Noble Lies (19 page)

In a few hours IMP agents would be swarming aboard. Shawn said they'd take the ship from the pirates without firing a shot, but who knew what the pirates would do. In all the commotion it would be easy to mistake one of the Indians in the cabin for pirates. He could go back and warn them, tell them to stay in their cabin just like he had warned Pim. But as soon as the idea formed, he dismissed it. One word from them, one nervous look and the whole operation could be ruined and all of it traced back to him. They could well be innocent tourists but they could also be part of the captured crew. They could even be the pirates. He walked on. One way or the other, when the shooting started, they'd know what to do.

Mark stepped through the open bulkhead door and into the passageway. There was a fresh coat of white paint on the walls and exposed pipes, and there was a dull sheen to the linoleum floor. The ship seemed better maintained than he expected but cosmetic repairs were cheap—the real problems would be under the paint. Hands in his pockets like he was out for a stroll, Mark headed toward the humming sound. He could hear voices echoing from somewhere in the ship, the words lost in the ambient noise. Just past a coiled, wall-mounted hose and long-handled fire ax, a stairwell opened on his right. He turned and without a pause, started down the steep steps. He'd only have one chance to claim he was lost, might as well make it count. He moved quickly but made little sound, counting the flights of steps as he went, the engine noises getting louder with each level. Six flights down he heard them, seven flights down he could make out their voices, Thai or Chinese, he didn't know. He thought about ducking out on one of the levels, waiting till the voices passed, but he wasn't sure where they were. He might walk right into them. He slowed up but kept moving down the stairs. He rounded the top of the ninth flight and froze. Two men were sitting in the passageway, their backs to the stairwell. Neither man turned as Mark backed up the steps, the diesel engine masking the sound.

Mark moved into the shadows of the landing. Below, the conversation continued, and he heard someone open a soft drink can. From his angle the passageway looked just like the one he started on, just like every passageway he had passed, down to the fire hose and fresh paint. But there was something different about the one below. Every passageway had the same wall-mounted light fixtures with the same fluorescent bulbs in clear glass casings, the lighting dim and industrial. But below it was different—the warm glow of natural light—and Mark knew he had found the fantail deck and the door he would have to open.

“Fuck you doing here?” a voice shouted, the thick Australian accent loud enough to be heard over the engine's din. Mark turned, his best blank expression on his face. He was a big man with a full beard and small eyes that squinted in the darkness. He was carrying a pipe wrench in one hand, a clipboard in the other. He shifted his grip on the wrench as he hung the clipboard on a peg in the wall.

“I'm looking for the dining hall,” Mark said, doing his best to look lost and foolish.

The man stared at him hard, his small eyes narrowing as he spoke. “Rack off the way you came. And don't let me see you down here again.”

Mark gave a timid smile and pointed up, still playing his role. “Do you know where the dining hall is?”

“Yeah,” the man said, hefting the wrench to his shoulder, not saying another word.

Mark knew he could step over and take the wrench from the man, slap him upside the head with it before the man saw him move. Instead he nodded and looked down, turned and went up the stairs two steps at a time. He was two flights up when he heard a group of men laughing below.

He reached his level and kept going, the stairs running out three flights up. The passageway looked like all the others—he turned to his right and started walking, stepping outside to a narrow deck that looked out toward the open sea. The ship was still at the dock and toward the bow, cranes loaded pallets of last-minute supplies onboard. Open hulled transports chugged past and a few cabin cruisers darted through the port. He was looking out at the water, watching a line of long-tails negotiate the passage, and didn't see the man approach.

“Are you English?” the man in the captain's uniform said, coming toward him, a stack of papers rolled in his hand, the words clipped by his accent or anger, Mark wasn't sure.

“American,” Mark said, certain the man already knew the answer.

The captain stepped closer, crowding Mark against the waist-high railing. “Then you will tell me what I need to know.”

Mark waited.

The captain unrolled the papers and glanced down. “Tell me, Mister American, what is a four letter word that starts with K?”

Mark looked straight at the man as he shifted his weight off his heels to the balls of his feet, ready now. He said, “Kill?”

