Six hours into the drive, Court was behind the wheel, and he decided he’d try to probe a little, if only just to help him stay awake. Zoya sat with her knees to her chest and her chin resting on them; she looked out the window, bored.
Court said, “I know I’m not going to get too much out of you regarding your past, but I have to ask. Your English is the best I’ve ever heard from a Russian. Where did you learn?”
“In school,” Zoya replied, and she left it there.
“You say phrases that are uniquely American. A lot of Europeans are trained in British English, but not you.”
“I watched TV. We had a lot of shows from America.”
Court didn’t believe her, and he sighed in frustration.
Upon hearing this Zoya said, “Tell me about your Russian. Where did you learn that?”
Court had learned in the CIA, mostly on the job, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to say that even though he figured she’d be able to guess. After a few seconds he said, “You made your point.” They drove along in silence for a few more seconds, and then he tried something else. “I saw you climb the side of that villa the other night. That was pretty impressive. Were you in the circus when you were a kid?”
“As a matter of fact, I was.”
“Seriously, you were like a damn spider monkey.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
Court waited for the real story, but it never came. She’d had some sort of advanced training, perhaps even paramilitary training, and she’d maintained her skill, through either more training or real-world ops.
He didn’t call her out, and he didn’t push her.
He just said, “It’s going to be a long drive, isn’t it?”
She turned to him. “What kind of music do you like?”
Court shrugged. “Stuff you won’t find on the radio in the backcountry of Thailand.”
Zoya nodded. “Then yes, it’s going to be a long drive.”
Delayed by a flat tire and a traffic accident that backed up the two-lane highway for miles, the Toyota Vios finally crossed the bridge that brought them onto Phuket Island at ten p.m. local time. Court and Zoya stopped for dinner at the first restaurant they found. Court chose khao neow moo ping, pork skewers in rice, while Zoya proved herself to be the braver of the pair by ordering tom luad moo, a soup made from pork intestines and lungs and flavored with Thai chilies.
They then drove to the Trisara Phuket, a five-star resort in the Thalang District on the northern side of the island with a view of the Andaman Sea, part of the Indian Ocean. They checked in for three nights, and Court used the passport delivered to him in Bangkok by the CIA station that claimed his name was Chad Waverly.
When the man at hotel reception asked for Zoya’s passport, she rolled her eyes, leaned onto the desk, and gave a tired smile. She told the hotel employee her name was Whitney Waverly, she was Chad’s wife, and in what Court thought was an incredibly convincing Chicago accent she explained that her purse had been stolen in Bangkok and, so far, the U.S. embassy had been “absolutely freakin’ worthless” in helping her get a replacement passport.
Court couldn’t help but stare in awe at her Oscar-worthy performance; Zoya sold her legend completely, and soon they were on their way to their ocean-view suite.
As they walked Court said, “You grew up in the States.” It wasn’t a question.
“No,” she said; her Chicago accent was gone, again replaced by just the faintest Russian accent.
“You’re gonna tell me you learned that watching TV back on the collective farm?”
“Collective farm? I grew up in a house, same as you, I guess. Running water, indoor plumbing. Almost like a real person.”
Court was egging her on, trying to get information. “Yeah, well, I hope my Russian sounds half as convincing as your English does.”
“Say something in Russian and I’ll let you know.”
Court switched to Russian and made up a quick story that mirrored hers, claiming his name to be Ivan Ivanovic, saying he was from St. Petersburg, and he’d accidentally spilled caviar on his passport.
Zoya just rolled her eyes, and when he was finished she said, “You want the truth or do you want me to be nice?”
“I’m tired. I’ll take nice.”
“You sound like a Russian with a head injury and a speech impediment.”
“Jesus. What if I said I wanted the truth?”
“Then I would have said you sounded like an American with a head injury and a speech impediment speaking bad Russian.”
Court knew his Russian was better than that. He couldn’t pass as a native speaker, but he could carry on conversations without too much trouble. Still, with her skill in languages it was no surprise she was a tough critic.
“Why did I ever marry you, Whitney?” he joked.
Zoya did not miss a beat. “Must have been the head injury, Chad.”
Court and Zoya toured around their well-appointed ocean-view suite, then went out on the patio off the bedroom and looked past the private infinity pool to the beach and the Andaman Sea. To the east, the lights of several large private villas owned by the resort lay sprawled along a green hillside, and beyond them the hills turned into thick jungle.
The Chamroon property was out there, just off to the east. And the resort afforded two Westerners the perfect reason to be here in the first place. This was one of the most luxurious and romantic destinations in Thailand, after all, so no one would doubt that a young couple of means from the States might be walking around here, swimming in the ocean, or hiking the nearby jungle trails.
They’d have to do everything as a couple, but they were both pros, and they could adopt their aliases easily.
Court surveyed the opulent grounds with his binoculars from his patio, and he knew that right about now Suzanne Brewer would be sitting in her office looking at an American Express charge that would make her blood boil.
Back inside he found the woman who now called herself Whitney adjusting the stereo, finding a new age station and turning the volume up on some atmospheric music that made Court think the Russian woman was about to start doing yoga on the floor.
She then went into the bathroom and turned on the water in the tub, then returned to Court and took him by the arm out to the patio.
He’d expected her tradecraft to be as practiced as his own, but he was fascinated to watch her. She did things much as he did, and as a singleton operative, he found it strange to see someone else virtually mimicking his way of functioning in the field.
She said, “We can see Chamroon’s property from the beach to the east of here.”
Court said, “We have to allow for the fact that Chamroon has informants at this resort. If he is running a criminal organization the size and scope of this syndicate, it would be foolish to leave this hotel next to his estate as a blind spot in his security setup.”
“I agree,” Zoya said. “And if anyone here at the hotel has their eyes on us, our going up the beach with binoculars right now, just after arriving, is going to look suspicious.” She added, “Our clothes will look strange, too. I don’t have anything for a beach vacation, but there’s a boutique off the lobby I saw on the way in.”
The image of Suzanne Brewer looking at more of Chad Waverly’s Amex charges, especially charges that included women’s beachwear, gave Court a brief moment’s pleasure.
He said, “First thing tomorrow morning we’ll get some suitable clothes, and we’ll do some exploring. For now, we get some sleep.”