By early afternoon, Court’s sense of foreboding grew, because although he had seen a significant number of HCMC police cars rolling by the Wild Tigers HQ, he didn’t get any sense that there was a high-risk protectee anywhere inside the quiet building down the street.
At three p.m. he was still keeping one eye on his phone as he ducked into a garden restaurant and coffee shop a few blocks south of his target. He ordered from the counter and then found a table near a long line of scooters owned by the young patrons of the café who had rolled them past the vine-covered fences to keep them away from scooter thieves while they sat around the garden enjoying the food, the coffee, and the Wi-Fi.
Court’s big bowl of noodles and bottle of water were brought to his table by a young girl, then delivered with a polite bow. Court made no eye contact, staying half hidden under a beige baseball cap and shades, and he dug into the hot bowl of noodles in pork broth with abandon while gulping the cool water.
The café was relatively busy, with most of the tables full and a decent line at the counter, but it was large enough that Court didn’t feel like anyone would look at his phone if he checked his cameras. Though he was giving himself a little time for lunch, not much about his work here changed. He kept looking down to the feed every few seconds, swiping back and forth to get different angles of his target.
Court divided his time between his lunch, the views on his phone, and his immediate surroundings. He was supposed to call Dai again to report his progress, but he was worried his lack thereof would spur the Chinese colonel to do something stupid. In truth, at this point Court was starting to think Dai’s idea about launching some sort of a raid on the facility was tactically sound, if only just to grab a senior officer in the group. Court had seen nothing from the outside to give him any indication the Vietnamese would put up much of a coordinated fight, and if the Chinese operators were careful, they could probably pull it off without the cops rolling in their vehicles up and down Nguyen Van Dau having any idea what was going on right next to them.
Yes, for the Chinese, this was the right play to make, Court had little doubt.
The only problem with this play was, of course, that Court wasn’t here to help the Chinese. He was here to help the United States, and the Chinese having more intelligence about Fan’s whereabouts than Court did would result in the failure of his real operation.
Just as he shook his worry off and dug his chopsticks back into his noodles, a young couple, both Western in appearance, entered the little eatery while holding hands. They surveyed the menu over the counter for a long time, then ordered, totally unaware that Court was checking them out from thirty feet away.
Court could hear bits of their conversation with the woman behind the counter. They were American.
The couple picked a table near the entrance, and they made soft small talk with occasional smiles. When their food came they chatted in halting Vietnamese with the young girl who delivered it, then ate their lunch, both of them occasionally looking to their phones while doing so.
The man said something and the woman chuckled, and then the man leaned over and kissed her before they both returned to their food and their phones.
While he was looking at them, Court kept his eyes flickering towards the street out front. Amid the scooters and pedestrians a man in a black hooded raincoat and sunglasses walked by. He was Asian, Han Chinese from the looks of it. He was taller than those around him, and his mannerisms told Court he wasn’t just a foreign tourist or businessman passing by.
His head swiveled as he walked; his pace was a little slower than those around him.
He was one of Dai’s men; Court even thought he recognized him from the mansion in the Peak neighborhood of Hong Kong.
Court finished his noodles, gulped the rest of his water, and wiped off the plastic table with a napkin. He got up, took his paper bowl and his empty water bottle and threw them in the garbage, then exited right next to the American couple and began walking up the street. As he did so he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed Suzanne Brewer.
It was nearly four a.m. in Virginia. She answered quickly, but with a voice that told Court he’d woken her.
“Brewer.”
Court said, “You need to pull Ken and Barbie. They are about two minutes away from getting made.”
There was a delay, followed by a dry cough, then, “Identity challenge, Hermit.”
“Dammit,” Court muttered under his breath. “Response, Heathen. Did you hear what I just said?”
Brewer seemed to wake quickly. “Identity confirmed, and I did hear you, but I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Two case officers, late twenties, doing the boyfriend-girlfriend thing a little too cutesy. I am pretty sure the woman thinks the guy is gross, and it’s obvious the dude would rather have his tongue in her mouth than his eyes on his target.”
“I… uh… Where is this?”
“You really don’t know who I am talking about?”
“I hate to break it to you, but I’m not running all of Southeast Asia. I am running you.”
“But these case officers are near the Wild Tigers HQ. They only know these guys have Fan because of my intel.”
“So?”
“So, are you telling me that all Agency assets in Asia know about the product I generated?”
“Of course not. This went out codeword-classified. Only the necessary people know.”
“And by ‘the necessary people,’ you mean a mismatched duo of B-team case officers right off the Farm?”
“I don’t know what you thought you saw, but—”
Court was horrified at the prospect that this couple, and any other CIA surveillance in the area, might be noticed by the Chinese. If that happened Dai would start to worry even more, and perhaps he’d even make the reasonable association between the one American on his team and American intelligence. He said, “Trust me. I’ve been dodging people like those two for the last five years. They wouldn’t see me if I walked up and slapped them in the face, but I can feel them under my skin.”
Brewer did not press. “I’ll talk to Matt. He’ll know who they are.”
“He needs to pull them off this target. I see them again, and I will burn them.”
“You will do nothing of the sort!”
“Look, I’ve got a job to do. Things that are in my way, I will push out of my way. I swear to you, if they don’t disappear now, I’m calling Dai and warning him American spooks are lurking the streets. It’s the only way I can save my op.”
Brewer said, “I’ll call Hanley and get them out of there.”
Court ended the call and kept walking. He had no idea how many American assets were here in the area, but he immediately doubled his efforts to ID those who did not belong.
Just then, an HCMC police cruiser drove by; the two men in the front seat looked especially vigilant for wandering local patrol cops.
Shit, he thought. It was getting crowded around here.
As he turned the corner to return to his hotel, he saw a pair of young Asian men in a small white four-door, and instantly he knew they did not belong here any more than the American couple or Dai’s operative walking the neighborhood. Court thought these guys looked like Han Chinese, as well; they were taller than the average Vietnamese and had a slightly lighter complexion.
And from their body language, their roaming eyes, and the alert head tilts, they were operational, just like the man on foot.
Court realized in seconds these guys were also Chinese intelligence officers, but he got the impression they were not Dai’s men. They didn’t have the edge of hardened killers. Court assumed they were from the local Chinese consulate or even the embassy in Hanoi.