Noble Lies (22 page)

 

Chapter Thirty

   

Mark was lying on one of the lower bunks, hands behind his head and feet up on a pile of flat pillows. He was expecting the knock on the door, just not so soon, and when the door swung open he expected to see Andy and a squad of grinning pirates, not Robin and Pim, with Pim dragging the sleepy-eyed Ngern behind her.

“That son of a bitch lied to us,” Robin said storming in.

“You're just figuring that out now?” Mark watched as Pim shut and locked the door.

“Today. This morning. Up in that room.” Robin said, her hands flying as she spoke. “They don't plan on taking any of us off. They're leaving us here for the terrorists.”

“Terrorists?” Pim pulled Ngern close to her.

Mark swung his legs off the bed and sat up. “Shawn tell you this?”

“The kid heard it. Down in the engine room,” Robin said, and explained what Ngern had told Pim.

“Who is this guy? A passenger? One of the crew?”

“He says he does not know, but I do not think he is with the crew because he has a crippled leg.”

“What else does he know?” Mark focused on staying relaxed, hoping it would keep them all calm.

“He says the man is alone and that he is very good at hiding.” Pim said, translating as Ngern spoke. “He says the man has five Star Wars guns, but I do not know what this means.”

“Tasers.” Mark nodded. “Some of the crew had them. Not that it helped.”

Robin looked at Mark. “You think you can team up with this guy and take back the ship?”

“With five tasers?” Mark laughed. “Not happening.”

“We've got to do something,” Robin said, the frustration growing in her voice. “We can get the guns, or the tasers or whatever they are, and then get a lifeboat and get away.”

“No,” Mark said. “No one gets left behind.”

“What are you talking about? It's just the four of us.”

“It's us,” he said, “and the other passengers and what's left of the crew. We all go off together.”

Robin stared at him, blinking. “Are you crazy? That's like forty people. Getting us off the ship is going to be hard enough. The hell with that. We worry about us.”

“I said no one gets left behind.” He met her stare and held it for a moment before she dropped her head.

“Fine,” she said, pissed and sarcastic. “No one gets left behind.”

“Okay, this is what we do,” Mark said, his voice changing, strong but not hard. “Pim, ask Ngern if he can find the man who hid him down in the engine room.”

“He says yes, he can take you there,” Pim said, translating.

“The boats the pirates used are probably still tied up under the fan deck. I'll go down and make sure the alarm is off the door, get the boats lined up so we can just load up and go. I'll send Ngern back up with a taser. When he gets here, Pim, you go to that first cabin on the end, that's where they put some of the crew. You tell them to start sending people down to the fantail deck.”

“What is a fantail deck?” Pim asked.

“Just tell them the back door, they'll know. Tell them they have to be quiet and fast or we'll never pull it off.”

“What do we do?” Robin said.

“After Pim tells the crew, you three hightail it down the back stairs. The odds are you won't bump into anybody but if you do, you get past them, I don't care how. We'll get you in the first boat and I'll get Ngern's mystery man to take you to shore.”

“Whoa, what about you?” Robin said. “You're not going to stay on the boat and pull some hero bullshit on us, are you?”

“Me? Hell, I'm going to be right behind you.”

 

***

 

A pair of engines, each the size of a singlewide, ran the length of the brightly lit room. Only one was running, idling, but loud enough to drown out the small sounds. From a darkened catwalk, Mark could see a middle-aged man sitting in front of a bank of dials and buttons. The man's right leg bounced uncontrollably as he tried to stay focused, chewing his thumbnail to the quick. Behind him a pirate guard half his age, a sawed-off shotgun in his lap, balanced his chair on its back legs. Even if he knew where to look the pirate would never spot them up here, too many pipes and shadows in the way.

Last night it had been the Morning Star and the crew had been professionals with assigned watches, but even then Mark had only encountered one man. Now, with an untrained pirate crew, Mark had assumed the passageways would be empty and he was right. Ngern led him down several flights before taking Mark's hand and pulling him through a narrow door and onto the catwalk that branched off high above the engine room. Mark kept an eye on the men below as they crossed, stepping off into a second dark bay, following Ngern up a ladder and onto a grated landing. The boy stopped and looked back at Mark and smiled, then turned back and spoke to the shadows.

At first Mark saw nothing, then movement, shades of gray on black. The engine still roared, but he could hear the sound of leather sandals dragging on the grating as the man stepped into the dim light. He was wire thin and his clothes hung limp, several sizes too big, his deep cargo pockets weighed down on either side, his baggy tee shirt almost to his knees. His body dipped to the side as he maneuvered his twisted leg around a stand of pipes and hissing valves. There was a yellow tint to his eyes but he was grinning, his head bobbing as he stepped closer.

