Gunmetal Gray

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Court sat parked seventy-five yards away from the blond woman in the skimpy teal dress. Through the binoculars he’d pulled from his go-pack on the front seat next to him, he could see the woman on her bare knees in the narrow alley, treating one of two men lying there.

He wondered if she still had the Glock and the .38 on her. Her teal minidress was form-fitting with a high-rise waistline, so it certainly didn’t lend itself to hiding two pounds of steel, polymer, and ammo, but Court couldn’t see well enough into the dark alley from here, and for all he knew she could have taped or tied the weapons to her thighs if she had to, or she might have had a purse she’d laid next to the men that he couldn’t see from here.

While she continued to work alone in the dark below the fire escape, flames and smoke poured out of the windows of the building right next to her. Everyone else — civilians, police, firefighters — were all staying out of the alley because of the danger there, but Court knew the blonde wasn’t going to remain undetected for long, because she was just forty or fifty yards from the intersection on the opposite side of the block from Court, and there a Bangkok fire department truck and a crowd of onlookers were in plain view, and she was in plain view of them if they took the time to shine a light up the alley.

As Court focused again on the woman performing immediate-action first aid on the two prostrate figures, a black Audi coupe rolled up to the mouth of the alleyway between Court and the blonde, just half a block from the American’s Toyota four-door. The Audi turned into the alley but stopped abruptly, likely because of the fire and the narrowness of the channel between the buildings.

A man climbed out of the driver-side door, then knelt and pulled his seat forward to access the backseats in the coupe. He left his door open as he jogged off up the alley.

Court realized instantly this was the man he’d pegged as an SVR operative in the nightclub earlier. Clearly he’d left the car door open because he planned on carrying the injured men to his car.

Court looked at the open back door on the far side of the man’s vehicle, then quickly pulled one of his phones out of his pack along with the Bluetooth earpiece he’d bought with it, and he climbed out of his Toyota. He took off in a sprint for the Audi.

As he ran he dialed the number of his other phone — he’d written it on a piece of tape affixed to the back of the device — and then he paired that phone with the Bluetooth earpiece. As soon as he got to the car he ducked down behind it and looked up the alley, and here he saw that the man in the suit and the blonde were both kneeling over one of the men lying on his back.

Court reached into the Audi and crammed the cell phone under the driver’s seat, then took the tiny Bluetooth earpiece and wedged it between the driver’s headrest and the seat back, careful to position the device so only the microphone tip was visible, and then only to someone really looking for it.

Court spun back out of the Audi, then ran back for his own car in a crouch.

Oleg Utkin knelt down over Vasily and Ruslan, but he did not render first aid. Instead he looked up at the bright intersection ahead, which was crowded with firefighters.

He slowly surveyed the alley around him. A dead Chinese man in a black suit was crumpled against the wall between some metal garbage cans. He asked, “Where is the rest of Anna?”

Zoya pointed up, and Utkin looked to the fire escape. There, just a few meters over his head, Pyotr, Yevgeni, and Andrei all lay there in a heap, their bodies a twisted mass. Blood dripped down from multiple locations, missing Oleg by no more than a couple of feet.

Zoya said, “Before he passed out, Vasily said Mikhail was killed on the fourth floor.”

“Der’mo. How bad are they?” he asked, referring to the two survivors.

“They’ll survive if we get them to a hospital.” She had removed their guns and gear and radios, Ruslan’s body armor, and the extra magazines she found in Vasily’s pockets. She threw the equipment over by the dead Chinese operative.

Oleg knelt down and started to lift Vasily.

Zoya said, “What are you doing?”

“Taking him to the car. Get his legs.”

“I just told you they need a hospital.” She stood up, waved to the firefighters forty meters away on the well-lit street, and shouted for them to help.

Oleg said, “No! These men can’t be interviewed by police!” He started to heave Vasily up alone, but Zoya grabbed Utkin by the arm and spun him to face her.

“They’ll die!”

Utkin said, “Then they’ll die! I have my orders. No compromise.”

But Bangkok firefighters had heard Zoya, and they were already running over. Zoya found one who spoke some English, and she showed the man the wounds on the two men. He immediately spoke into his radio, while other firemen grabbed the victims to pull them farther away from the burning building, closer to the dead Chinese gunman.

The firemen stared in astonishment at all the weapons and bullet holes in the four men, and Zoya realized they hadn’t even seen the dead men on the fire escape’s landing.

Zoya walked over to Ruslan and Vasily and said some soft soothing words in English while she appeared to hug them, one after the other, in plain view of the firemen, but in truth she was fishing around for their mobile phones, both of which she pulled off of them.

