Noble Lies (23 page)

Chapter Thirty two

   

When Jarin walked back in the room the first thing Mark noticed was the gun.

No one told him it was Jarin, no one had to. He could tell by the way the others stepped back when he walked toward him, the way he looked past people as if they were invisible, which, to a man like Jarin, they were. And he could tell by the way the two men had brought him in the room. The security guards had been rough, jerking him out of the boat and dragging him down the beach. But these two didn't have to play tough. They lifted him up by the shoulders—one of them flicking open a knife to cut the tape from his ankles—and walked him into the boathouse and out onto an enclosed dock. They were professionals and they wanted him to know it as well.

The ride in on the boat had been the worst of it. So far. The shocks had left him nauseous and with the tape over his lips he was afraid he'd be sick. He thought he had seen the man somewhere before but wasn't sure, not that it made a difference. And he had had a good idea where the man was taking him—not this spot, this house on the beach, but to Phuket and, eventually, to Jarin. Nothing else made sense. But Mark knew he was lucky. It could have been days before he'd be taken to see Jarin and by then it would have been too late for anything. But now, with Jarin right in front of him, there was still time.

He knew he'd have one chance and that's it.

It had worked before but this time was different.

He'd have to be faster, better—no, not better, perfect.

It would all come down to him, and he had to play it through, right to the end.

He had planned it in an instant, the parts falling in place. Now, as Jarin walked toward him, the automatic at his side, Mark felt himself relax.

It was time to cast.

“Stand him up,” Jarin said to the guards in Thai, stepping off to the side to light another cigarette, stepping back as one of the men ripped the tape off Mark's mouth. “Mr. Mark Rohr, you have made me very angry. You have shown me great dis–”

“I don't have time for this shit,” Mark said. “You're already in enough trouble as it is, Jarin, so don't piss me off and make it worse.” He doubted that the others spoke English but there was no mistaking his tone and from the way that he looked at him—mouth dropping open and eyes blinking—he was sure Jarin understood as well.

Jerk the line, bob the lure.

“Your brilliant decision to bring me here may have just screwed up an operation months in the planning and if it falls apart, you are taking the blame, you got that?” Mark grit his teeth and gave his best disgusted headshake, waiting for Jarin to start speaking, then cutting him off, keeping his words hot and angry but under control. “We left you alone—gave you this island—and you pick tonight to fuck with us? Tonight? What is your problem?”

It was just an eyebrow twitch, a half-second, but Mark knew that the hook was in. Head up, nostrils flaring, he waited for Jarin to run with it.

“I do not know what you are talking about. You are just—”

“Don't fuck with me, Jarin. You know damn well who I am and who I work for, so cut the bullshit.”

“You work for Mr. Shawn.”

“Work for him? Is that what you think?”

Jarin blinked once.

“I should have known you were going to be trouble,” Mark said, chuckling as if he was recalling some inside joke. “That cop over in Krabi, Captain Jimmy, he said you were behind my visit to the police station. Well he's paying for that little screw up. Bangkok came down hard on him. Didn't you realize something was up when he let me go?”

“I…I do not know what you are—”

“The IMP, Jarin, or are you gonna pretend you don't know?”

“I do not know the IMP,” Jarin said. There was a strange lost quality to his words, as if someone else was speaking through him. Mark noticed the guards' grip shifting, their feet shuffling, unsure what was being said but certain something was wrong.

“Jarin, you run this island, you can not be that stupid.” He sighed. “The International Maritime Police, a UN task force. You do know the UN, right?” When Jarin nodded he knew the hook was deep. The Noble Lie, American-style. “Well in case you haven't heard, I'm the Section Chief for this part of the world and you, Jarin, have put a major multi-national anti-terrorist operation at risk. If I'm not at the rendezvous point on time, it all falls apart and I will take it out on you.”

“You are forgetting that you killed one of my men.”

Mark shrugged. “Cost of doing business. I had to infiltrate Shawn's organization and that was my way in.”

Jarin brought the gun up and held it level, pointing at Mark's chest and Mark felt the two guards leaning away from him. “No one knows you are here. If you disappear it can not be connected to me.”

Mark made a show of rolling his eyes and said, “GPS.”

Jarin said nothing. He licked his lips and swallowed.

