Court asked, “Did the Taiwanese tell us this, or are we monitoring the Taiwanese covertly?”
Brewer hesitated. “That is something you don’t need to know.”
Court replied, “Actually, I do. If the Taiwanese told us directly, then maybe the Russians don’t know about it. But if we gleaned that intel from Taiwan’s secure comms, it’s a fair bet the Russians have the same capability. I need to know if the Russians are coming for Fan in Bangkok. Trust me, that was news that would have been helpful in Hong Kong and in Vietnam.”
Brewer replied, “I don’t have the authority to answer your question. I’m sorry, Violator. It’s as simple as that.”
“Then connect me with someone who does. I want Hanley to tell me, or for him to allow you to do it.”
Brewer snapped now, “I am your handler. You will not circumvent my authority.”
Court didn’t really have a way to contact Matt Hanley directly. He knew where the man lived, so theoretically he could have mailed him a letter, but he doubted he could just call some extension at Langley and ask to be put through to the director of the National Clandestine Service.
Brewer was right; she was his lifeline, and she was being stubborn. But Court let it go, because there was no time to waste. She had delivered time-sensitive information that Court had to act on immediately.
Namely, Court had to get himself to a particular nightclub this evening.
While the head of the Chamroon Syndicate was the seventy-five-year-old who started the group in the 1970s, all the operational leadership were young, wealthy, and ostentatious, including Nattapong and Kulap Chamroon, sons of the founder. They spent their days overseeing drug trafficking and computer crime and prostitution and extortion rackets, but their nights were spent blowing their money.
The Black Pearl nightclub was one of dozens of locations owned by the organization, but the local CIA station had pegged it as one of the main hangouts for the big shots in the group. Tonight, Brewer had explained to Court, a well-known European DJ was booked there for one night only, and Brewer’s research into the group told her it was an absolute given that senior members of Chamroon’s second generation of leadership would be in attendance.
She’d sent Court dossiers and digital images of the syndicate’s main players, and then she told him to use whatever means he had at his disposal to locate Fan. She suggested he go in cover to the Black Pearl, get eyes on the leadership of the organization, and size up their entourage. If he could find a way to isolate a senior member from his security, then Court could press him for details about Fan’s location.
It was clear to Court she was telling him to kidnap and possibly even torture, but as Court was an agent of the CIA and not a direct employee of the CIA, and since Brewer had not used either of the words “kidnap” or “torture,” the CIA was in the clear, no matter what he did this evening.
But Brewer stressed again, as she had done at every single step of Court’s operation, that SAD Ground Branch operatives were in the area and ready to act on Court’s intel.
Getting a table or even gaining entrance to the Black Pearl was no simple affair, especially for a big event like the DJ’s appearance tonight, but Court found a way. He was booked on the executive level of one of the most luxurious hotels in the city. Instead of having the local CIA station work to get him admittance to tonight’s big event, Court simply walked down the hall to the concierge, explained he was a big fan of the Dutch DJ, and gave the woman working there a smile and a hundred dollars’ worth of baht, the local currency. He told her the money was hers either way, but he would appreciate any help she could give him.
And, just like that, he received a call from the concierge an hour later letting him know he would have his name on a list at the front door and a private table for two inside.
Now Court walked to the entrance of the Black Pearl alone, passing the forward end of the block-long rope line of beautiful people waiting to get through the door. He spoke with a bouncer wearing a headset and holding a clipboard, passed the man one thousand baht, or thirty bucks, tucked into a friendly handshake along with a request for an out-of-the-way spot overlooking the action, and soon he was led by a beautiful hostess to a small table along a silk-curtained wall on a mezzanine overlooking the main dance floor and stage of the nightclub.
He flipped off the light at his table, ordered a Johnnie Walker Black on ice, and sat there in the low light.
The club was filling up quickly, the dance music was pumping, and the lights and fog were working in sync. Massive crystalline chandeliers hung over the entire floor, and the lights projected on them and through them pulsed with the beat.
Court looked around at the lavish establishment and wished he were instead sitting alone in a dockside Irish pub, a few stools down the bar from a couple of grumpy old men to listen in on for entertainment.
The Black Pearl wasn’t his scene.
At one a.m. the DJ from Amsterdam took the stage and the crowd went insane. The music to Court wasn’t quite as loud as an M249 machine gun firing cyclic, but it was damn close, and as far as Court was concerned, the noise of a gunfight was much more creative and interesting than this mindless and repetitive thumping and squawking.
Still, he pretended he enjoyed it and hoped like hell he was pulling it off despite the fact that he’d much rather listen to someone slaughter livestock.
The loud music and the crazed lighting effects inside the venue made surveillance difficult, to say the least, but Court had been eyeing a roped-off set of three crescent-shaped tables next to the dance floor and just to the left of the stage, expecting any Chamroon Syndicate players to head straight there if they came in the building.
At one thirty Court was moving his head with the thunderous music, nursing a scotch slowly, acting like one of the thousands of rich international businessmen he’d seen during his years traveling around the world. He’d brushed off several attempts by prostitutes to sit down and join him, and other tries by young local girls here hoping to score bottles of champagne off a rich tourist almost old enough to be their father.
After one such rebuff, Court looked back to the roped-off tables, and then he looked away. A group of about twenty men and women were in the process of sitting down, and although Court realized he would not be able to ID faces from this distance and in these conditions, by the impeccable suits worn by the men and the obvious beauty and glamorous clothing of the women sitting with them, he felt confident the Chamroon Syndicate was in the house.
Several bodyguards stood at the VIP rope, and a couple more stood behind the tables, on either side of the entourage. The guards all faced out, hands clasped in front of them, and Court imagined they would be armed with handguns.
This didn’t scare him… in fact, it pleased him, because Court knew where he could obtain a pistol if things started to go downhill around here.
He glanced sporadically towards the VIP area. As far as he could tell, all the men sitting at the tables behind the rope were Thai, and all the women European other than one lady in a sheer blue dress who appeared to be of African descent. There were fourteen females to five males, and six of the women seemed huddled especially close to one male who sat at the center of the middle table by the dance floor.
This screwed with the female-to-male ratio for the other men in the VIP lounge, but the guy getting the attention from the six girls didn’t seem to care.