The captain leaned forward. “No, mister American, that is not it.” He held up the papers in his hand and jabbed a fat finger at an unfinished crossword puzzle. “The last letter must be J.”

For a moment, no one said anything.

Mark wet his lips, still watching the man's eyes. “What's the clue?”

The captain pursed his full lips and looked down at the crossword. “Ach, I don't use the clues. I put in any words that fit.”

“Isn't that cheating?”

“You think it is easy?” the captain said, his voice rising. “Ach. Clues. Anyone can do it with clues. Now you tell me, what is the word?”

“Four letters, starts with a K and ends with a J?” Despite everything, Mark found himself running down lists of words. After a moment he shook his head. “I don't think there is any.”

“What about kudj?” the captain said, his eyebrows arching as he waited.

“That's not a real word.”

“Perhaps. But it fits,” he said, pulling a pen out of his shirt pocket and printing in the letters. When he was finished he took a last look at the papers, then rolled them up and stuffed them in his back pocket. He leaned his forearms on the railing and looked out to sea. “How do you like Malaysia?”

Mark leaned in alongside the man, their elbows almost touching. He hadn't expected to talk with the captain that Shawn had called a filthy pirate, but now saw no reason why he shouldn't. “I didn't see much. Just here in Langkawi.”

“Ach, you should get down to Penang. That is a…a picturesque, yes? That is a picturesque city. You can skip KL—Kuala Lumpur—it is not as nice, unless you like big cities, then it is very nice. But now you go to India. Have you been?”

“No,” Mark said, looking at the horizon.

“It is different from Malaysia. Very crowded. Good trains, though.”

They stood there, leaning for several minutes, watching a sleek cabin cruiser glide past. The boat turned and they could read the name painted in black across the stern. The Pirate's Curse.

“Ach, that is a stupid name.”

Mark nodded. “Especially in these waters.”

“Yes, I suppose that, too. Who would put a curse on their own boat?”

“I heard that there are a lot of pirates around here,” Mark said, surprised that the words came out so easily, the hair on the back of his neck dancing.

“Nayah, this is true. Not so much now, but ten years ago, yes, very true. But not for ships like this. Nothing to steal.”

“But they could still get aboard,” Mark said, pushing it. “They could damage the ship.”

The captain pointed along the bow of the ship. “There is the wire,” he said, miming razor sharp points. “And at night we put on the hoses and the lights. That is enough.”

“Is it?” Mark said, looking over as he smiled.

“Yes, plenty. Still, we have these,” he patted an odd-shaped holster on his belt.

“That a gun?”

The captain grunted and reached back with his hand, popping open the snap and drawing the weapon. It had a standard pistol grip but that's all Mark recognized. Instead of a barrel there was a stubby black box capped with a bright yellow plastic cover. Matching yellow hash marks moved down the side of the box ending in a lightning bolt that ran down the grip to the wide base. It reminded Mark of a cordless screwdriver.

“Taser,” the captain said. “You know these?”

Instinctively Mark's left hand dropped down and rubbed his side. It was six years ago and there were never any charges filed, but he remembered the first time he saw a taser. The border guard had said he jumped five feet but Mark didn't remember a thing. “Yeah, I know them.”

“We all have them. The people on the water, the fishermen, they know it too. They tell others, soon everyone knows. We don't have problems.” He holstered the taser and was leaning back on the rail when his radio squawked. He held the radio to his ear.

“If he says he is not a cripple, let him walk,” he said into the radio, pausing for the reply. “That is not my problem. Let the Indians worry about that. If he has paid his fare we don't need a passport.” He looked at Mark and shook his head. “You ask about pirates? They are easy compared to this, this,” he pulled out the papers and glanced down at the crossword puzzle. “This kudj. We sail soon. Have a pleasant trip.”