“Global Positioning Satellite?” Mark said. “There's a transmitter on the boat. Microscopic,” he added, hoping it wasn't too much. “They know exactly where I am. And when I don't show and this mission fails, they will come looking for me.”

For a long moment Jarin held the gun level but when it dipped, just an inch, Mark knew it was time to reel him in.

“You've got three options, Jarin. One. You shoot me and get rid of the body.” Mark shrugged. “I think it's a stupid idea but I put it out there just so you can see that I know what you're thinking. They know I came here, our people in your organization will confirm it and that's it, game over. Two. You let me go and one of your goons drops me off in Patong. This is the one you're considering but it's also stupid. You do that, I miss my rendezvous and the mission fails. Tomorrow, me and one hundred of my closest friends raid everything you own and take you down. Here's what you do instead. You listening?”

Gun still out but arm lower now, Jarin nodded.

“Good. Now, how many men you got?”

 

Chapter Thirty three

   

The cruiser cut through the water as dark as the starless night. The wind had picked up and so had the waves but at over sixty feet long the Fairline Targa cabin cruiser barely rocked. With the running lights off even the hazy glow of the instrument panel was too much and someone covered it over with a beach towel. A mile ahead, the Morning Star sat anchored just outside the shipping lane. The deck lights were on and there was light behind most every window, but there were no fire hoses spraying down the sides of the ship and the pivot-mounted searchlights were all off. It was well past midnight, hours since he had left, and he didn't know if the lack of activity on board meant an opening or a trap.

There were twenty men on the cruiser but no one made a sound. It had taken Jarin less than an hour to assemble his men, one SUV arriving with boxes of black tee shirts, loose-fit black warm-up pants and all-black sneakers, another with a rack of SWAT-style MP5 9mm submachine guns and an assortment of handguns, most fitted with suppressors. The shirt was a tight fit and the sneakers a bit snug, but the shoulder holster felt right.

Jarin was somewhere on the boat, down in one of the salons. Mark was surprised when he had climbed aboard back at the dock, not bothering to change out of his red and white Aloha shirt. There had been a moment when Mark was sure he was a dead man, Jarin staring down the barrel of his handgun and the bullshit deep and getting deeper. And while Jarin had given a nod and the tape binding Mark's hands had been cut and Mark's demands for men and arms had been met, he still felt as if it was all just a short reprieve, Jarin simply amused or curious.

“How will you get on board?” Jarin had asked as they waited for the men to gear up.

“The fantail deck. The door is open and unlocked,” Mark had said, hoping it was true. “Send a few of your men to the lower decks—there's only one of Shawn's men in the engine room, a kid with a shotgun. The rest of the men should take the bridge and work down from there. Warn them that there're passengers aboard, so just don't go spraying everyone.”

Jarin drew on his ever-present cigarette. “These are my best men. They are professionals but they are not mind readers. If they encounter someone in the hallways they will shoot them.”

“That's not the way it's done.”

Jarin had raised his head and looked at him, his eyes narrowing before he turned away.

The boat was angling past the Morning Star toward the dark waters far off its stern. They would come at it from the seaward side, an approach that would be less expected and one that didn't pass them in front of the distant lights of Patong Beach. Mark was watching the water rush by, focusing on his breathing when someone tapped his arm.

“Long bpai,” one of the men said, pointing down the short steps into the ship's dark interior. Mark started for the steps but the man placed a hand on his chest and withdrew the pistol from Mark's holster, another man taking the MP5 from his hands. “Okay,” the man said, spreading the word into three syllables, then letting him pass. Mark eased around the man and made his way down the stairs. Black shapes filled the room. He felt a hand on his shoulder guide him forward, that hand dropping off and another taking its place as they moved him through the salon to a door, another unseen hand knocking. The door opened and a sliver of light shot across the salon. Mark brought a hand up to cover his eyes and stepped into the room, the door shutting behind him.

Jarin sat behind a built-in desk of golden-hued wood, two armed men to each side, the muzzles of their assault rifles aimed at his chest. The room was thick with cigarette smoke, and already, there were three butts in the ashtray. “My pilot says we will be in position soon,” Jarin said, and Mark nodded.

“I want the truth, Mr. Rohr.” It was the way he said it, not raising his voice, as if he already knew the answer, that told Mark that his bluff was being called. Mark waited, not offering anything.