Utkin just stood there in the dark, fuming.

Zoya stood and walked over to him and spoke softly in Russian. “Where’s your car?”

“Right there.” He pointed up to the corner, behind the building where the Audi sat with its back door open.

Zoya said, “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

But she was already heading to the car. “Away from here.”

A minute later the Audi raced through the nearly empty streets, heading north. Hundreds of yards behind them, Court followed along with his earpiece in his ear and his mobile phone broadcasting anything said inside the vehicle, though the sound wasn’t great and Court’s Russian was far from perfect.

He also had the screen of his mobile in his lap displaying an application that showed him the location of the other phone, a feature he’d taken pains to set up the day before, knowing that with this app the phone could be used as both a surveillance device and a tracking device.

The conversation in the Audi had involved a good bit of shouting, mostly from the man behind the wheel. Court could tell the man was driving because his voice was much closer to the microphone.

It was hard for Court to understand them at first, but as he tuned into their voices his comprehension improved. The argument hinged on whether it was the right call to hand the survivors of their group over to the Thai authorities. The blonde insisted she had no choice, and the big man chastised her, saying this was his operation and she had no authority to do what she had done.

The two Russians went a full minute without speaking, and then the man said, “I was warned you might show up. You were ordered to return to Moscow. You have no business here.”

The woman did not reply to this.

“And what the hell are you wearing? You infiltrated the Chamroon Syndicate dressed as a whore? Your father would be so proud of you.”

“Fuck you, Oleg.”

“Seriously. Your presence here has compromised—”

“Why are we talking about me? Your whole team was just wiped out, while under your command.”

“And that’s my fault? I reported what I saw, and they went in. Where were you when Vasily’s team took fire?”

“I was upstairs in the middle of the firefight.” A pause. “Where the hell were you?”

“I don’t answer to you, Sirena.”

“Da, you’re right. You answer to Lubyanka. In fact, why don’t we just call them right now?”

There was another significant pause. Court could tell the man was looking to deflect blame onto the girl, who was clearly an SVR operative herself, and one who was already in trouble with her masters.

The driver then asked, “What did you learn in there?”

The woman answered, “Nattapong Chamroon is dead in the nightclub. His brother, Kulap, is the one with Fan. He is on the move with him now. I know where they are going.”

“Where did you learn this?”

“Nattapong told me.”

“You just said he was… oh… I see. Where is Kulap taking Fan?”

Court cocked his head in the trailing vehicle when the woman called Sirena didn’t answer.

The man behind the wheel said, “Listen, Sirena. I came here for intel, and I’m going to get it!”

“Is that some sort of a threat?” she asked.

“This has been a costly evening already. I’m just suggesting you don’t make it worse.”

Court listened in as he drove, concentrating on every word to understand. He could not see the vehicle ahead of him, but on his phone he could tell they’d just turned left on Rama IX Road. Court was a minute behind them, at least, but he didn’t want or need to get any closer.

The woman replied, “I’ll talk to Lubyanka after you drop me off.”

“The hell you will.” The man said a woman’s name now, but Court couldn’t pick it up. He thought it might have been Stoya. “I can blame you and put this entire affair behind me.”

“Ha,” she said, clearly not taking him as seriously as Court took the threat. “Too bad for you Ruslan and Vasily are still alive.”

“They’ll cover for me,” Oleg said coldly.

“You’re insane,” Sirena said. “I’ll make a deal with you, though.”

“I’m listening.”

“You know how important it is to get Fan back. You also know that the minute Lubyanka finds out what happened tonight, on top of what happened in Vietnam, they will pull us out of the field.”

The man said, “Have you forgotten they did that to you already?”

The woman ignored Oleg, and Court listened to the passion in her voice. “Dammit, Oleg Petrovich! I am just asking for you to come help me now. I know where Fan is going, and we can get him. Then we can contact Moscow. Otherwise all this has been for nothing.”

Court liked the intensity of this woman, even if she worked for the wrong team. He caught himself rooting for her to win her argument.

But when Oleg did not reply, Court started to worry.

And when he saw on his GPS phone tracker that the car was pulling off the road and stopping, his concern only grew.

The woman spoke in confusion, now, but not in alarm. “Ti choto?” What the hell?

He heard a struggle, banging and grunting, and then the woman screamed. “Podozhdi! Nyet! Ne nado!” Wait! No! Don’t do it!

A gunshot cracked in Court’s earpiece, and he floored the gas pedal, racing towards the blip on his tracking app, a half mile ahead.