Mark tapped Ngern on the shoulder. “Go on,” Mark said, knowing that the boy didn't understand but hoping he'd remember what his aunt had told him to say.

Ngern nodded and began speaking, the Thai words coming out impossibly fast. As he spoke he pointed up at Mark, then down to the lower levels, then back up above them in the direction of the cabins. He made gun shapes with his fingers and then seemed to start all over again. The man watched the boy, his eyes following where Ngern pointed as if he could see the spots from here. The man nodded and asked a few questions, both of them nodding as they went over it all a third time, then stopping and looking up at Mark.

“I guess that means we're ready,” Mark said and motioned for them to lead the way.

They squeezed between columns of pipes and ducked under dangling cables, stepping out into the passageway two flights above the fantail deck. Mark's hands felt grimy and smelled of oil. He took the lead now and moved down the stairs. It was dark, the lights either turned off or busted out by errant gunshots, but like last night there was still enough light to see. At the bottom of the steps he paused a moment to let his eyes adjust, then moved toward the door. It was shut and the double-handled lever was pushed back in place, but this time there was no lock. The meter still lay on the floor where he had dropped it the night before. He picked it up and untangled the wires. Behind him, Ngern and the man watched, the man talking to the boy in low tones, the boy's eyes wide as he listened.

Mark ran his hand along the rubber seal of the door, his fingers finding the bundle of alarm wires, tracing them along the edge of the door. He knelt down and set the meter on the floor, stretching up the black set of the wires. He separated one of the door alarm wires from the bundle and attached the alligator clip. He squeezed the tip of the clip until it bit through the wire's plastic coating. He attached the rest of the black wires, then did the same with the green and red sets. The hair-thin needle on the meter jumped, then settled low on the scale, just like Andy said it would. He stood and grabbed the handle.

“Well, here goes nothing,” he said and yanked on the bar. There was a grating sound and a sharp click as the bolts slid back, but there were no alarm bells and no flashing red lights. He pulled open the door and the humid salty air rushed in. High clouds obscured the stars and none of the ship's lights were aimed down on the open grating of the fantail deck.

Ngern stared out the door and for the first time since they left Phuket the boy seemed nervous. The scrawny man hobbled closer, put his arm around his shoulder and spoke softly in his ear. Mark smiled at Ngern, hoping that whatever the man was saying would keep the boy calm. “Wait here,” Mark said, pantomiming the message. “I'm going to untie the boats. Just wait here.” He patted the air in front of him several more times, as if repetition would make them understand.

The ship was stopped. Although he couldn't see them in the darkness, Mark knew that the anchors had been dropped, that earlier that night they had arrived at the rendezvous coordinates. To the east the lights of Patong Beach lit up the horizon, two miles away. The island's hills and stretches of empty beach melted into the darkness. To the south and the west he could see the lights of cargo ships and tankers far out in the shipping lane. The sea was calm and the ship so large that the platform was as steady as a cement dock. They were lucky. If the sea had been rough, with waves crashing over the railings, they wouldn't have a chance.

Through the open grating Mark could see the small flotilla of rubber rafts and long-tails that the pirates had used to intercept the ship. A few had taken on water and one of the long-tails looked ready to capsize, but there were enough to get them all to Phuket.

No one gets left behind—the Marine Corps mantra coming back to haunt him.

One arm on the railing, Mark lay on his stomach and hung below the platform. He'd start with the boats near the edge, string them out so they were easy to climb aboard. There would be enough crewmembers to operate the boats, just outboards on the inflatables and small cylinder chain drives on the long-tails. Phuket was in sight and with even a five minute head start there was no way Shawn's men could catch up to them. He untied the first raft, an inflatable that was in better shape than most, and tugged it into position, with the nose of the raft just under the platform so all they'd have to do was step down into it. He didn't want to make it hard for Ngern's new friend to get in the boat. He needed the man to move fast—no one gets left behind but somebody gets out first; and those somebodies were going to be Robin, Pim and Ngern. Mark knew he'd get out too, but he'd go on one of the last boats, towing the empties far enough out to cut off pursuit.

Mark ran the rope through the grating and tied it off, then climbed down onto the raft, looking under the platform for anything that might catch on the raft when they pulled away. It was clear and he turned to pull himself up. The scrawny man was standing above him at the railing, his arm extended straight out at Mark, the yellow cap of the taser just visible in the light.

