“What do you suggest for tonight?”
“We meet up for dinner at nine, eat, then go to the club and throw some money around. I noticed you didn’t drink last night. Do you have a problem with alcohol? Because it would help if you could throw a few back in the bar.”
“No problem. I just don’t like it very much.”
“Have any preferences for dinner?”
“Anyplace but British cuisine.”
“I’ll call you later.”
Rob hung up, and she returned to her table, where a slew of photographs of the man known as Lap Pu were spread out on the table, courtesy of Edgar.
The dossier on Lap Pu proffered a paucity of real insight. Fifty-something years old, a Bangkok native, started out life with a couple of his family’s markets, gravitated to the sex trade in the late Seventies. Opened a bar in Soi Cowboy, then another in Phatong, and from there moved up the food chain until he was a major player in the business. Lived a lavish lifestyle, with homes all over the country, including several resorts on Phuket. Friendly with every administration, he had never been arrested and was considered a stand-up fellow. Except for the rumors that he was one of the top sex slavers in Bangkok and had an elaborate network of smugglers moving females from Myanmar and Laos to Thailand, many underage. But like so much in Thailand, rumored truths were not an impediment to his prosperity, and he had kept his nose clean — or at least as clean as someone in the sex trade in Thailand could.
His main enterprises were brothels catering to specialized tastes, the kinkier the better. Ping pong shows, ladyboys, every sort of domination and submission, groups…if you could imagine it, chances are that Pu offered it in one of his establishments.
The last team that had disappeared had followed Pu into the jungles at the northernmost edge of Thailand. But that was Jet’s only hope of finding their target. Other than Pu, the CIA had nothing, and even with him they hadn’t gotten far.
She opened the safe, extracted the Beretta and stripped it, studying the various components to verify it was in good shape. It looked almost brand new. The silencer was new, showing no evidence of having ever been used. The magazine held fifteen 9mm rounds, with enough stopping power to handle most urban situations, provided that she didn’t require accuracy over fifty yards. The silencer would drop that some, but then again, she wouldn’t be shooting apples off anyone’s heads.
The problem was that it was unwieldy and problematic to conceal with the silencer, so discretion would have to take a back seat to practicality. She retrieved the butterfly knife and expertly flipped it open, confirming that the blade was razor sharp. Pacing the room, she flicked it open, closed, open, closed in a reassuring motion as she thought through the permutations of scenarios.
Rob seemed as competent as anyone she’d met with the American intelligence service, but she was still uncomfortable going into the field with a partner. If he did anything stupid or unpredictable, it could be disastrous. She would need to keep a close eye on him — her daughter’s ultimate future depended upon this mission going successfully, and she couldn’t afford any slips.
As Jet reassembled the pistol, she decided that she would carry it in her purse without the silencer. If there was any shooting, then it wouldn’t be a secret — she’d take that risk. There was actually far greater chance that her purse would be stolen than her getting into a gun battle, she knew, and reminded herself to keep it glued to her, especially once in the club.
She debated calling Edgar to request a more compact weapon, and decided that it was warranted.
“I need it as small as they come. But not a.22. Has to have some heft,” she instructed over the phone.
“Let me see what I can get on short notice. Shouldn’t be a problem. How about something clandestine — if I can get a disguised weapon will that help?”
She described her likely evening’s agenda, and he grunted.
“Let’s see what the spy armory can come up with. I have a few ideas. I’ll call as soon as I know something. Is it okay if I send it along with Rob, or should we meet before?”
“I think I’d like some time with whatever you get, so we need to meet.”
“I’ll call within an hour. The park work for you again?”
“Always.”
Four hours later, Jet was back in her room studying the two pieces Edgar had slipped her. The first was a Sig Sauer P238 sub-compact pistol with a six round clip, five and a half inches long and easily concealed. Accuracy would be considerably lower than the Beretta, due to the shorter barrel, but in a club it would be effective enough. She hefted it and was surprised by how light the evil-looking little weapon was.
The second item was what appeared to be a working Nokia cell phone, but with an undocumented feature — it held three.32 caliber rounds which could be fired using the center select button after punching the call button. Edgar had told her that it would only be effective for ten to twelve feet, but it might come in useful in an emergency situation.
She shook out a tiny micro-transmitter from a plastic bag and inspected it, then powered on the cell phone gun, which had another feature: it could track the chip up to a distance of fifteen miles. The screen illuminated, and a street map popped up with a red dot glowing. It showed her position accurately, and Edgar had said it was the latest technology — good to within one foot. Civilian GPS was only accurate within eight yards. Military GPS could get that down to under three yards with dual frequency technology that compensated for atmospheric disturbances to the transmissions, and with augmentation it could get down to sub one-foot accuracy, but that would require a team tracking the chip at Langley and then forwarding on the information, which was inefficient and cumbersome. Better to be able to track him real-time on the phone.
She had no firm plan, or really any idea what to expect going into the club. They knew he would be there, but beyond that it was a question mark.
