Chapter 55
Koebler’s clients—who had become his protectors and now his exfiltrators—had once again thought of everything.
The armored Nissan Patrol had been intended to take him all the way back to the safe house. Had it not been shot up in the boatyard, it would have. With no other choice, the Chinese had shifted to their contingency.
They drove only far enough to reach a prearranged property—a garage hidden among repair shops and small warehouses where a damaged SUV could vanish behind a corrugated steel door in broad daylight.
The place belonged to a Chinese national. Like so many in the diaspora, he had learned that when Beijing made a request, refusing it could have consequences for family members half a world away. There, in less than three minutes, the switch happened.
Koebler was hustled out of the vehicle while a dead Chinese operative was dragged from the front seat, and a wounded one was helped out of the back seat of the vehicle.
Weapons, radios, and shell casings were placed in a large duffel.
Then the diplomatic plates went back on.
By the time Thai authorities found the Nissan, the Chinese embassy would have already been alerted and instructed to report it stolen.
Two Chinese operatives stayed behind to finish sterilizing the vehicle and to dispose of their dead colleague. The rest, including Koebler, pulled on full-face helmets, mounted waiting motorbikes, and vanished into the neighborhood.
They cut through alleys and market lanes too cramped for checkpoints.
Once, they slowed for a pair of Thai police officers standing next to a pickup, but the officers never so much as gave them a second look.
They had no idea the most wanted man in Bangkok was looking right at them from behind the tinted glass of his helmet.
When they finally arrived at the safe house, they rolled in through the rear entrance of the narrow commercial building. Koebler climbed off his bike and followed the other men upstairs. Inside, the rooms were cooler than outside, but only just.
The air smelled faintly of bleach, sweat, and day-old rice.
The curtains at the front were drawn and the TV in the corner was muted.
The dining table was covered with maps, papers, and laptops.
On a sideboard, radios sat in chargers and what Koebler assumed were burner phones stood in a tight row, each marked with a sticky note and what looked like Chinese characters.
A man handed him a bottle of water and pointed him toward a chair. Koebler sat, unscrewed the cap, and took a long swig. He was dehydrated and still trying to slow his pulse.
After swallowing, he closed his eyes for a moment to let the room stop moving. When he opened them again, his client was standing in the room.
Koebler hadn’t seen him since Teens. At the time, he hadn’t known whether the man had survived. Now he could see the sling, the careful way he carried himself, and the fact that, despite the pain in his face, he was still very much alive.
The client’s eyes went first to Koebler and then to the men who had brought him back. There was a brief exchange in either Mandarin or Cantonese. One of the men answered. Another gave a single, almost imperceptible shake of his head.
Koebler didn’t need to understand the language to understand the meaning. One dead. One wounded. The rest accounted for.
He set his water bottle down. “You took losses.”
“But you’re still alive,” the client said, his expression implacable.
It wasn’t reassurance. It was more of an accounting. Koebler heard it loud and clear. You still have value. But if that changes, so does your situation.
Matías had warned him that the Chinese would help, but only if he helped them first. What worried him was whether they would uphold their end once the work was done.
“Bangkok is closing,” the man continued. “The police and military are everywhere. Vehicles are being searched. We hear that one minute it’s based on size, the next it’s based on color. There’s no rationale, and checkpoints are multiplying by the hour.”
“Believe me,” said Koebler, “I’d rather already be on a plane.”
“Yes. Unfortunately, your photos are everywhere and that is no longer an option for you.”
Koebler had assumed as much. Everything was much more dangerous now. Dangerous, but not impossible.
“When do we move?” he asked.
The client didn’t answer right away. Instead he glanced down at the table and a map one of his men was studying.
“The roads south are already ugly,” the man said. “They’ll be worse after dark and worse still by morning.”
“So we stay put.”
“For the moment.”
Picking up the bottle, Koebler took another drink of water. “What about avoiding roads altogether? Alternate routes?”
“We’re examining multiple strategies,” the client replied.
They’d better be, Koebler thought. Whether by boat, rail, or some form of diplomatic cover, the next move had to be airtight. He was a foreign operative being smuggled toward the next phase of a mass-casualty attack. One screwup and all of them would be apprehended. Or worse.