Mark heard a toy gun pop, then a roar in his head as his body went rigid, the pain indescribable and everywhere at once, his arms stiff and flailing and legs twitching, rocking the raft. He clawed at his chest, tearing at the twin metal prongs, his wrist brushing the wires that completed the circuit. He forced his fingers to close and pulled, the metal dart ripping free just as his knees buckled and he fell to the bottom of the raft. The pain was gone but his muscles refused to respond; and gasping, he fought to sit up, get out of the boat. He was leaning forward, a shaky hand reaching for the railing when he saw the man draw a second taser. He arched backwards as the hot darts bit into his neck, the pain rushing up again, blinding, nauseating, every muscle convulsing, his hands curling backwards, blacking out then snapping back as the man pumped the trigger.

And then it was over.

 

Chapter Thirty one

 

Sometimes things just come together.

Two hours ago he had been starting to panic. He had no idea where the ship was going or what the pirates would do to him if they found him. Sure, he had told the boy that he had a plan but what was he supposed to say? That he didn't know what he was doing, that it was all a big stupid mistake right from the start, that he should have never even followed the American in the first place, that it was Jarin's problem, not his? Or should he have told the boy what everyone in Phuket used to say about him, how he was a nothing there and just a big stupid nothing here, too?

But then the boy and the big American were standing right there in front of his hiding place and that was scary because he didn't even hear them coming. And then the boy tells him what the American wants to do, about getting everyone off the ship and leaving it for the pirates; and right there, just like that, it all came together. He really did have a plan.

While the American was turning off the alarm he had been whispering with the boy, telling him that when they got the door open they were going to have to make sure it was safe for the others, and how he sure hoped the boy wasn't afraid of sharks because there were going to be a lot of them, big, hungry sharks that could tell if you were scared, just like dogs; and oh yeah, would he mind running back up to the cabin and checking on the women while they stayed here and took care of the sharks? The boy nodded so fast he thought his head would pop off, and no sooner had the American stepped out onto the platform than the boy raced up the stairs.

The American made it so easy. Of course he had to do everything himself, jumping down to untie the boat, acting like he was the only one who knew what to do. Typical ferang. He didn't want to use two of the stun guns, but when the American pulled out the dart he was glad that he had the other gun ready. This time he held the trigger till the American just lay there twitching and kept his finger on the trigger, ready to zap him again if he moved. But he didn't and it only took a minute to use that wide, gray tape to tie his hands behind his back and tape his ankles together around that chain. If the American tried anything he'd toss the cinderblock anchor overboard and that would be it. But the American still wasn't moving much. His breathing sounded normal again—as normal as it could sound with his mouth taped shut—and he was blinking a lot like he was trying to clear his vision, but he didn't seem strong enough to stand. Still, he steered the outboard with one hand and kept a third stun gun aimed at the man's back. You never knew with ferangs.

He kept the bow pointed at the big house on Surin Beach, five minutes away. It could have been better, he could have gotten the Thai whore and the other American man too, but this was good. He'd really make a name for himself tonight.

Jarin had a hundred men working for him but he'd be the one to deliver the American, right to his door.

 

***

 

With her palms pressed tight together and her head bowed so that her forehead touched the tips of her fingers, the housekeeper crossed the living room to kneel at Jarin's feet. He was sitting on the couch, a drink in one hand, the remote in the other, watching a game show where obese people humiliated themselves for prizes. She waited silently for him to acknowledge her presence, listening as the TV audience's laughter faded down and the Kara shampoo jingle began.

“Yes?” Jarin said, not bothering to lower the volume for the commercials.

“Sir, there is a security guard at the back door.”

“Why do you tell me this?” he said.

She said nothing and with her head down she could only guess at his reaction. She heard him give an angry sigh and she knew that she should tell him the rest, but her mother had taught her that those who give bad news are often punished, so she said nothing. Swearing in English and Thai, he stood and stormed past the kneeling housekeeper. He cut through the kitchen, startling the cook, who was napping in a chair, and continued down the hall, past the servants' quarters and the entrance to the garage area, down a flight of stairs and across the footbridge that spanned the indoor koi pond to the screened in-porch. He pushed open the door and the guard snapped to attention.

“Sir, we caught two men on the beach, sir,” the guard stammered out.

“You call me for this?”

“No sir,” the man said, shaking now. “The men, they arrived by boat. One is a ferang. He is tied up. The other man is Thai.”

Jarin's eyes narrowed as he listened, none of it making sense. “Where is this boat?”

“It was a raft, sir. We pulled it far up the beach, up behind the shed.”

“And the men? Where are they now? Who is with them?”

“We took them to the game room at the boathouse, sir,” the guard said, falling in alongside of Jarin as he strode across the deck and down to the beach. “There are four security guards and four of your…associates, sir. Your driver, Mr. Laang and also three others.”

“These men in the boat, were they armed?” he said, knowing that his men would be.

“Yes, sir. The one man, the Thai, he had several stun guns with him.”

