Chapter 16
Harvath crossed another two blocks of rooftops, found a blind spot behind a water tank to climb down, and then circled back on street level toward Tommy Sombat’s loft.
In the process, he stripped off his shirt, twisted it into a makeshift pressure bandage, and put on another shirt he had stolen along the way. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough to contain the bleeding and not draw attention.
By the time he got within sight of the building, the street was clogged with police cars and ambulances. If Morrell was still upstairs, he was screwed.
Harvath pulled out his phone and dialed Morrell’s number. It went straight to voicemail. He hung up and tried again. Same result.
Changing direction, he walked back to where they’d parked the Land Cruiser. The spot was empty. So much for Morrell.
Harvath stepped off the curb and scanned the street, trying to orient himself. He needed distance from Tommy’s building—and a clean route back to the safe house in Suan Phlu.
An earsplitting chirp-chirp exploded behind him.
Two motorcycle cops came hard through the knot of traffic, klaxons blaring, emergency lights flashing as they threaded between cars.
Harvath sprang back onto the curb as the first bike knifed past, close enough for him to feel its wake.
The second cop snapped his head to the side, eyes scanning Harvath, then gunned it to stay on his partner’s tail.
They ripped up the street toward Sombat’s and the thickening crowd. A few more minutes and all these cops were going to morph into a cordon—one that would be very hard to slip through.
He picked the darker side of the road and began moving. He needed to get out of this neighborhood as quickly as possible.
He had only made it about fifty meters when an engine growled somewhere to his left. Not a tuk-tuk. Not a taxi. Deeper. Throaty.
Whatever it was, it had its high beams on. Harvath raised his hand to shield his eyes but couldn’t make out what kind of vehicle it was.
The heavy beast surged out of a dark side street—known as a soi—like it had been kicked loose. Its big tires hopped the broken edge of the pavement and a tornado of grit and pieces of gravel followed right behind as it came straight at him.
Harvath shifted, squaring his shoulders, ready to launch out of the way…
The SUV braked hard, its nose dipping. The driver’s window was already down.
Morrell, who had blood on his clothes, leaned across the wheel and said, “Get in. Now.”
Harvath came around the other side of the Land Cruiser, yanked open the door, and hauled himself inside.
Before he could even pull the door shut, Morrell was accelerating. “If your phone’s on, kill it,” he instructed. “There’s a Faraday bag in the center console. Toss it in there with mine.”
It was smart tradecraft and Harvath did it without argument. Just to be safe, he put the Breitling watch in there as well. They’d already spread enough digital breadcrumbs around. There was no reason to leave a trail heading back to the safe house.
“Are you hit?” he asked, looking at the blood.
Morrell shook his head as he turned hard at the next corner. “I tried to put a tourniquet on Tommy. He didn’t make it. What about you? Are you hit?”
“No,” Harvath replied. “Just a scratch. I’ll live.”
“What about the guy you were chasing?”
“He’s dead.”
“Get any information from him?”
Harvath shook his head. “No, just a photograph. I also grabbed his watch.”
“His watch? What the hell for?”
“Because, given the circumstances, I thought a twenty-thousand-dollar timepiece was a little out of place on him.”
“Twenty k? What was it? A Rolex?”
“No, a Breitling. And a super unique one at that. Comes equipped with an emergency locator beacon. I think the other two operators at Tommy’s had them as well.”
“Operators?” Morrell repeated. “You think these guys are state-sponsored?”
“I suppose they could’ve been private contractors, but that’s not how the Chinese do business. I’m guessing they’re Special Forces or on the intel side.”
“Maybe.”
“Speaking of Tommy,” said Harvath, “I’m sorry he didn’t make it.”
Morrell paused a moment before responding. “He plied a rough trade. Not much of a margin for error in his business.”
“How about you? Did Tommy give you anything?”
Seeing a pair of oncoming police vehicles, Morrell turned another corner—executing the move slowly so as not to appear suspicious. After checking to make sure they weren’t being followed, he replied, “I didn’t get much, but he did give me some information.”
Harvath winced as he adjusted his makeshift pressure bandage. “Did he say who was responsible for the bombings?”
“No.”
“Meaning he didn’t know anything or he didn’t want to tell you?”
“There was no reason for Tommy to lie to me,” said Morrell.
“Why’d he disappear then?”
“The Thai cops were rounding up all the usual suspects—and they weren’t being gentle about it either. Tommy went to ground hoping they’d nail the real culprits and it’d be safe for him to surface.”
“But yet he did surface,” Harvath replied. “Why?”
“Going dark and staying off the radar isn’t cheap—especially in the aftermath of something like this. He needed cash and kept a lot of it hidden in his loft. If the cops showed up and took the place apart, he was worried that they might find it. So, he rolled the dice.”
“And instead of cops, he came home to Mandarin and a concrete saw. If they were questioning him in Mandarin, somebody already knew he could answer. This was not a group of strangers.”
Morrell nodded. “Tommy spoke a few languages. And you’re right, they weren’t strangers. According to him, they were clients.”
“Apparently, clients who weren’t too happy with his performance. Who the hell brings a saw to a meeting? That’s Saudi-level brutality. Did he say what happened?”
Morrell’s eyes flicked to his mirrors and then back to the road. “He didn’t have much left. He was in and out, and the sirens were getting closer. I asked, but I only got one word.”
Harvath looked at him. “What was it?”
“Teens.”