Gunmetal Gray

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Zoya and Court drove through a perfectly sunny day along Phetkasem Road, which ran north to south from the capital all the way to the Malaysian border. They took turns resting and driving, but for large swaths of the trip they were both awake. The conversation was stilted; both of them were tired despite catching a little rest, but the main impediment to their new relationship was the fact that neither was very experienced in opening up to others, especially others affiliated with foreign intelligence services.

Six hours into the drive, Court was behind the wheel, and he decided he’d try to probe a little, if only just to help him stay awake. Zoya sat with her knees to her chest and her chin resting on them; she looked out the window, bored.

Court said, “I know I’m not going to get too much out of you regarding your past, but I have to ask. Your English is the best I’ve ever heard from a Russian. Where did you learn?”

“In school,” Zoya replied, and she left it there.

“You say phrases that are uniquely American. A lot of Europeans are trained in British English, but not you.”

“I watched TV. We had a lot of shows from America.”

Court didn’t believe her, and he sighed in frustration.

Upon hearing this Zoya said, “Tell me about your Russian. Where did you learn that?”

Court had learned in the CIA, mostly on the job, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to say that even though he figured she’d be able to guess. After a few seconds he said, “You made your point.” They drove along in silence for a few more seconds, and then he tried something else. “I saw you climb the side of that villa the other night. That was pretty impressive. Were you in the circus when you were a kid?”

“As a matter of fact, I was.”

“Seriously, you were like a damn spider monkey.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

Court waited for the real story, but it never came. She’d had some sort of advanced training, perhaps even paramilitary training, and she’d maintained her skill, through either more training or real-world ops.

He didn’t call her out, and he didn’t push her.

He just said, “It’s going to be a long drive, isn’t it?”

She turned to him. “What kind of music do you like?”

Court shrugged. “Stuff you won’t find on the radio in the backcountry of Thailand.”

Zoya nodded. “Then yes, it’s going to be a long drive.”

Delayed by a flat tire and a traffic accident that backed up the two-lane highway for miles, the Toyota Vios finally crossed the bridge that brought them onto Phuket Island at ten p.m. local time. Court and Zoya stopped for dinner at the first restaurant they found. Court chose khao neow moo ping, pork skewers in rice, while Zoya proved herself to be the braver of the pair by ordering tom luad moo, a soup made from pork intestines and lungs and flavored with Thai chilies.

They then drove to the Trisara Phuket, a five-star resort in the Thalang District on the northern side of the island with a view of the Andaman Sea, part of the Indian Ocean. They checked in for three nights, and Court used the passport delivered to him in Bangkok by the CIA station that claimed his name was Chad Waverly.

When the man at hotel reception asked for Zoya’s passport, she rolled her eyes, leaned onto the desk, and gave a tired smile. She told the hotel employee her name was Whitney Waverly, she was Chad’s wife, and in what Court thought was an incredibly convincing Chicago accent she explained that her purse had been stolen in Bangkok and, so far, the U.S. embassy had been “absolutely freakin’ worthless” in helping her get a replacement passport.

Court couldn’t help but stare in awe at her Oscar-worthy performance; Zoya sold her legend completely, and soon they were on their way to their ocean-view suite.

As they walked Court said, “You grew up in the States.” It wasn’t a question.

“No,” she said; her Chicago accent was gone, again replaced by just the faintest Russian accent.

“You’re gonna tell me you learned that watching TV back on the collective farm?”

“Collective farm? I grew up in a house, same as you, I guess. Running water, indoor plumbing. Almost like a real person.”

Court was egging her on, trying to get information. “Yeah, well, I hope my Russian sounds half as convincing as your English does.”

“Say something in Russian and I’ll let you know.”

Court switched to Russian and made up a quick story that mirrored hers, claiming his name to be Ivan Ivanovic, saying he was from St. Petersburg, and he’d accidentally spilled caviar on his passport.

Zoya just rolled her eyes, and when he was finished she said, “You want the truth or do you want me to be nice?”