 

Chapter Twenty seven

   

Mark lay on the bottom bunk, hands behind his head, eyes open, too dark to see the mattress that was just overhead. There was no clock in their cabin, but there was one in the communal bathroom at the end of the hall. When he had checked it had been eleven, so now it had to be close to midnight. He had to have the door open at two. He couldn't go early and wait, somebody might spot him, and he couldn't open the door and leave, somebody might come by and close it. He needed to be there right on time. It would only take a minute to rig up the alarm bypass. If he screwed it up and the alarm went off anyway, they would lose the element of surprise but the IMP team would be aboard and, as Shawn assured him, it would be all over in a few minutes. All he had to do now was stay awake.

He had started the day with an intense hangover. The same bottle of tequila he drank at home seemed somehow more potent in Thailand, and while the unknown pills the pharmacist gave Robin and the warm can of Zam Zam worked their collective magic, he knew he would have felt even better if he hadn't been drinking at all. A nap would help, but he knew he couldn't risk it. He rubbed a hand across his face and took a deep breath and counted the days in his head. Shawn had said they'd be back in Phuket City by early Sunday morning, so that would make it nine days. Robin had agreed to five hundred a week plus expenses. He hadn't thought to break it down per day but figured he'd just charge her for the week since she had to foot the bill for Pim and her family. Besides, the bonus would make up for the extra time.

He thought about Frankie Corynn. He could see her behind the bar in Phuket City, hazel eyes, red hair, hot body, that you-are-so-stupid smirk most guys thought was a flirtatious smile. You went too far, she had said, referring to the way he handled the bar fight; but she had said it so many times in the past, him going one step too far then stepping back to survey the damage, trying to find a way out of it. But this time was different. It wasn't his show. All he had to do was open a door and step back and let Shawn and his team handle it. It had been pretty easy after all.

“I didn't think it would be like this,” Robin said, breaking the dark silence.

He could picture her, lying on her back, staring up, just like him, waiting. “I was just thinking the same thing,” he said.

He could hear her sigh. Ten minutes passed. “What did he tell you?”

“You'll see him tonight,” Mark said.

“That's not what I asked. What did he tell you?”

“I'll let him tell you.”

“Oh shit, Mark,” she said, and the way she said it—another sigh floating in among the words—he could tell she had closed her eyes. “What has he gotten you into?”

He didn't answer and she didn't ask again.

 

***

 

With a gasp he awoke and jumped out of the bed, his hair brushing against the metal frame of the upper bunk. He had no sense of time, no idea how long he had been asleep. Ten minutes? A couple hours? Damn it, he couldn't tell. He held an arm out in front and crossed the cabin, feeling for the door. In the darkness he could hear Robin's steady, even, deep-sleep breathing. He opened the door, slipped out and closed it behind him. The hallway was brightly lit and empty. Barefoot, he ran to the bathroom to check the time, the alarm bypass equipment in the cargo pocket of his shorts bouncing against his thigh. He bumped open the door and looked at the clock.

Two twenty-five.

Shit.

He turned and raced down the hallway toward the open bulkhead door. He had planned on easing his way to the fantail deck, staying in the shadows, disabling the alarm and opening the door on time, avoiding the pirate crew and safeguarding the element of surprise. That plan was gone. He sprinted past the closed doors of the passenger cabins, out into the passageway and down the steep stairway, jumping the last three steps of each short flight.

A minute late, two minutes, that could be expected, anticipated. The Gulf had taught him that. But that was it. Five minutes late and you put a mission at risk. Ten minutes late and it was seriously screwed up.

Anything more than that and you were fucked.

Mark tore down the flights, his hand reaching ahead, grabbing a support pole and spinning as he made each tight turn. He was eight flights down when he saw the crewman in the passageway. He was young, tall and athletic, his eyes bright against his dark Indian features. He held up a hand as if hailing a cab as Mark came down the stairs.

“Excuse me, no passengers allowed—” the man managed to say before Mark swung an elbow up and under the man's jaw. Blood sprayed from the man's mouth as he staggered back against the bulkhead and then, with Mark already starting down the last set of stairs, falling face-first onto the floor.