Rob met her at a Thai restaurant a few blocks from the club, and they ate a light dinner as they watched the locals traverse the teeming streets and vendors hawking trinkets and pirated goods. A group of bar girls who worked as prostitutes at one of the myriad nearby go-go bars walked by, laughing.
“They don’t look like they’re older than fifteen,” Jet commented, taking a bite of her Kaeng phet pet yang — duck in red curry.
“They’re older. Asian women tend to look younger. It’s genetics. Most of the bars do regular checks for underage workers, so the mainstream ones are strict about it.”
“I don’t know. They don’t look it.”
“Many of them dress and do their makeup so as to appear younger. It’s a more desirable look here.”
“Why is that? I mean, I get the whole idea of youth being attractive. But, come on. There’s youth, and then there’s borderline children.”
“It’s the market. I don’t get it, either. But many of the patrons of the sex trade are Thai men, and they like them young. Probably has to do with the woman being unspoiled and youthful,” Rob speculated, chewing on a shrimp.
“Unspoiled? Come on. If you’re a hooker, servicing God knows how many men per night in a go-go bar, isn’t that a stretch? I mean, I can rationalize as well as anyone, but please…”
Rob held his hands up. “I agree. But I don’t make the rules. That’s what sells, and the market is what the market is.”
“So it’s a society of pedophiles.”
“Not necessarily, although there’s certainly plenty of that to go around. It’s more about some twisted male fantasies about having sex with the teenage girls you could have had in your youth. Even though most of the men that come here know full well that these girls are eighteen and up, they’re buying into an illusion. There are whole clubs that offer nothing but schoolgirl-themed sex workers. It’s a big business. And the Japanese eat that up. Their society is rigid and based on control and rules, so they come here and want the forbidden. Even if it’s all an act.”
“Hmmm. It just seems wrong. I mean, I’v
e been all over the world, and I’ve never seen anything like this. And I’m not exactly innocent — I’ve been in a lot of horrible places. But it seems to me that this whole civilization is based on selling youthful sex to fat, red-faced white men.”
“You aren’t that far off, except that again, Thai men are huge consumers.”
They ate in silence, dissonant music blaring from a tinny speaker in the far corner of the restaurant, and then another group of bar girls ambled by on their way to work.
“They all have darker skin. Is that also what the market wants, or is that just me?”
“Most are from Isaan, in the north. The skin is darker up that way. That’s one of the reasons Thais consider the typical women that farangs favor to be low class. Darker skin is associated with poverty, which is the worst sin you can commit here. Being poor. The average annual income of someone in Isaan is four hundred dollars a year,” Rob explained.
“So they come here to make that in a week. Or in some cases, in a few days.”
“Exactly. Like I said yesterday, it’s economics. Always.” He took another mouthful of noodles and shrimp. “What’s the plan for this evening?”
“Edgar said that you were going to be briefed before you came to dinner on the latest from the club. He’s got a guy outside on the street. What did he tell you?” Jet asked.
“The bouncer is working tonight, and he said they expect Lap Pu in later. Beyond that, we have nothing new.”
“I was thinking we spend some time there and see if there’s an opportunity to plant a tracking device on him, or at worst, on his car. I don’t like my odds of being able to follow him from the club.”
“He has a number of homes. Nobody’s really sure how many.”
“But the only one we’re concerned about right now is wherever he’s staying.”
“It’s a long shot. But I suppose it’s as good as any.”
They finished their dinner and paid, then moved out into the bustle of the streets. Two blocks south, they rounded a corner and found themselves facing a blinking neon cat, sporting a top hat and a lascivious grin.
A man approached them from the darkened doorway.
“Ping pong show. Very nice. Best in Bangkok. Anything you want. Girls. Boys. Come on in. Cold beer.”
Jet exchanged a look with Rob that appeared unconvinced.
“I don’t know…”
“Top Cat famous all over world. Anything you want. I get for you. Anything.” He offered them a leer that promised that indeed, anything that could be imagined could be found in the Top Cat.
“Can we just look around?”
“Of course. Come in. Drink cold beer. Look at all the ladies, the show. Come. Come now, sexy lady. Come to the Top Cat.”
She took Rob’s hand, raised an eyebrow and nodded. Rob played along, and they moved into the doorway. Two large bouncers stood immediately in front of a black velvet curtain. Music boomed from behind it. Rap. The street hawker nodded at them, and the larger of the pair pulled the curtain aside with a hand the size of a ham.
Rob led, and within two seconds, a hostess wearing what appeared to be a gladiator outfit crafted from black vinyl latched onto them and led them to a booth near the raised stage. The club was half full, all tourists, ninety-five percent male. At least forty young women wearing little but smiles lounged around, chatting in pairs and threesomes, their more fortunate co-workers having already found willing companions for the next hour among the men gathered around the stage.
They took a seat, and the gladiator asked them what they wanted to drink. Rob held up two fingers.
“Singha,” he yelled over the music, ordering the most popular beer in Thailand.
She departed on stripper heels, and Jet took in the club. It was larger than she’d expected — looked like it could hold several hundred people. Lighting was limited to red, which was appropriate, and was dim, with barely enough to make out the other clubgoers. She supposed that was typical.