“I’m tired. I’ll take nice.”

“You sound like a Russian with a head injury and a speech impediment.”

“Jesus. What if I said I wanted the truth?”

“Then I would have said you sounded like an American with a head injury and a speech impediment speaking bad Russian.”

Court knew his Russian was better than that. He couldn’t pass as a native speaker, but he could carry on conversations without too much trouble. Still, with her skill in languages it was no surprise she was a tough critic.

“Why did I ever marry you, Whitney?” he joked.

Zoya did not miss a beat. “Must have been the head injury, Chad.”

Court and Zoya toured around their well-appointed ocean-view suite, then went out on the patio off the bedroom and looked past the private infinity pool to the beach and the Andaman Sea. To the east, the lights of several large private villas owned by the resort lay sprawled along a green hillside, and beyond them the hills turned into thick jungle.

The Chamroon property was out there, just off to the east. And the resort afforded two Westerners the perfect reason to be here in the first place. This was one of the most luxurious and romantic destinations in Thailand, after all, so no one would doubt that a young couple of means from the States might be walking around here, swimming in the ocean, or hiking the nearby jungle trails.

They’d have to do everything as a couple, but they were both pros, and they could adopt their aliases easily.

Court surveyed the opulent grounds with his binoculars from his patio, and he knew that right about now Suzanne Brewer would be sitting in her office looking at an American Express charge that would make her blood boil.

Back inside he found the woman who now called herself Whitney adjusting the stereo, finding a new age station and turning the volume up on some atmospheric music that made Court think the Russian woman was about to start doing yoga on the floor.

She then went into the bathroom and turned on the water in the tub, then returned to Court and took him by the arm out to the patio.

He’d expected her tradecraft to be as practiced as his own, but he was fascinated to watch her. She did things much as he did, and as a singleton operative, he found it strange to see someone else virtually mimicking his way of functioning in the field.

She said, “We can see Chamroon’s property from the beach to the east of here.”

Court said, “We have to allow for the fact that Chamroon has informants at this resort. If he is running a criminal organization the size and scope of this syndicate, it would be foolish to leave this hotel next to his estate as a blind spot in his security setup.”

“I agree,” Zoya said. “And if anyone here at the hotel has their eyes on us, our going up the beach with binoculars right now, just after arriving, is going to look suspicious.” She added, “Our clothes will look strange, too. I don’t have anything for a beach vacation, but there’s a boutique off the lobby I saw on the way in.”

The image of Suzanne Brewer looking at more of Chad Waverly’s Amex charges, especially charges that included women’s beachwear, gave Court a brief moment’s pleasure.

He said, “First thing tomorrow morning we’ll get some suitable clothes, and we’ll do some exploring. For now, we get some sleep.”

Zoya said, “Okay.”

She looked uncomfortable for a moment, and Court thought he understood.

He said, “You take the bed. This will seem strange, but when I am operational, I usually sleep in the closet.”

“I sleep in the closet, too,” she said.

Court continued to be amazed her tradecraft so closely matched his own.

Zoya added, “But… there is just the one closet.”

“No problem,” Court said. “I’ll take the floor on the far side of the bed. And the pistols. That will make me feel a little safer.”

“You won’t give me one of the guns?”

Court shook his head. “Not even one of the knives. Sorry, Banshee. I like you, but I’m a shitty judge of character. I’ve liked people in the past who’ve tried to kill me.”

They both slept hard and woke up early the next morning, and after breakfast they went for a walk along the beach to the east that took them to the area below the Chamroon estate high on the cliffs. The helipad was just south of the home, which meant if there was a helicopter there they should have been able to see it from where they walked, but they saw nothing but a mansion surrounded by a low wall.

They returned to the hotel lobby and the boutique there and, fortunately for both of them, they were able to outfit themselves with clothes that would help them fit in on the beach or hiking through the jungle. Zoya made a joke about Chad’s company paying for their trip, the insinuation being that she knew the CIA was footing the bill, but Court didn’t go for the bait and say anything more about his relationship with the Agency.

