Russell Blake - Betrayal

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’ve 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.”