Chapter 53
BANGKOK
Davi stood next to her mobile command van and looked from Harvath to Morrell as if trying to decide which one of them she wanted to shoot first.
Inside the vehicle, live feeds from five drones, as well as multiple perimeter teams, filled the screens. ISOC operators talking on radios, marking locations, and pushing fresh information came and went.
The boatyard’s service road was clogged with Thai police vehicles, unmarked SUVs, and a handful of military trucks. Sirens still sounded in the distance. Somewhere closer, a helicopter chopped the air as it conducted a grid search.
“The Chinese are gone,” Davi stated. “Koebler is gone. And after everything that has happened in this city since Friday, I’m standing in another blood-soaked crime scene with nothing I can put my hands on except shell casings, bodies, and a pair of Americans who always seem to show up half a second before everything goes to hell. ”
Morrell started to say something, but she cut him off with a look. “No. You’ve both had enough chances to explain yourselves.”
Holding Harvath’s gaze, she then said, “Everywhere the two of you go, the body count rises, the scenes get uglier, and the fallout lands on me. I’m running out of room to protect you from the consequences of how you operate.”
An ISOC operative approached and spoke quietly in Thai. Davi listened, asked two questions, and sent him to speak to one of the techs in the van.
“I signed off on what happened here,” she continued, her voice lower, but no less hard. “Which means this failure belongs to me too. The difference is that by nightfall, I’ll be the one answering for it.”
Morrell began to speak. “Davi—”
“No,” she said, cutting him off again. “This operation is over. From this moment on, my people run things. No more improvising. No more unilateral moves. If you get something, you bring it to me. Immediately. You do not act on it. You’re done.”
One of the techs stepped out of the van and handed Davi her tablet. She scanned it, shook her head, and handed it back.
“Still no confirmed sighting of the SUV beyond the outer perimeter,” she said. “We’re checking garages, warehouses, and likely transfer points, but if that vehicle was as banged up as you described, the smart move would have been to dump it as soon as possible.”
“They were prepared for exactly this type of contingency,” Harvath replied.
Davi nodded. “My people will keep monitoring cameras and working our sources. If they made a switch, we’ll find them eventually.”
“In the meantime,” said Morrell.
“In the meantime,” she broke in, cutting him off yet again. “I want both of you away from my crime scene and on the other side of my perimeter.”
Without waiting for a response, she turned and climbed back into the van.
Morrell watched the door slide shut behind her. “She seems upset.”
“You think?” Harvath replied, as they started walking up the street toward Morrell’s Land Cruiser.
The rest of the team had already returned to their vehicle. Harvath had wanted them out of earshot and out of Davi’s line of sight.
But before her people had flooded the yard, he had sent Staelin and Haney to check for any dead or wounded.
The Cambodians had lost two men. The bodies had no IDs, no phones, and no usable comms. If they had been carrying radios, Staelin and Haney reported, their teammates had stripped them as they pulled out.
The only intact handset then was the one now in Harvath’s possession.
Once he and Morrell were clear of Davi’s van and there were no officers in sight, he said, “I borrowed something from our wounded Cambodian buddy.”
Morrell stopped. “What?”
Harvath opened his pouch just enough for him to see the radio.
“It’s like you didn’t hear a word she said.”
“I made an executive decision,” Harvath replied.
“And it won you a great paperweight. I hope it fits in your suitcase, because that’s all it’s good for. Whoever those Cambodians are, they’re professional enough to have already moved to a new frequency. You’re not going to get any operational intel from that.”
“What if it’s not about what I can get from them,” said Harvath, “but what they can get from me?”
Morrell looked back toward the command van. “You think the Cambodians will talk to you?”
“Maybe.”
“Because?”
“Because they’re operating covertly in Thailand. Because they never fired at us. And because whoever runs that team might want to know what happened to their man who didn’t make it back with them.”
Morrell considered that. “And if he’s changed frequencies?”
“He probably has. But he may still monitor the old channel for a while.”
“Out of concern for his missing operator.”
“Or curiosity,” Harvath replied.
“Same thing,” said Morrell as they arrived at his vehicle and he opened the doors. “But if it gets him to respond, that’s all that matters. You going to try him from here?”
Harvath shook his head. “Not with Davi’s people blanketing the area. And not if anyone on the other end is smart enough to figure out we’re transmitting from inside an ISOC perimeter.”
“So we move.”
“To somewhere public. Crowded enough where a couple of farangs can disappear. Easy to leave if we have to. And not tied to Davi, ISOC, or the embassy.”
Morrell thought for a moment. Then he said, “Pak Khlong Talat.”
Harvath looked at him.
“It’s Bangkok’s twenty-four-hour flower market. Busy, noisy, and completely anonymous.”
Pulling out his phone to text the rest of the team, Harvath said, “That works.”
They rode in silence, letting the boatyard and the gunfight fall away behind them. The afternoon rush hour traffic was beginning to build. At more than one intersection, uniformed police were visible directing traffic around checkpoints that hadn’t been there before the RBSC bombing that morning.
Bangkok was still moving, but the city felt even further strained, like a cable taking more weight than it had been designed to hold.
Morrell drove with one hand on the wheel, the other dangerously flicking through text messages on his phone. “You want to tell me what happens if someone answers you back on that radio?”
