trafficking busts. But beyond that, I’m afraid it’s all classified.”
She wasn’t expecting him to show his cards. But the answer is always no if you don’t ask.
“So you want me to go to Thailand,” she said, her tone deliberately dubious.
“Bangkok, specifically. And only for six months. Maybe less, depending on how your investigation proceeds.”
Six months to track Skull Face’s men. To find that little girl. It was like a dream. But there was more she wanted, and she wouldn’t get it if he sensed she was eager.
“Six months?” she said, recoiling as though shocked. “You know, despite your impression that I’m a monk or whatever, I have a life here. Cases to work. Classes I teach. People who need me. What makes you think I can just drop all that for your project?”
He leaned back in his seat and studied her. “In the end, it’s a question of priorities. You can stay here in Seattle and fight the alligators. Or you can go to the source, and drain the damn swamp.”
Well, he liked his animal metaphors. And actually, they weren’t bad ones.
They sat in silence, regarding each other. She knew he wasn’t going to speak first. That was okay. She didn’t need him to go first to get what she wanted. She only needed to sweat him for a little while longer. So she let the silence spin out for almost a full minute before she said, “I want to see your files.”
“Out of the question.”
She sensed that was theater, intended to make a coming concession feel more valuable than it really was.
“I’m talking about the basis for the case you expect me to build.”
“I understand that, but—”
“I’m not going to give you an answer until I have an idea of what I’d be getting into, who I’d be going after, and how much of a chance there would even be that I could succeed. If you’re planning to send me off based on nothing but speculation, in six months I won’t be able to accomplish anything. If you have solid leads and usable intel, then yeah, maybe there’s a chance we could cut off the head, or drain the swamp, or however you want to put it. Otherwise, I’m not interested.”
He looked away and drummed his fingers on the table. Rationally, she knew she had him. She was sure of it. But she was never going to have a better chance, or a better means, to go after Skull Face’s men and find that little girl, and she wanted it all so badly she couldn’t help feeling afraid he was going to say no.
After a minute, he looked at her and nodded. “The information is all classified. So just so you know, I’m breaking more than protocol here. I’m breaking the law. I’m showing you a lot of trust. I hope that’s a two-way street.”
“Show me your files,” she said, relief and excitement washing through her. “And we’ll see.”
4
That afternoon, Dox was walking down a wide, dusty street west of the Bassac River and the Mekong just beyond it. He mopped his brow, taking in his surroundings, reflexively noting the places that would make for good sniper hides and ambush locations. Everything seemed copacetic. He was amazed at how, outside the city center, so much of Phnom Penh was practically rural. There were more bicycles than tuk-tuks, and so little engine din that as he walked he could hear insects buzzing in the trees. The buildings were smaller, too, the empty lots between them populated with scrawny chickens and lounging dogs. But there was a lot of construction, and he had a feeling that in just a few years, this district would be choked with fancy apartments and Starbucks signs. He was glad for the opportunity to see it before all that happened.
If Kanezaki came through and set up a meeting with Vann, Dox wanted to be familiar with the terrain, so he’d found the address of the Phnom Penh UN offices and decided to have a firsthand look. He strolled along, taking his time, and presently arrived at a four-story concrete building, one of the larger and sturdier-looking structures on the block. The blue sign in front said Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights in both Khmer and English. An eight-foot perimeter wall, painted an incongruous gray-pink and topped with razor wire, surrounded the place, but compared with the US embassy, the security looked like not much more than an afterthought. There were several CCTV cameras affixed to the wall, which he didn’t much care for. But no risk, no reward.
He kept on moseying along, casually taking in the terrain, imagining which way he’d run or attack back if this happened or that happened, making sure to feel like nothing but a tourist taking in the sights so anyone who noticed him would pick up a reassuring vibe.
When he was satisfied with his understanding of the neighborhood, he decided to head over to the Genocide Museum. He’d never visited it, feeling he was already sufficiently acquainted with the horrors of the world, but he had a little time to kill, and with what Kanezaki had told him about Sorm, he thought maybe he ought to have a look.
The museum was about two miles from the UN office, but the heat didn’t bother him, and besides, in his experience, there was no better way to get to know a city than on foot. He headed north on Preah Monivong Boulevard, which at two lanes of traffic on either side was a touch noisier than he preferred for a stroll. So as soon as he could, he cut west and then headed north again on Oknha Nou Kan Street, a considerably sleepier little byway traveled mostly by a few tuk-tuks and bicycles, with small storefronts, dwellings, and abandoned lots to on
e side and a drainage canal to the other. There were few pedestrians, the locals being too smart to walk around in the heat, and he enjoyed the feeling of having the street mostly to himself.
