KILLING PLATO (A Jack Shepherd crime thriller) (41 page)

A WORLD OF TROUBLE

SHEPHERD GOT HIS
feet underneath him and grabbed Charlie by the arm.

“What are you doing?” Charlie asked.

“We’re getting the hell out of here!”

“Just stay put, Jack.”

“We don’t know how many gunmen there are, Charlie. They may be others, and they may have automatic weapons or even grenades. Your guys don’t have anything but handguns.”

“You think too much.” Charlie got his own feet under him and started to stand up. “Just stay where you are and—”

A fresh volley of shots cut Charlie off. Shepherd grabbed him and jerked him back down, but Charlie’s feet slid out from under him and he went head first into the bales. Shepherd heard the hollow sound of Charlie’s head bouncing off the wooden pallet. His sunglasses flew off and caromed away across the courtyard. Charlie sat up grunting in pain and lifted both hands to his face. A thick line of blood appeared across his forehead.

It was the blood that made up Shepherd’s mind.

Dragging Charlie behind him, he duck-walked behind the bales until they made it to the nearest shophouse. Inside was a single, large room filled almost to the ceiling with more burlap-wrapped bales just like the ones outside. Shepherd pulled Charlie toward the back.

There was a door. He grabbed the handle.

Locked, damn it.

Shepherd pushed hard on the door with his free hand. It gave slightly but didn’t open. He stepped back, lifted his foot, and slammed it into the wood beside the lock. The door popped open as smoothly as if he had opened it with a key. Shepherd gave Charlie a quick glance. He seemed dazed and the bleeding had gotten worse. Keeping a tight grip on his arm, Shepherd pulled him into the alley behind the shophouse. He had no idea where they were going, but he had to keep them moving.

A right and two lefts brought them into another courtyard. It looked a lot like the one in which they had just been ambushed, but it wasn’t. There was a shadowy passageway at the opposite end right next to a windowless stucco building exactly the color of sand. Shepherd headed straight for it. The gloom of the souk was now their friend. If Shepherd could lose them in it, they would probably be safe. He tightened his grip on Charlie and pulled him along.

THEY WENT ON
like that thr뀀uld probabough the twisting passageways of the souk, making random turns every so often. Shepherd thought they were moving further and further away from the place where they had been attacked, but he wasn’t absolutely certain. What he
was
certain of was that he would know the right way to get them out of this when he saw it.

And then he did see it.

Shepherd and Charlie emerged suddenly onto a wide boulevard. Just on the other side of the boulevard were the aqua waters of Dubai Creek. Dubai Creek isn’t really a creek at all, but rather a narrow inlet from the Persian Gulf that for centuries has been a port of call for small traders and a refuge for smugglers. The Creek was cluttered as it always was with its usual traffic of broad-beamed
dhows
while, between them, tiny
abras
darted like water bugs ferrying small groups of people from one side to the other.

Shepherd didn’t hesitate. Dragging Charlie behind him, he broke into a lope across the road and headed straight for the Creek.

There was a line of
abras
tied up at the bank right in front of them and Shepherd made straight for the nearest one. He jumped down into the boat, steadied himself for a moment as the little craft rocked from his weight, and helped Charlie to climb down behind him. The boatman was a dark-skinned fellow in blue shorts and a dirty white shirt. He was sitting in the stern of the boat methodically peeling and eating an orange. He regarded the new arrivals with curiosity.

“Go!” Shepherd shouted at the boatman. He pushed Charlie down onto the hard wooden bench in the center of the little boat. “Go, for Christ’s sake!”

The boatman didn’t move. He just sat there and stared at the crazy white guy screaming at him.

Everyone in Dubai might not speak English, but Shepherd spoke another language he was sure would be understood. He pulled a wad of currency out of his pocket and waved it at the boatman. The man responded immediately. Dropping his orange, he shoved the boat off the wharf with one hand and fired the engine with the other. They sputtered into the Creek and the boatman turned downriver toward the wharf on the opposite bank where
abras
usually put in.

Shepherd shook his head and pointed upriver. He could see the Sheraton Hotel in the distance and right now an American hotel looked pretty damn good to him. The boatman just stared at him, so Shepherd did the thing with the money again and pointed to the Sheraton. The man quickly swung the bow toward it.

Shepherd sat down on the wooden bench next to Charlie. “Are you okay?” he called over the throbbing of the boat’s engine. “Were you hit?”

When Charlie didn’t answer, Shepherd ran his hands over Charlie’s chest and neck looking for gunshot wounds. He was sure Charlie hadn’t taken a direct hit, but maybe a ricochet had caught him. The cut on his forehead wasn’t serious, Shepherd could see that now, just bleeding like a son of a bitch the way head cuts do.

