Chapter 36
In the short time they’d been inside the gym, the heat and the humidity had climbed even higher. Stepping back outside was brutal.
Horns blared as motorbikes threaded between buses and dock trucks pushing through the thick morning traffic.
Thai pop music blasted from open storefronts while vendors called out to the crush of pedestrians moving along the crowded sidewalks.
Above them, neighbors leaned over railings and across adjoining rooftops, calling to one another as they pulled in laundry and started their day. Bangkok was fully awake.
Aside from showing them Koebler’s room, the old man at Khlong Kiat Muay Thai hadn’t been much help.
He had no idea where the man had been spending his days—much less his nights—when he wasn’t at the gym.
If the man known as Rijneveld returned, the old man now had Morrell’s number and promised to send a text.
Harvath didn’t expect that to happen. For all practical purposes, the lead had turned out to be a dry hole.
What Harvath needed now was a shower and a solid eight hours of sleep. He also needed something to eat. So when Morrell mentioned that the best breakfast in Bangkok was only three blocks away, Harvath agreed to join him.
The rest of the team opted for take-out and climbed back into their Land Cruiser for the return to the safe house.
Harvath and Morrell decided to walk. They left their vehicle where it was parked, turned right at the corner, and headed toward the port.
It was a sea of people as far as the eye could see. Harvath couldn’t imagine grinding through a commute like this every day. As dangerous as his job could be, it came with its perks—setting his own hours among them. The corporate jet didn’t suck either. He reminded himself to be grateful.
Exactly three blocks later, they slowed in front of an unassuming bar tucked into a row of shuttered nightclubs. Neon beer signs glowed in the windows. From inside came the muffled thump of a funked-up yacht rock track.
“Here we are,” said Morrell.
Harvath had a feeling he was going to like it and followed his friend through the front door and into a much-welcome blast of air-conditioning.
The bar was called the Lucky Monkey. The night shift was still in full swing. Morrell spotted an open booth in the corner and steered them toward it.
They slid into the cracked vinyl seats just as a waitress appeared with two laminated menus.
“Coffee?” she asked.
Morrell nodded and waved off the menus. “Two coffees. And we’ll each have the chicken and waffles.”
The waitress gave a quick nod and headed back toward the kitchen.
Harvath looked at him. “Chicken and waffles? In Bangkok?”
“And a remix of ‘Ride Like the Wind,’ ” Morrell replied. “I told you this place was the best.”
They listened as the Christopher Cross tune transitioned into a just as funky version of the song “Brandy” by Looking Glass.
Harvath took in the room. In a small booth a DJ worked the turntables, while a bunch of club workers, still dressed for the night, clustered around the bar. At tables in back, office-bound young professionals enjoyed a hearty breakfast, drawn in by the food, the music, and the easygoing vibe.
A moment later, the waitress returned with two heavy mugs of coffee and set them on the table, along with tall glasses of ice water, beaded with condensation.
“Food coming,” she said, before heading back to the kitchen.
Harvath wrapped his hands around the mug and took a sip. It was strong and hot—exactly what he needed.
Across the room, the DJ blended another track into the mix—“What a Fool Believes” by the Doobie Brothers.
Morrell took a swallow of his coffee and motioned toward the DJ. “Guy knows what he’s doing.”
Harvath nodded. “Not a bad way to start the morning.”
The CIA man was about to agree when his cell phone vibrated. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the caller ID.
“Fuck,” he muttered, showing it to Harvath. “Davi.”
He hesitated, weighing whether to answer, then slid the phone back into his pocket. “I’ll call her back.”
The waitress returned with their plates and set them down in front of them. “Chicken and waffles.” Sliding a bottle of syrup between them, she lingered a moment, looking them over.
“No wedding ring,” she said with a smile, gesturing at their hands. “You want girlfriend?”
Harvath chuckled. “Tempting, but I still live with my parents.”
The waitress laughed. “You too old for that.”
“I know. I keep telling them to move out, but they don’t listen.”
She shrugged. “Then you get own place.”
“Can’t afford it,” Harvath teased. “Bangkok is too expensive.”
“Khlong Toei cheap. You want own place? You talk to Mr. Baht. I introduce you. He make you good price. Best price in Khlong Toei.”
She leaned a little closer and added, “And he no tell your parents.”
Harvath smiled. “Good to know. I’d hate for them to find out.”
“Trust me,” she said, waving her hand. “Many farang rent from Mr. Baht. One week, one year. You pay cash. No lease. No problem.”
“We’ll think about it,” said Morrell.
The waitress gave them a quick smile and moved off to another table.
Harvath reached for the syrup. “She’s sweet. I almost don’t have the heart to tell her I’m your dad.”
Morrell laughed. “Or that I’m your boyfriend.”
After drizzling syrup over his chicken and waffles, Harvath took a bite. It was superb.
“You were right,” he said after a moment. “Best breakfast in Bangkok.”
Morrell glanced around the bar. “Told you.”
They enjoyed their food as the DJ seamlessly wove yet another pumped-up yacht rock track into the mix.
Morrell nodded toward the front where the waitress was working another table. “She’s a hustler. People like her know everything that goes on in a neighborhood like this.”
Harvath followed his gaze. “Bartenders. Waitresses. Doormen.”
“Taxi drivers,” the CIA man said.
“Yep. They notice who passes through. Who stays.”
“They help make the underworld go round.”
Harvath took a sip of his coffee. “Sometimes it’s drugs. Sometimes it’s women. Maybe even weapons.”
“Or sometimes,” Morrell said, “it’s something quieter.”
Harvath set down his mug. “Like a place to hide.”
Morrell’s fork hovered over his plate. “Cash. No lease.”
“Foreigners.”
“Mr. Baht,” the CIA man repeated.
“If he’s renting places for cash without a lease, maybe he knows our Dutchman.”
Morrell tilted his head toward their waitress. “And lucky monkeys that we are, we’ve already got an introduction lined up.”
Harvath reached for more syrup. “Let’s finish breakfast. Then we go meet Mr. Baht.”