The beer arrived within seconds, very cold. Rob paid for them. They’d agreed he would be the money for the night — in keeping with their cover as a couple on holiday looking for something exotic.
The music changed, and the stage lights illuminated with a flourish. There was no introduction. A young woman mounted the stairs to hooting applause, and then held up a foot-and-a-half-long metal tube, brandishing it like a baton. More cheers.
Rob leaned close to her ear.
“Darts. See the balloons around the stage?”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“How the hell…”
Any questions she had, or had never even considered, were answered over the next five minutes.
Three more women joined the dart performer after the display was over. It was time for ping pong. Jet watched in amazement as paddles were distributed to the men nearest the stage, and then the game began in earnest.
Her eyes scanned the room as the show continued, and she spotted an older woman with a child near one of the doorways leading to the rear of the building. The little girl couldn’t have been more than twelve and was dressed in a short skirt and a tube top, exposing her adolescent frame and skinny appendages. The woman grabbed her by the arm and was yelling at her, pointing at the crowd, and the little girl nodded, tears streaming down her face.
The woman’s face contorted in frustration, and her hand whipped out like a striking cobra, slapping the child so hard her head smacked against the wall. Jet’s stomach broiled with anger, but she bit it back, her face displaying no emotion even as she stifled the urge to leap up and flatten the woman.
Another cheer greeted the final salvo of ping pong balls, and then a tired-looking MC climbed up on the stage and announced in broken English that there would be plenty more entertainment coming up shortly, and that everyone should take a well-deserved relaxation break and find some way to amuse themselves while waiting for the continuation of the show.
The matronly woman who had hit the child approached them.
“Why you here? What you want? You want a girl? Two? Maybe a boy?”
Rob shook his head, but Jet reached out and gripped his arm.
“We’re actually looking for something a little more…exotic,” she said, hesitating on the last word.
“Ahh. Ladyboy? You wanna ladyboy?”
“Mmm, no. What else do you have?”
The mama-san’s eyes narrowed to slits. Jet could see her calculating, looking them over, trying to assess how much money they might have.
“I get you anything you want. Anything.” She put an emphasis on anything.
Jet leaned in close to her and whispered in her ear.
She recoiled and then gave Jet a smile.
“That’s not cheap.”
“I didn’t expect a bargain.”
“Maybe I can get that for you.”
“I saw a little girl over by the bathroom. She would do,” Jet said.
“Oh, you have good taste, but very expensive. She just in. Unspoiled.” The woman’s English had suddenly improved now that this was a negotiation. Three minutes later, they had agreed on a price for a room in the back and an hour with the girl.
Jet murmured into Rob’s ear, his face blank, and then he nodded and took her hand, following the woman into the back of the club.
The room was larger than she would have thought, and featured a small bathroom with a shower and a bed with fresh linen. Mirrors on the walls gave it a funhouse feel, which she was sure was unintentional. She did a quick inspection to ensure there were no cameras or listening devices, pulling the mirrors away from the wall to confirm they weren’t two-way, then turned to Rob.
“What the hell are you doing? Why get a child? Have you lost your mind?” he demanded.
“Shh. I have my reasons. Now don’t say anything more until they bring her.”
Two minutes later, there was a light knock at the door, and then the child opened it, eyes averted, and she stepped into the room. Jet
moved to the door and locked it. She knew the club would have a key, but they would only open it if it was an emergency. The girl was on her own.
She moved to the edge of the bed and then looked up at Jet, whose heart lurched. Beautiful brown eyes gazed at her, terrified but resigned, and then she began pulling her dress over her head.
“No. No. Rob. Tell her she doesn’t have to do anything. Tell her,” Jet whispered.
Rob fired off a rapid fire burst of Thai, and the girl looked confused. She stopped trying to disrobe and looked at Jet quizzically. Rob turned to Jet. “Now what?”
“Ask her what her name is.”
Rob did so.
Jet could barely hear her response. Rob repeated it.
“Lawan. It means beautiful in Thai.”
“How old is she, and how long has she been here?”
Rob asked, and the girl murmured another soft few words.
“She says she’s almost eleven and she’s been here for a week.”
“How did she get here?”
More discussion.
“Her father sold her to some men, who brought her to Bangkok.”
“Sold her?”
“She says they were hungry for many days. So her father did what he had to in order to keep everyone alive.”
Jet bit back the cold fury that was threatening to explode from her.
“What has her week been like?”
The discussion lasted ten minutes, with Lawan describing the trip south, then being put to work in the club. As she went on, Jet seethed with rage. The little girl had been bought and sold like an animal. Even dogs were treated better. She slept on a mat in a tiny back room with several other children who were in similar circumstances. Lawan was the youngest. The others were twelve and thirteen, a boy and a girl. Lawan said she didn’t like either of them. They had emotional problems — the little boy was always angry, and the girl didn’t communicate.
“Tell her that we just want to talk to her. She doesn’t have to do anything. I want to know what she’s seen here, and everything about her,” Jet said, sitting on the bed after pacing the floor while listening to Lawan’s account.
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