By the early afternoon they’d hiked all over the area around the resort to get their bearings. The Chamroon estate was massive and walled but just guarded with a couple of gatehouses, a few patrolling guards, and a couple of Jeeps with young men sitting in them. Also, as had been the case in Vietnam, the local police presence seemed to be watching over the estate, as both Court and Zoya had noticed the occasional patrol car rolling by.

They rented kayaks in the late afternoon and looked at the area from a few hundred yards offshore, and while Zoya and Court agreed that the facility seemed well protected, neither of them had a baseline on the guard setup to compare against, so they couldn’t say whether Fan Jiang and Kulap Chamroon were inside. It might have just been the case that the hearty security situation was common for the property, or that the boss was expected in the next day or two.

They agreed they would not breach the property until Kulap’s helicopter arrived or they had some other indicator of an increased security profile around the area. They decided they’d rent a boat and diving equipment the following morning, then take a picnic lunch to a small island just offshore of the estate. There they would be able to use their optics to get a decent look around the area, and possibly even inside windows of the building.

Court and Zoya had worked well together all day, and Court found that Zoya’s earlier reluctance to open up to him was slowly giving way. She’d mentioned she’d enjoyed boating as a child, and she talked about some of the upper-body exercises she did to keep in shape. She also gave Court some insights into her ability to disguise herself with wigs, changes to her eyes, and foreign accents.

It wasn’t much, and it was positively wooden for two people who were supposed to be married, but Court found himself hanging on every word Banshee said that didn’t have to do with the operation.

Moving around the resort all day meant they attracted the notice of the hotel staff, so they decided that for their second evening here they would need to do something in keeping with their legends. They both agreed dinner and drinks out among the other guests would help bolster their cover for status.

They went to the bar for a drink at sunset, dressed casually but neatly, just like everyone else here at the stylish lounge with the views of the sea. There were several other couples and even a few families sitting around, and the two intelligence officers made small talk with others around the bar when spoken to. A South African family regaled them about their travels, and a British couple in their fifties enjoying a second honeymoon talked about the great diving in the area. They even met a couple from Chicago at the bar, and since Zoya had already committed to a cover claiming to be from their city, they asked her questions that would have made Court squirm if he were in her shoes.

But she answered confidently, and the other couple clearly bought into her legend in full.

Court was glad to see that he and the Russian woman had established their bona fides, because he identified one of the two bartenders as a potential informant. The man asked a lot of questions of the foreign guests, Court and Zoya included, and he seemed to be listening in to the conversations of all the English speakers.

Court assumed the man was in the employ of the Chamroon Syndicate, and he had no specific concerns about the American couple, although he might have been ordered to increase his scrutiny in light of what happened two evenings earlier in Bangkok.

After their drink Court and Zoya were led to a romantic table right out on the sandy beach, and here they both made idle chitchat about the restaurant while their hands felt around under the table and their chairs, subtly as to not draw any attention to their actions. They both felt confident there were no listening devices present, but only when a band started playing on a riser on the beach nearby did they speak openly.

Zoya simply said, “That bartender.”

Court nodded. “Yep. He’s getting paid to snoop into the guests.”

“Right, but do you think he’s getting paid by the neighbor?”

“I do.”

Zoya had been thinking the same thing. “Pretty sure we satisfied him we were legit.”

“You did,” Court said. “That was amazing; you really know Chicago.”

She shook her head with a smile. “I’ve never been.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

“I’ll prove it. Name any one of the top twenty-five largest U.S. cities.”

Court shrugged. “Jacksonville.”

Her eyes furrowed. “Okay… name another.”

“Philadelphia.”

Zoya slipped effortlessly into her Philly accent, talked about her high school there and how she’d wanted to go to Penn State but ended up having to go to Pitt, and then she dropped the name of the street her apartment was on and talked a little about her view of the Delaware River.

