Chapter 22
At the top of the list of rules Koebler operated by was to never know who the client was. That was his handler’s job. Matías was his firewall.
By not knowing the client’s identity, he was spared any speculation over their politics, motivation, or ultimate endgame.
There was also a degree of mutual security. He didn’t know who the client was and the client didn’t know him. If ever placed under duress, he couldn’t be forced to give up a name he didn’t have. Conversely, without a name, there was no reason for a client to see him as a loose end.
He had bent that rule and had almost gotten himself killed. That was not a mistake he planned to make again.
Per Matías, the attackers at Teens had been Cambodian and, from what he had observed, his clients appeared to be Chinese.
Both sides were professional and well trained.
They were disciplined and, while not at the level of American Special Forces, they knew what to do in a firefight.
They weren’t muscle from rival organized crime groups.
These were state actors, which meant current military, or former military who were now on the intelligence side.
The most overwhelming fact was that the Cambodians had come in hard. They weren’t there to capture his Chinese clients. They had been there to kill them—and had appeared perfectly fine with killing him too. Only the Cambodians had been meant to walk out of Teens alive.
That kind of speed and overwhelming violence of action suggested an exceedingly short timeline.
Whatever the Cambodians were up to, they needed it done fast. Which, considering that Cambodia was China’s closest regional ally, didn’t make much sense at all.
If these guys were military or intel operatives, why would they be going head-to-head, and why in Thailand of all places?
Then Koebler had opened the envelope the client had given him.
After a quick internet search of the target, everything began to make sense.
He not only had a better picture of what his clients were trying to do, but he also understood why the Cambodians were prepared to go to any length to stop them.
This, however, was all background noise. He neither cared nor wanted to know what his clients and their adversaries hoped to achieve. The only thing he cared about was his fee. And the fee for this next assignment was significant—double what the last job paid.
But once it was complete, he was done. All the crypto in the world was worthless if you weren’t alive and free to spend it.
No matter what the client offered, he was leaving Thailand.
In fact, he was starting to think about taking a long-overdue vacation.
Someplace safe, where he could live quietly and let the heat die down.
He was about to have enough money to disappear. In fact, depending on where he decided to put down stakes, he could live very well for the rest of his life. But he understood that the road between here and there was potentially deadly and fraught with an incredible amount of peril.
Complicating matters was the fact that in addition to the Thai authorities having his Glock and three of his cameras, the Cambodians—at least the ones who had survived the attack at Teens—had seen his face.
He doubted that either group could put two and two together and track him down before he fled the country, but he was experienced enough not to take anything for granted. He needed to act both quickly and carefully.
The “quickly” part was what bothered him the most. When you moved too fast, that was when mistakes happened. They also happened when there were too many elements outside your control.
For the original round of bombs, Matías had sourced the ingredients.
This time, however, the client claimed to have assembled “everything you will need” and left it in a storage unit.
Koebler was to build the bomb on-site and then transport it to the target, where he would hand it off to an intermediary.
With each step, there were over a thousand things that could go wrong—not the least of which being that the client might be setting him up. But to what end?
It was a logical question, but one that he couldn’t answer.
Had the client truly considered him a liability, they could have already done away with him.
There was no reason to keep paying him and stringing things out.
The bottom line was that they wanted a very specific type of bomb, they wanted it within twenty-four hours, and they were willing to pay double.
As the saying went—Good, fast, or cheap. Pick any two.
He doubted they could have found anyone else who could deliver what they needed on the clock they’d set. He was their only option.
Being their only option, however, didn’t mean he was going to let his guard down. Not for a moment.
After running a long surveillance detection route, he seeded the area with several of his wireless surveillance cameras, parked himself at a plastic patio table of a late-night noodle shop, and monitored the storage facility.
Across the street, under the lights of an illuminated tuk-tuk stand, a group of drivers smoked and played cards. From the distance came the hum of traffic on the elevated expressway.
Koebler studied everyone and everything that came and went.
He was looking for anything that seemed out of place, but this was Bangkok.
There was no “normal” here. Everything was loud and frenetic, bright and slightly unusual—a constant assault on the senses.
Finding what didn’t fit meant filtering out almost everything. It was hard to get a baseline.
Finally, after enough time had passed and nothing repeated or converged, he decided it was as clean as it was going to get. Having paid his bill, he stood up and walked slowly to the storage facility, collecting his cameras as he went.
In the envelope the client had given him, there had been an electronic key card. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves, pressed the card against the reader, and opened a service gate. The unit he was looking for was in the back—one with direct exterior access.
Even though he was once again disguised, he took pains to avoid letting the storage facility’s CCTV cameras get a good look at him. Whenever he found a dead spot without coverage, he placed one of his own cameras.
Upon locating the unit, he entered the code he’d been given, removed the padlock, and lifted the steel roll-up door.
After slipping underneath, he lowered the door back down, locked it from inside, and removed a flashlight from his pocket.
It was hot and muggy inside the unit—not exactly the perfect working environment. Activating his light, he looked around.
There was a workbench complete with task lighting and a magnifying lens on an articulating arm.
Alongside it were multiple cardboard boxes and hard-sided cases filled with tools, bombmaking components, and other specialized equipment.
His clients had indeed thought of—and provided—everything he needed.
The most interesting piece of gear, however, was underneath a grease-stained canvas tarp. Peeling it back, he stared at what had been left for him. Immediately, Koebler understood how they expected him to get so close.
And why no one in the world was going to stop him.