10.
Pendergast returned to the hotel long enough to make a slightly complicated delivery arrangement with the front desk, leaving them with a thick package and a wad of money as both payment and bribe to be sure it was handled correctly. Then he visited his room for a time, ate a well-spiced bowl of pho that he barely tasted, and then put on the persona of the feckless journalist again. He had misgivings about using the same generic role more than once, but there were comparatively few options even for him on the city streets. Though he could change his face slightly, rely on forgetfulness and disinterest, there were few ways to hide his height or his skin enough to pass as anything other than a traveler.
. . .
Three nights of terrible beer and even worse music in half a dozen little holes, and the 'journalist' didn't track any of the faces from the pictures. Nor did he cross paths with his previous target, the pimp Banak. The mornings meant avoiding the hotel phone, instead leaving short, regular messages with the embassy's automated service to offer bland assurances about his efforts. He could not ever be forced to claim, nor could it be proven that he was avoiding Jameson's attempts to make contact, but the outcome was the same regardless. Besides, the assurances were still the best he could give. Now it was just the slow hunt, and the waiting game, in a city of over a million and a half.
. . .
On the fifth night, bored and frustrated with the city's ability to reinvent itself with new people and new illicit markets every night, he left the hotel at a far later hour than usual, in a manner far stranger than usual.
A few otherwise useless rumors repeated across clubs had given him the name and location of a brothel in the south side of the city, one that a number of peddlers and sex merchants regarded with enough grudging trust to hold the occasional casual meeting at. For a change, he dressed himself all in deep, color-eating blacks and greens, dropped himself like an unsmiling Cheshire cat from the balcony of his room and then kept to shadows and rooftops to go and see.
. . .
The brothel had no name, no sign nor special presence to make it known. It was a dusty, two floor brick and metal building whose arching windows still had hints of the old French Colonial influence. The only clue rested with two surprisingly large bouncers stationed outside the front door. Each was armed with cheap, outdated M16 assault rifles and a jovial, alarming set of smiles. The back was blocked up with trash and broken stonemasonry, but there were slightly open windows all around the building to let in the grudging breeze.
Agent Pendergast perched himself a few feet back from the edge of a sharp metal rooftop overlooking the place, hunched down as small and compactly as he could around his long legs, and watched the comings and goings through a set of military-grade night binoculars. There were many to watch, most of them tourists running the gamut from shame-faced to boisterous. He watched the night air shift the curtains from room to room, picking out what voices he could from the building. As active as the business was, the women made nearly no sound, letting the clientele say or shout what they will. The silence otherwise troubled him, tickling at memories entirely unhelpful and so he shoved them away.
For all the faces, none were familiar. If there were meetings held there, one was not that night.
He let the binoculars drop, squinting down at the passings-by with his own sharp eyes, rubbing once at the narrow bridge of his nose with a gloved finger.
Time passed, and he allowed a small taste of frustration to wash over and through him, then ignored it. He had what his few trails could give him. Now he needed only a little more luck. Perhaps not that night, but he could be patient. He could be patient a very long time.
Another hour passed and he shifted at last, very slightly. Dawn would be coming, and the Cambodian sun seemed to rise quick. He moved to put the binoculars away and then stopped, changing course to pull them back up to his eyes.
Banak ambled up the street, cockily greeting the bouncers with rapid-fire conversation in both Khmer and English. That was something. Pendergast still had no guarantee that it was a worthwhile place to press, but the man had clear power in the clubs where he did go, and that meant a slight chance he knew Siha's 'brothers.'
When the pimp pushed through the bouncers into the building, Pendergast picked his route across the surrounding rooftops and jumped to the brothel's stone top. He dropped his head down to peer along the back of the building, eyeing a single dark room with a window open the slightest bit wider than the rest.