Court realized he would have been fooled if he’d met her on the street.

“You are so completely full of shit.” Court said it with an amazed smile on his face.

She took this as a compliment. “Very true. I can do the top cities in the UK, Germany, France, Belgium… and a few other places.” She added, “I’m working on Australia, as well. UK and Germany are my favorites because people from there don’t make you answer a hundred questions about your life. I’d never say I was from Dallas or Atlanta, because if I met someone from there they’d probably try to adopt me and I’d never get away.”

Court laughed. He noticed her growing ease in talking to him, which was more than likely helped along by the alcohol. She seemed relaxed and in her element here, which was amazing to him considering forty-eight hours earlier she was in the role of a drug-addled human trafficking victim, and a few days before that she’d been ninja-ing her way through a gun battle in Vietnam.

Court was fascinated by Banshee. He could slip into and out of roles as required by his job, of course, but he’d never been around anyone else who could pull it off.

After more wine she seemed comfortable to a point where Court felt he could finally probe a little more, and when their entrées came, Court took a chance. “How did you get into this life?”

Zoya sipped her pinot noir. “Is this where you try to break through my tough exterior?”

“No… I tried that yesterday. This is where you see that I’m just making conversation, and you let your walls down just a little.”

She smiled, put her glass down, and gave a little shrug. “Military family. A lot of travel. Other kids in the same situation were always complaining about moving all the time, but I loved it. I got to reinvent myself every couple of years. My identity became tied to my ability to change my identity. I’m weird. This is the perfect job for me.” She looked off towards the dark ocean. “It was, anyway. I don’t know what I will do now.”

“Only child?”

She turned with a little smile, but the smile faded, and she looked at him for a long time. Court realized he’d said something wrong. To his surprise, though, she answered, and her answer seemed authentic.

“My older brother passed away when I was young. He was in college, studying to be a doctor.”

“How did he die?”

“Natural causes. Cancer. Twenty-three years old.”

“Christ,” Court said. “I’m sorry.”

She just sipped more wine with a little nod.

Court tried to get her thinking about anything else, so he asked another question. “You went into the military yourself?”

She shook her head. “No. Something about being eighteen and not wanting to give up my freedom.” Court wasn’t sure if it was true, but he caught himself believing her.

“But you found another way to serve Russia.”

Her eyes narrowed a bit now as she cut into her grilled fish, and Court realized he was asking too many questions. As expected, she turned it around on him. “Why do you do what you do?”

Court’s real story was more complicated than he was willing to share. The truth was he’d been the son of a police officer and an expert in weaponry who trained CIA officers in firearms tactics. He’d developed incredible skills with guns at a young age. Then, when Court was just eighteen, he’d had a falling-out with his father, and to rebel he’d slipped into the periphery of the criminal underworld as a bodyguard for a drug dealer in Miami. He’d gone to prison at nineteen for killing three of his employer’s would-be assassins, but the CIA gave him the option of freedom in exchange for working with them.

No… he wasn’t going to go into all that. Instead he just said, “It’s what I was born to do. I don’t always like it, sometimes I hate it, but I don’t really question it much anymore.”

“Remind me to use that answer next time someone like you asks me the same question,” Zoya said coolly.

“Relax, Whitney. You’re still one of the most defensive and unforthcoming people I’ve ever met.”

“Likewise, Chad.”

They ate in silence for a moment, and Court saw her relaxed mood slipping away quickly. He thought he should reveal something about himself now, if only to keep her from shutting down completely. “I was raised by my dad. A Marine and a cop. My mom died when I was a kid.”

Zoya looked him hard in the eyes. After a time it became clear that she believed him. “My mother died when I was six. My father died when I was a teenager.”

“Sorry. You suffered a tremendous amount of loss at a young age.”

“It made me stronger in some ways.”

Court regretted his attempt to refire the conversation. They sat quietly under the torchlights for a while, until they finished their second bottle of wine and Court called for the check.