About halfway to the museum, a blind beggar turned carefully onto the street and started heading toward him from about fifty feet away. The man wore big dark glasses and had one of those long canes that he was sweeping back and forth in front of him with his right hand, tapping the ground as he moved. In his left hand he held a cup, and Dox started to reach into a pocket so he could give the guy some money.
There was a pipe protruding from the crumbling foundation of the building to the guy’s right. His previously straight path deviated left slightly and he avoided it, never having touched it with the cane.
Dox withdrew his hand from his pocket, irritated. A scam artist. They were everywhere.
They were about forty feet apart now, the guy still tap-tapping along. He was mostly bald, and what remained of his hair, shaved to stubble, was dark enough to be local. And the skin tone was nothing unusual. But though the dark glasses made it impossible to see his eyes, what bone structure Dox could make out seemed like . . . he wasn’t sure. Not Cambodian, though.
A foreign scam-artist beggar?
Not impossible. Maybe one Khmer parent, one something else.
Then again, why would a blind guy, or even a fake blind guy, wear such big glasses? All he’d want would be concealment for his eyes—the rest would be deadweight on his nose and ears all day long.
Unless he also wanted to obscure his face.
Thirty feet.
Now that he was looking and they were closer, he noticed some other incongruities. Along with a pair of sneakers, the guy was wearing shorts and a tee shirt, and his arms and legs were ripped like those of a dancer or gymnast. Well, you didn’t need sight to work out. But still it seemed odd, and doubly so if the guy wasn’t in fact blind, because Dox had never seen a scam artist who was other than skinny and malnourished. This guy looked like he hadn’t missed his daily whey-protein fruit smoothie in years.
And there were no scars on his knees and shins. A lifetime of getting around a city with nothing but a cane, you’d think you’d pick up a few dings along the way.
And there was one other thing. The most important and telling thing. The guy’s vibe. It was getting more intense as they got closer. Like he was focused. Preparing himself to do something. Something big. Not many people could truly conceal that kind of intent. Rain could. So could Dox. But whatever was on this guy’s mind, it was bleeding through on some level into his behavior—his posture, his pace, his gait. Not things anyone would ever really be able to articulate, maybe, but that your unconscious learned to read if you managed to survive the shit for long enough, and hoped to survive it longer.
But how could a hit be coming from that direction? You didn’t even know you’d be going this way yourself.
His head was saying he must be wrong. But his gut wasn’t having it.
Well, maybe there was a way to break the tie.
There was a demolished building to Dox’s left. The curb in front had been reduced to a pile of rubble.
If he was wrong about the guy, he was going to have to put a major contribution into that cup. And he’d probably end up going to hell anyway.
Twenty feet.
He leaned down and with his left hand picked up a bunch of rocks, each about the size of a golf ball. Transferred the smallest to his right hand. And flung it directly at the blind man’s face.
The rock sizzled in. At the last instant, Mr. Blind Man flinched. Then the rock landed, smacking him right below his glasses. He cried out and dropped the cup, which hit the ground with a metallic clang, and took a step back. He felt around his cheek for a moment, as though checking the extent of his injuries. Then his face contorted in rage. With his free hand, he gripped the shaft of the cane, pulled, and was suddenly holding a scabbard in one hand and a fucking sword in the other.
For one crazy second, Dox flashed on Zatōichi, the wandering blind swordsman from all those old Japanese movies. Then the guy tossed the scabbard aside, gripped the sword with both hands, and charged.
Dox felt a huge adrenaline dump. Sound faded out. Movement seemed to slow.
There was no time to deploy the Emerson Commander he had clipped to the front pocket of his shorts. Besides, bringing a knife to a sword fight was the kind of thing the Marines put on your tombstone as an object lesson to others.
Instead, he transferred another rock to his right hand and threw it like a fastball. He would have preferred another headshot, but he was more accustomed to a rifle than he was to rocks, so he aimed for center mass. Zatōichi stopped, turned to protect his right side, and took the rock hard in the left shoulder. Instantly Dox fed another rock to his throwing hand and launched again. He hit the same spot. This time the guy cried out. But then he rallied and started running forward again, albeit zigzagging now in an obvious attempt to make himself harder to hit.
