She waited until close to midnight. His phone hadn’t moved for more than an hour, and it was a safe bet he was in for the night now. Maybe his “aide” Redcroft was close by, but beyond that, she didn’t expect him to have bodyguards. He never had in Llewellyn. And he was a senator, not the president or secretary of state. Besides, she thought he would value his privacy while he was in Bangkok. Three days, for government meetings? Maybe. But she thought he was here for something else. Something that might be difficult to explain to a bunch of Secret Service agents, or anyone else watching him closely.
She had a tuk-tuk drop her off a few blocks from the hotel, then walked. The moment she turned onto the street, the sounds of the city faded, and within a short distance the urban tumult had become no more than a steady hum in the background. This was a residential neighborhood, dignified and quiet. To her left were genteel apartment buildings; to her right, a long wall with tall bamboo behind it, protecting and concealing the hotel.
Halfway down the street, she came to the entrance—an ornate metal gate, open, with a small wooden building along the stone road behind it. Two uniformed guards were inside behind a glass window; another stood in front, holding a flashlight and a mirror attached to a telescoping pole. She caught a glimpse of a security camera affixed to the underside of the eaves, and was glad she was disguised, and keeping her head down. The guard outside nodded to her pleasantly enough, and she walked past, the soles of her shoes crunching softly on the gravel path, glad she hadn’t been asked for ID. Probably their job was to search the trunks and undersides of cars for explosives. Pedestrians, it seemed, were okay. But it was unnerving to encounter guards at the perimeter of the hotel at all. It made her aware of how much she didn’t know, how much she was winging this.
But she had to. She might never get a better chance.
The hotel’s fa?ade was dramatic and imposing: four stories of white stone, surrounded by palm trees swaying in the evening breeze; tall, rectangular, black lattice windows; square turrets on the top floor. There were a few concessions to Thai architectural tradition—the sinuous lines on the corners of the roof, for example—but for the most part, the structure was starkly contemporary, the ambiance that of an elegant fortress. Livia didn’t like it. Or maybe her feeling was just a reflection of what she was here for.
She walked inside. The lobby was equally imposing: a long rectangle lined with planters, and open to the guest floors and a latticed glass roof above. During the day, it would probably be flooded with light and feel airy and open, but just then, it struck Livia as a luxuriously decorated prison cellblock.
She wandered around for a while, getting acclimated, developing a feel for the layout of the place, taking in the vibe. A lot of foreigners—farang, a word she still remembered. All well dressed and prosperous-looking, some on the chic side, others more conservative. Hushed acoustics and soft music muting the sounds of conversation. An impeccable bar, with accents both classic and contemporary. Overall, an atmosphere of privilege, power, and discretion, old money mingling synergistically with new. You’re on the inside now, the place seemed to whisper. Where everyone else wants to be.
She noticed a security man by the elevators, checking to ensure guests who passed him had room keys. Damn, she hadn’t thought of that. She could have just paid for a room, assuming one was available, but didn’t want a record of having been here, let alone having stayed. But she thought she knew a better way regardless.
She went to the lounge, sat at the bar, and ordered a white wine. It didn’t take long for one of the farang—an all-American guy with designer sideburns, a dark linen sport jacket, and a white shirt open at the collar—to sit next to her. She smiled. How many times had she done this very thing, trolling for the kind of sex she liked, or better yet for a rapist?
“Buy you a drink?” he said, offering her a smile of his own.
“Oh,” she said. “You’re nice. What’s your name?”
He held out his hand, the sleeve pulling back to reveal a duly fabulous watch. “Mike. And you?”
Americans. They were so confident. She took his hand and said, “Hi, Mike. I’m Betty.” She smiled and held on to his hand a beat longer than might be expected.
He glanced at her wineglass, which was still about half full. “So, how about that drink, Betty?”
She leaned against his shoulder. “The thing is, Mike, I’ve had three already, and . . .” She stopped, laughing.
He laughed, too. “And?”
She was still pressed against his shoulder. “And . . . oh, man, I’m already pretty wasted.” She laughed again.
“Well, that’s okay. I’m pretty wasted, too.”
“Are you really?”
“Yeah. Closed a big deal tonight. The client took everyone out to celebrate.”
Men, she thought. Always such little peacocks.
“Well, hey,” she said. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks. Thought I’d have one more by myself before turning in, just to savor the moment, you know? But I’m glad I ran into you.”
She looked at him appreciatively. It wasn’t hard; he wasn’t a bad-looking guy. “So, are you staying here?”
He nodded. “I am indeed. Suite with a nice minibar. You?”