The fantail deck was darker than the others, but there was still enough light for him to see what needed to be done. He dug the plastic-cased meter out of his pocket, snapped the rubber band and unfurled the wires. The bulkhead door that led out to the landing was bigger than he had expected, twice as wide as the other doors he had seen. There was no porthole in the door, just a double-handled lever in the center that was pulled far to the right, swinging the bolts up and wedging them in place. A black rubber seal was squeezed tight around the edge. He was running a hand along the doorframe, tracing the alarm wires from the trip-box above the door, when he saw the lock. With the door secured, two flat bars slid one on top of the other, the thick rounded shackle of a padlock passing through a pair of aligned holes. He looked at it for a second, then tossed the meter onto the floor and hurried back to the coiled fire hose by the stairs.

Shawn had warned him that if he opened the door without the bypass in place he'd alert the bridge. They'd be on him in five minutes; probably less. Much less. That wouldn't make a difference now. Once he started he'd be lucky to have two minutes. He yanked the long-handled fire ax from its brackets and turned back to the door. The lock was waist high and he came in at it on a run, stepping into the swing, shifting his weight, grunting as the ax clanged against the lock and the door.

Nothing.

He stepped back and hefted the ax to his shoulder, swinging, angling each blow down on the lock. His ears rang as metal bit into metal, and through the din he could hear shouts coming from the decks above. The shackle bent away from the lock and the last blow knocked it free. He dropped the ax and threw his weight onto the lever. The bars shifted and with a dull thump the bolts pulled back. The shouts were getting louder now, more urgent. He braced a foot on the doorframe and pulled. A bell alarm sounded and red lights blinked down the passageway. Mark turned and leaned his shoulder into the door, forcing it all the way open. A block of light spilled out the door and onto the open grating of the narrow platform, five feet above the waterline. On either side of the fantail deck, couch-sized yellow drums held depth-activated life rafts and a pair of orange life preserver rings hung on the railing. Beyond the railing the churning white wake rolled out of the square of light and into the black, empty night.

Twenty-five minutes late. Seriously fucked up.

He stepped out onto the platform. His shadow stretched behind the ship, bouncing on the foamy, rabid sea. Below him, the white noise of the wake drowned out the sound of the alarm bell and the shouts from inside. There were no ropes dangling down from the upper decks, and there was no way he was going overboard on his own.

He could go back in, grab the ax and make a stand, take a couple of them out before they overpowered him or shot him. He could see it coming anyway. But then they'd head upstairs and take their revenge on Robin and Pim, the old man and the boy. It was better out here. Not for him, shit no, but maybe for them. He leaned on the railing and looked out into the black night, surprised at how calm he felt. He didn't even jump when the hand reached up and grabbed his wrist.

“You're fucking late, you worthless fucking asshole,” Shawn spit out, pulling himself over the railing. “Now get the fuck out of the way.”

Mark started to say something but Shawn shoved past, pausing at the door, pointing the barrel of his Chinese-made assault rifle into the passageway before jumping through. Mark stepped to the side as dark shapes swarmed out from under the platform, tying off their black inflatable rafts and scurrying over and under the railings like a pack of wet rats. They were Thai and Chinese, in tee shirts and nylon shorts, a few in sandals but most barefoot, and all of them shouting now. There were no uniforms, no badges, no two guns alike. He saw several with machetes, the wooden handles wrapped in duct tape. Twenty, thirty men? They were pushing past him so fast he couldn't tell. Andy Cooper, a cigarette clenched between his teeth, swung a leg over the railing. He smiled at Mark, a wolfish, dirty smile, then pushed his way through the door. From inside the ship Mark heard the rapid reports of machine gun fire and the booms of shotgun blasts and screams that came from deep in the ship. The last shape climbed from the rafts and twisted between the railing—a kid gripping a rusty tire iron.

Twenty seconds after getting the door open they were all aboard, working their way through the ship, and twenty seconds after getting the door open, Mark knew the truth.

He rushed back through the door but already knew it was too late. The smell of cordite hung in the air, and the sound of gunfire, sharp and metallic, echoed down the passageways. He had to get back to the cabins, warn Robin and Pim. He reached for the ax but it was gone, then started back up the stairs. One flight up the man Mark knocked cold with an elbow to the chin still lay face down in the passageway, but now there were three bloody holes in the small of his back, his white tee shirt scorched by the point-blank blasts.