“Stun guns?”

“Yes, sir. They are electric devices–”

Jarin swung a sharp backhand into the man's face. “I know damn well what they are. Why do they have them is what I want to know.”

The guard said nothing, focusing now on staying a step behind, then rushing forward to open the boathouse door. Jarin stepped inside and the uniformed security guards straightened up when they saw him, each taking a step back to give him more space in the huge room. Laang was standing next to a pool table, the non-driving driver holding a pistol to the ear of a thin-faced, bony youth, no more than twenty, who sat in a folding chair. The man's eyes were wide and he shook with fear but when he saw Jarin enter the room he smiled, something Jarin had not expected. Jarin walked over and stood in front of the little man. He took a fresh pack of cigarettes from his shirtfront pocket and tapped it several times against his open palm. “What are you doing at my home?” he said.

The man brought his hands up under his chin and bowed his head. “Sawatdee krup. Sir, my humble name is—”

“That is not what I asked,” Jarin said, tearing the cellophane off the pack. He nodded and Laang struck the man with the butt of the pistol, not hard but enough to get his attention. “I will ask you again. What are you doing at my home?”

The man winced but didn't move. “Sir, I have brought you the American you were looking for.”

Jarin did not let his excitement show, taking his time to select a cigarette and getting it lit. He took a long, satisfying drag, blowing the smoke straight at the man's face. “What American?”

The scrawny man smiled again. “The one who stole your whore.”

Laang didn't wait to be asked, smacking the man again for his rudeness. This time the man brought a hand up to rub the side of his head, a trickle of blood smearing across his fingers. “Where is the other one?” Jarin said to the driver, the driver pointing to the door that led to the enclosed boat slip.

Jarin walked over and opened the door. They had only turned on the one light, leaving the rest of the boathouse dark, but he could make out the smooth silhouettes of his matching speedboats and the line of jet skis his children used. Under the lone light, two of his men stepped aside so that he could see the American sitting, knees up, on the concrete dock. His hands were secured behind his back and there were bits of tape still stuck to his ankles. A wide piece of tape covered his mouth but Jarin still recognized him from the descriptions that Won and the longhaired hotel owner had given him. He stepped back out of the room and walked to the pool table. He motioned, and his driver pushed the man's chin up with the barrel of his pistol. Jarin looked into the man's frightened, yellowed eyes and said, “Why?”

The man opened his mouth but said nothing, his head moving from side to side, his confusion clear in his expression.

“Why do you bring this American to me?”

The man wet his lips and swallowed. “I knew you were looking for him, sir, and I found him.”

“Why do you bring him to me? What do you want?”

“Want?” the man said, shaking his head again. “Sir, I do not want anything. It is Náam-jai, my respect for you, sir. That is all, sir.”

“Náam-jai?” Jarin said and took one last drag on his cigarette, the embers glowing fire red, and stepped forward, leaning into the man with the cigarette, the man tensing as it neared his face, but not moving away; Jarin leaning past, stubbing the cigarette out in an ash tray on the edge of the pool table. This man, this forgettable little man with his funny lisp and his bony little frame and rat face and a leg that hooked out at that weird angle—he would have never brought on a man like this, but he had done what his best men had failed to do, he had found the American.

Rule Number Two: It's not the size of the dog in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the dog.

There was always a need for someone like that, some runt of the litter who had to fight his way up. Wasn't that what he had done, fought his way up off the streets of Bangkok, fighting still? This runt had that kind of fight in him and Jarin knew that despite his size and his gimpy leg, he'd be a good man to have around, the tough little bastard.

Still, the man had brought this business to his home, and he'd have to pay for that. Rules were rules.

Jarin held out his hand and Laang gave him the pistol. Jarin racked the slide, ejecting an unfired round and chambering a new one. There was no reason to do this, the gun was already loaded, but it looked good and he could see from the man's eyes it had the desired effect.

“What is your name?” Jarin said, holding the pistol down by his side.

The man looked at Jarin then down at the gun. They waited as he sat there, not moving. Then, slowly, he raised his head back up, meeting Jarin's eyes full on, sitting up straight, his chest out, his chin forward. “My name?” he said, his voice strong, even loud, “My name is–”

“Stop,” Jarin said, swinging up the gun.

The room fell silent and the man looked at Jarin, still holding his stare.

Jarin smiled. He wanted to say something to the man, something about pit bulls and never giving up, but instead he said, “I think now that it's better I don't know. In case I change my mind. Now get off my island.”

Jarin walked back to where they held the American, closing the door behind him, and for a full minute after he had gone no one moved. Then the man stood, and when he walked out of the room, Laang and the others watching him go, not one of them noticed his limp.