Dox launched another rock. This one took Zatōichi in the neck and stopped him again. Dox launched another, hitting the guy in the chest as he twisted to try to avoid it and knocking him on his ass. It was obviously a lot of punishment, but then the guy got up and started zigzagging again.
Dox grabbed three more rocks and launched the first. They were only twelve feet apart now, and he was going for headshots. Zatōichi must have been hurting, because he stopped again, twisted, and tried to block the rock. But all that did was make him take the rock in the forearm, which was driven into his face, nearly causing him to cut himself with his own sword. Dox got off the second rock and it smashed the guy right in the glasses, which flew off his head. Yeah, some kind of mix, half-Khmer, half–something else.
The guy howled, and blood ran down his face. Just run, you dumb son of a bitch, Dox thought, chambering the third rock, which was almost the size of a fist. Whatever they’re paying you, it ain’t worth being stoned to death.
But the guy didn’t run. Whether because he was exceptionally motivated, or exceptionally panicked, or exceptionally stupid, he looked at Dox, screamed a battle cry, and charged, holding the sword high over his head with two hands like he was some kind of damn samurai.
Except samurai wore armor. Zatōichi didn’t. Dox gave himself an extra second to aim carefully, then launched the rock directly into the guy’s face. It landed with a crunching smack and Dox could see the focus go out of the guy’s eyes, but somehow he staggered forward, the sword wavering now but still held high. Dox took two big steps to his right, getting off the guy’s path. His hand went to the Commander, but before he could clear it, the guy shuddered and did a weird half step that was straight out of the Ministry of Silly Walks. Then his knees buckled and he went down.
Which was fortunate, because Dox was out of rocks. Without giving the guy a second to recover, without even thinking at all, Dox stepped in, raised a foot, and smashed his heel down onto the guy’s neck like someone trying to break a tree limb for firewood. Zatōichi’s body convulsed. He managed to get an arm out in front of him as though to rise, and Dox stomped him again, and then a third time, and then yet again. By the fourth time, the guy was completely motionless.
He checked his perimeter. The few people around were staring, openmouthed. He didn’t see any phone cameras, but if there weren’t any yet, there would be any second as witnesses emerged from their shock and confusion. So he put his head down, touched his fingertips to his forehead and his thumbs to his cheeks, kept his elbows in tight, and cut east down the nearest side street, back in the direction of Preah Monivong Boulevard.
It had all gone down so fast that he hadn’t even had a chance to realize how scared he’d been. But two random tuk-tuk rides away from the scene, he got the shakes. He had the driver let him off and wandered into a temple complex—Wat Angk Portinhean. He walked in circles, keeping to the shade as best he could, feeling like the other visitors must have sensed his distress but unable to completely hide it. What the he
ll was that? Had it even happened?
The guy had clearly been there for him. Otherwise, what, he was just some random scam artist who happened to favor a cane sword, got pissed when Dox exposed him, and then attacked with such ferocity and determination that even if he’d prevailed, his rock-related injuries would have required six months to heal? No, thank you—the other available explanations didn’t make a huge amount of sense, but that one made none. And besides, Dox had felt the vibe when the guy had seen him. It was like a missile acquiring a target.
But how could the guy have known where to look? Dox had turned off the phone after calling Kanezaki, storing it in a shielded case he traveled with precisely to ensure he wasn’t tracked. He’d learned that lesson well, and nearly the hard way, a few years earlier in Bangkok.
And he hadn’t discussed his plans with anyone. Hell, he didn’t even have plans, mostly he was just wandering. The only thing he’d done that was even remotely operational was the walk past Vann’s office.
Which, come to think of it, was something Kanezaki might have expected him to do, given that Dox had acknowledged he was hoping to warn the man.
All right, but still, he’d been careful the whole time to make sure he hadn’t been followed, and anyway, Zatōichi had been coming from the opposite direction. And how could Kanezaki—even if he’d decided to betray Dox, which wasn’t easy to believe—have put someone on him that fast?
Could it have been nothing more than bad luck? Someone deploying a contractor, or maybe more than one, throughout the city, hoping for a long shot?
No, that was about as likely as the enraged-legitimate-scam-artist hypothesis. Someone had sent this guy to take out Dox with at least some idea how to find him. And one way or the other, it had to be about Gant.
All right, he’d see what he could learn from Kanezaki. Watch his back extra carefully. And find a way to get a hold of a proper firearm, because the next time someone came at him with a sword, he was damn sure going to respond with more than a bunch of rocks.