Had he been that stupid? Had he been so desperate to be doing something meaningful that he had fallen for it so easily? Shawn had sold it all the way. If he had been gung-ho and macho, Mark was sure he would have seen through it. But Shawn had played it right, ripping the organization he was pretending to lead with the same kind of complaints Mark had heard from battalion commanders in the Corps, that same self-mocking tone that separated the pretenders from those who've been there. But Shawn had been lying from the start and he'd bought every bit of it, wanting it to be true. It's a pirate ship, Shawn had said, and Mark knew that now, thanks to him, it was.

Four flights up he found the next body, the big Australian with the squinty eyes and full beard who had caught him sneaking around earlier that evening. His eyes were wide now, wider than the bullet hole in his forehead. In his right hand he still gripped a pipe wrench, the claw end thick with blood. He ran past the body, up the last few flights and out to the passenger cabins. The gunshots had died down, so had the screams, but he could hear a lot of excited shouting and crashing sounds as the pirates claimed their prize. He leapt over the body of one of the Indian passengers that lay sprawled across the floor, ran down the hallway and flung open the door to Pim's cabin.

The room was empty. One of the bunk beds was toppled over and bed sheets and blankets were tossed on the floor. Across the hall, Robin was gone too, but their cabin seemed undisturbed. He checked the communal bathroom but it was empty, and then headed for the stairs that Mr. Singh led them up when they had first come aboard. Voices drifted up the stairs and, mixed in with the high-pitched Thai and revved up Chinese, Mark could hear Andy's fuck-laced commands.

“You go, you go,” a voice shouted behind him, and Mark turned to see a pair of scrawny Thais running down the hall at him, each waving a bloody machete. He continued down the stairs, staying ahead of the blades. At the foot of the stairs he followed the voices through a bulkhead door and out onto a deck the size and shape of a tennis court, a string of floodlights illuminating the center. The confusion made it appear crowded, the pirates running out of the shadows, shoving crewmembers and passengers from one group to another, telling them to sit, then making them stand only to knock them back down again. He saw Mr. Singh, his Miami Heat tee shirt held tight against the stump where the fingers of his left hand had been, and he saw the captain, face bloodied, sitting cross-legged on the deck, a nervous gunman behind him with a vintage M16. Pim and her grandfather stood off near the shadows, Pim with her arms to her sides, eyes straight ahead; the old man, arms waving, yelling at the pirates as they went by, his tone defiant and parental. The boy was nowhere to be seen. A pistol popped twice and Mark saw a crewmember drop, the others cowering back as the shooter, arm straight out, pistol held sideways like some street-wise action hero, waited for the next person to try something stupid. Mark felt the flat of the machete blade slap his back, and he stumbled forward into the light and onto his knees.

“Well, look who decided to show up.”

Mark raised his head. Shawn was dressed in the same tee shirt and shorts he had worn that first night in Koh Lanta, the wooden stock of the assault rifle balanced on his hip. Mark moved to stand, but Shawn held out his hand and shook his head. “Take a seat, Mark. You've had a busy night. Relax for a while. Just try not to fall asleep on us.”

Mark continued to stand, then went down hard when a rifle butt clipped the back of his head. “Right. He said down,” Andy said, aiming a kick at Mark's groin but hitting his thigh instead.

Mark didn't move. Eyes closed, he fought to clear his head, to calm his breathing. Around him the shouting continued but there was less of it. A crewman moaned and somewhere behind him one of the pirates was laughing. After a minute he leaned up to a sitting position. They were all sitting now—the real crew and the passengers—with a half dozen pirates standing guard. He could hear the other pirates in distant parts of the ship, looking for stragglers. He looked across the deck and tried to make eye contact with Pim, but she sat with her head bowed, her grandfather at her side, ramrod straight, eyes glaring at Shawn, who roamed the deck, a cell phone to his ear. Shawn said a few things Mark couldn't hear and snapped the phone closed. He walked over and squatted down far enough to keep Mark from trying anything.