Harvath took the MBITR from his pouch and turned it over in his hands. “If they speak English, I’ll try to build rapport and get some information out of them.”
“Like what?”
“Like who they’re working for and how we might be able to help them nail the Chinese.”
Morrell looked over at him. “So now we’re going to work with the Cambodians?”
“The enemy of your enemy could turn out to be your new best friend,” said Harvath, putting the radio away. “They also could end up being our only lead to Koebler.”
They continued driving, using side streets whenever the main roads jammed. People everywhere were still gathered around television sets, reliving the horror, together, as if it might somehow relieve some of the emotional and psychological pain of the attacks.
By the time they reached Pak Khlong Talat, the district was alive with the churn of late-day business.
Pickups and delivery trucks crowded the curbs.
Men in aprons moved carts stacked with colorful flowers, while women seated on low stools stripped leaves and threaded intricate garlands.
Along the gutters, ribbons of water swept petals, dirt, and cigarette butts toward clogged drains.
The market had its own distinct atmosphere—humid, fragrant, and in constant motion.
Morrell turned down a side street lined with wholesale stalls and found the one remaining place to park near the back of the block.
“Busy enough?” he asked.
In front of them, men were loading orchids into a truck, while throngs of foot traffic passed without giving them a second look.
“It’ll do,” said Harvath.
Morrell kept the engine running so the air-conditioning could continue to blow. Easing his seat back, he remarked, “If this works, I owe you a dozen roses.”
Harvath checked his watch. It was a little before 5 p.m. He switched the radio on and listened.
There was nothing. No voice traffic. No burst he could make sense of. Just the encrypted hiss of an otherwise dead channel.
Morrell settled back in his seat. “I hear it helps if you say ‘Come in Berlin’ and play with the knobs at the same time.”
“It’s a wonder nobody ever liked working with you.”
The CIA man grinned. “Like I told you, I’m an acquired taste.”
Harvath shook his head and continued to listen, but there was only the hiss. After another few seconds, he keyed the mic and said, “Boatyard. Your man is alive. I repeat. Boatyard. Your man is alive.”
He released the button. The hiss returned. He waited several moments. There was no answer.
Keying the mic again, he said, “Boatyard. This channel. Thirty minutes.”
Releasing the button, he listened. Nothing. He turned the radio off.
“You remember that movie with Will Smith?” Morrell asked, his eyes half-closed.
“Bad Boys? Where he’s saddled with a dipshit partner? Funny you should bring that up.”
Morrell smiled again. “Great film, but no. I’m thinking of I Am Legend. He keeps putting out the same radio call every day saying he’ll be at the South Street Seaport when the sun is highest in the sky. Talks about all the stuff he can do for anyone who’s listening.”
Harvath remembered the film. “You think I should offer the Cambodians food, shelter, and security?”
“I think you should offer them the Chinese.”
“I don’t have anything on the Chinese.”
“They don’t know that,” the CIA man said. “All they know is that we were in the same place, at the same time, shooting at the same people. We’re practically family.”
“Family may be stretching it,” said Harvath as he looked through the windshield.
“All I know is that if you and your new friend really do have a shared enemy, there’s nothing he’d love more than hearing how you can crush him together.”
Harvath tapped the MBITR against his thigh thinking about what Morrell had said. The man did have a point.
A proof-of-life message might be enough to keep the Cambodians listening, but if it didn’t spur a response, it was a waste of time. Dangling something about the Chinese might make the difference.
Two minutes before the next communications window opened, Harvath cracked the car window and checked his watch.
Outside, the market continued to swirl around them. Somewhere nearby, as if they were in some sleepy corner of Paris, a radio was playing French jazz music.
At the appointed time, Harvath switched the radio back on and slipped its antenna out the window.
But once again, all he heard was the encrypted hiss.
“Boatyard. Your man is alive,” he said. “I repeat. Boatyard. Your man is alive.”
“Screw roses,” Morrell commented. “I should have said you owe me two cases of Jack.”
Harvath ignored him. After a pause, he radioed, “Boatyard. If you’re listening, we’re after the same people. The men in the SUV. Maybe we can help each other.”
He took his finger off the button and the hiss rushed back.
Morrell rolled onto his side, hoping to grab a nap. “Better.”
Harvath waited, but nothing came back over the radio.
He was about to switch it off when a male voice, speaking in accented English, cut through the static. “Who am I talking to?”
Morrell sat up in his seat and he and Harvath looked at each other.
“I’m the person who gave your operator medical assistance,” replied Harvath.
There was a pause. “Is he alive?”
“He lost a lot of blood and was taken to a hospital, but yes, he’s alive.”
A moment passed. “What do you want?” the man asked.
“A meeting.”
“For what?”
“To discuss what happened at the boatyard,” said Harvath. “We know why the men in the SUV were there.”
“Tell me then.”
“Not over an open channel.”
There was another pause, as if the man was considering Harvath’s request. “Why should I believe you?” the man asked.
“Because I know the man they picked up,” replied Harvath. “And I also know how they plan to blame your country for everything that has happened.”
There was no response. Just more silence. Outside, a large truck lumbered by.
Finally, the voice returned. “Come alone. No surveillance. No police.”
Harvath pulled out his phone and opened a blank note. “Where?”
The man gave him an address, told him to be there in an hour, and then once again the channel went dead.