“Is Shawn on that boat?”

“Yes,” Mark said, still in the game.

Jarin drew on his cigarette. “What you said about terrorists and the oil spill, is that true?”

Mark nodded. “That's what Shawn told me.”

“Who are the terrorists? What organization?”

“I told you everything I know,” Mark said, the truth sounding like bullshit now, and Jarin watched him as he smoked. Mark leaned to his right as the boat started a wide arc around the stern of its target, Jarin and the guards leaning too.

“I have fought the terrorists for years,” Jarin said.

“I know. It was in the reports I read about you,” Mark said.

Jarin chuckled, blowing smoke out of his nose. He ground the cigarette out, pulling a replacement from the pack on the table. “You read it in your reports,” he said, and chuckled again as he flicked his lighter to life. “You are American, yes? Tell me, do you love your country?”

He hadn't expected the question and he paused, but then said, “Yes.”

Jarin drew on the cigarette. “And would you kill to protect your country?”

Mark paused again, this time for other reasons. “I have.”

“And if someone told you that your country was in danger and that you could protect it, would you act?”

“Yes.”

“So tell me, Mr. Mark Rohr,” Jarin said, leaning forward as he spoke, “why would this not be true for a Thai?”

Hands cupped around his cigarette, his eyes just visible through the curl of smoke, Jarin waited, and Mark knew then that his truth no longer mattered.

“We will talk later, Mr. Rohr,” Jarin said, sitting back, dimming the light down. “But now you have a ship to catch.”

 

***

 

Mark climbed the short stairs to the back deck of the cabin cruiser just as the pilot cut the main engines. He could hear switches being thrown at the helm and then the low hum of a small electric docking motor and the rolling waves that slapped the sides of the boat. The sheer stern of the Morning Star towered above them, the outline of the superstructure backlit by deck lights that angled every direction but down. The cruiser rode higher than the fantail and through the open grating Mark could see the outline of rubber rafts and wooden long-tails bobbing below.

The fantail hatchway was closed with no light visible around its edge. Mark couldn't tell if it was simply pushed shut from the outside or secured down from within.

One of Jarin's men leapt onto the fantail and guided in the cruiser's bow while five others, barrels up, scanned the ship for movement. The vinyl boat-bumpers squeaked as the pilot drew the cruiser alongside, the men scrambling out onto the fantail and shouldering up against the hull of the Morning Star; Mark jumping out with them. The man tossed the rope back onto the cruiser and it pulled away, disappearing into the darkness.

A row of men squatted at the outer edge of the fantail and kept their weapons trained on the superstructure while the others lined up on both sides of the door. A few of the men looked at him, waiting for him to lead them in.

Mark shifted his MP5 to his left side and reached for the door's handle.

Maybe the alarm bypass had fallen off or failed to work correctly and the hatch had been relocked hours ago.

Or maybe his taser-wielding kidnapper had attracted too much attention in his rush to deliver him to Jarin, bringing someone down to investigate.

Maybe one of the pirates just happened past and pulled it shut, throwing the lock.

The kid could have got it wrong and told Pim and Robin that everything was ready and they told the others, and when they rushed down and it wasn't ready, somebody panicked. There could be piles of bodies inside with dozens of edgy pirates waiting in ambush.

But if it was locked, it was over.

Mark wrapped his fingers around the handle, nodding once to the man beside him, the man nodding back, slipping inside as Mark pulled the hatch open. Mark felt his breath catch in relief, then stepped through, the others silently pouring in behind them.

Nothing had changed. The passageway was still empty, the bypass was still in place, but Ngern was gone. He was a smart kid and he knew his way around. Mark just hoped he'd stay low till this was all over.

The first man through turned and signaled to the others, a squad of men splitting off toward the engine room, any noise they made lost in the steady hum of the ship's machinery. The man tapped Mark on the shoulder and pointed to the stairs, his eyes asking the question. Mark nodded and took the lead.

He moved up the stairs one step at a time. So far no one knew they were aboard, and the longer they could keep it that way the better. The open frame of the MP5 stock at his shoulder, Mark came around each bend of the staircase ready to fire. On the fourth flight up, he did, dropping a pair of Shawn's pirates as they walked down the corridor toward him, the suppressor reducing the shots to airy thumps, the metallic clack of the bolt and the clatter of the six brass casings on the metal deck the loudest noise. Two flights later Mark heard the same rhythmic clatter coming from below. A hand-signaled message worked its way up the line letting him know that there were three fewer pirates onboard.

When they reached the main passenger level, Mark stopped and stepped to the side, gesturing to the man behind him that he was staying here and that they should continue to the bridge. The man looked hard at Mark, his jaw set, his eyes burning, then waved the others on, throwing Mark one last hot glance before heading up. Mark waited for the last man to go by, then cut across the passageway to a shadowy alcove near the open bulkhead door that led to the passenger cabins. He went low and popped his head around the corner. The corridor was empty, all the doors shut. He was two steps away from Pim's cabin when he heard a toilet flush in the communal bathroom at the end of the hall.

Mark moved fast, reaching the end of the hallway and sliding up against the wall just as the bathroom door swung open, the door swinging out, hiding him from view, swinging back shut as Andy, head down, zipping up his fly, walked past. Mark crosschecked Andy into the doorframe of the first cabin, slamming his knee up into Andy's crotch and shoving the side of the rifle hard against his throat. Bug-eyed and wheezing, Andy fought to catch his breath, bringing both hands up along the side of his face.

“Unarmed,” he managed to gasp, wiggling his fingers as if to prove the point.

“Where is he?” Mark whispered.

Andy tried to shake his head but Mark held the weapon tight, pushing in until Andy said, “Cabin.”

“Here? One of these?”

Andy opened his mouth to speak but only gasped. Mark shoved him against the door again and stepped back, shoving the barrel of his submachine gun into Andy's gut. “You shout, you die,” Mark said. “Which cabin?”

Andy sucked in a shaky breath. “Fuckin' bastard,” he said, his voice just audible.

“Which cabin?”

“Not here. Up on the other deck, four flights up. First cabin on the right,” Andy said, and Mark remembered the ship's diagram taped up on the back of his cabin door. Then Andy smiled and added, “Shagging that whore.”

It was a quick move and Andy never saw it coming, Mark jerking the barrel up, the heavy suppressor catching him on the chin, Andy's mouth snapping shut on his tongue, a string of blood streaking up into his face, Mark jabbing the barrel back into his gut before he could move.

“Bastard,” Andy spat out, his hands coming up to cover his bloody mouth. Mark let him, wondering now what to do with his prisoner. It was one thing to shoot an armed man and he had done it minutes ago without hesitation, another thing to gut shoot a guy with his hands in the air. It had only been seconds since he had first slammed him against the cabin door, but Mark knew that he didn't have time to waste on Andy Cooper, didn't have time for honor. He thought of Pim and Robin and the boy and was drawing in a halting breath, his finger moving for the trigger, when the door behind Andy swung open and Andy fell backward into the cabin, landing at the feet of Mr. Singh. The remnants of the original crew climbed off bunk beds and moved to the door to stand behind their officer, the low murmur in Thai stopping when Singh raised his bandaged hand.

“You need to keep your men inside until this is over,” Mark said, looking into the man's dark brown eyes, Singh giving the slightest nod to show that he understood. Then both men looked down to Andy.

“We will take care of this one,” Singh said as his men dragged Andy, screaming, into the cabin, Singh keeping his eyes fixed on Mark as he slowly shut the door.

Mark listened as the lock turned in place, then stepped away from the door and started back to the stairs.

There were shots now, choppy machine gun bursts and booming shotgun blasts coming from above and isolated pops from handguns below. The suppressors on Jarin's men's weapons kept the sounds of the battle one-sided. Mark took the steps three at a time, leaping over the crumpled body of a pirate on one landing and the black-clad body of one of Jarin's men on another. He was rounding the last set of stairs when the shots came, a line of sparks and deadly ricochets passing inches over his head. He pushed on, springing out low, hitting the deck on his side, his MP5 firing off a dozen silent shots, catching the two pirates as they brought their Chinese assault rifles around, the men seeming to dance in place as the rounds ripped through them. Instinctively, Mark rolled the other way, dropping a third man before he could raise his shotgun. He stood up and put his back to the bulkhead and scanned the hall, looking for movement or odd-shaped shadows, a lifetime of skills taking over.