“Are you okay?” he shouted again.

Charlie grunted, shook off Shepherd’s hands, and straightened up a little. He wiped a hand over his forehead and it came away covered with blood. Charlie held up his hand and looked at it for a moment.

“Stop screaming,” he said. “I’m bleeding. I haven’t gone fucking deaf.”

“I thought maybe you’d been—”

“I’m fine except for this shit,” he said and wiggled his bloody hand뀀ybe.

Charlie fished in his pocket with his other hand and came out with a white handkerchief. He used it to wipe some of the blood away and then he folded the handkerchief lengthwise and pressed it against the cut on his forehead to stop the bleeding. As the boat wallowed up Dubai Creek toward the Sheraton, Charlie shifted himself into a more comfortable position on the hard wooden seat.

“Fuck,” he muttered, “I would have been better off letting those guys shoot me than getting rescued by you.”

Shepherd didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing at all.

A WORLD OF TROUBLE

ALONE IN HIS
hotel room later that afternoon, Shepherd watched CNN as they ran the story over and over. It was spectacular, of course, all the more so because the really dramatic parts were in slow motion. Shepherd saw everything he had seen only a few hours before all over again, but now he saw it from the point of view of the cameraman who had been at the other end of the courtyard. It was an odd feeling watching himself from the opposite direction. There was a sense of unreality to it, like he was part of a video game.

The footage started with an innocuous view of the narrow passageway through which they had entered the courtyard. There was a slight motion at the bottom of the frame and the camera panned down. A brown and white cat, scrawny and mean looking, snarled at the camera and moved away at a deliberate pace.

Exactly at the moment the cat disappeared from the frame there were several loud noises. Although the sounds weren’t recognizable on the film as gunshots, that’s what they were. The camera jerked slightly in reaction to the first shot or two, then the image started to bounce as the cameraman ran toward the sound. He rounded the bend in the passageway and entered the courtyard, and his lens went straight to the Iranian-looking shooter with the .45.

When the bullets are flying, it’s the gun that makes the impression, not the man behind it, but now that Shepherd was safely tucked up in his hotel room it was the man who held his attention. Each time the shooter’s face turned toward the camera, Shepherd leaned forward and studied it.

The man looked younger than Shepherd recalled and the expression on his face was puzzling. Shepherd wasn’t sure what he expected. Rage, fanaticism, triumph perhaps. But it was none of those things. The man looked amused. That was the only word for it. Amused.

The security man was on the left side of the courtyard charging directly at the gunman, firing as he ran, but the shooter never moved. The muzzle of his .45 stayed where it was, pointing directly into the camera lens. It was like a scene from a movie. The big, black handgun pointed straight at the camera; the muzzle opening looked as big as the Lincoln Tunnel; and the eyes of every viewer were drawn straight into it. The gunman held that pose, not firing. He looked more like a man posing for the camera than he did a killer.

The driver was on the opposite side of the courtyard from the security man, running and firing across his body at the same time. He was spraying bullets everywhere. Shepherd saw at least three shots go high, catch the concrete façade of one of the shop houses, and ricochet away.

That’s how the producer got hit,
he thought.
The shooter didn’t target her. One of Charlie’s bodyguards shot her by accident.

When the shooter jerked, lurc뀀oothed a couple of steps away from the camera, and crumpled to the ground, it was impossible to tell whether the security man or the driver had hit him. He just went down. That’s all there was to see. After that, the security man sprinted straight at the gunman and kicked the .45 out of his hand. Then he dived behind a pile of cardboard boxes and crouched down while the driver flattened himself against the crates on the opposite side of the courtyard.

That was when the silence fell, the one that Shepherd remembered so well, and it was a full minute before the security man broke it. Rising up from behind the cover of the stack of boxes, he lifted his weapon and fired methodically into the motionless body of the gunman sprawled on the concrete. He kept firing until his gun was empty and the slide locked open, and then he dropped the clip and used the heel of his hand to slap in a fresh one.

Right after that, in the background beyond where the gunman lay dying, Shepherd could see something bobbing along just above a wall of burlap-wrapped bales. If he hadn’t already known what it was, he might not have been able to guess, but of course he knew very well. It was the top of two heads, his and Charlie’s, as they scuttled away to safety.

Everything that happened after that was new to Shepherd so he watched the rest with particular care every time the film was broadcast. But each time he did, he understood what he was seeing even less than he had before.

HE AND CHARLIE had been gone no more than a few seconds when there was a sudden flash of white just beyond the security man. A
dishdasha
-clad man wearing a blue Yankee’s cap had suddenly appeared from somewhere and was running across the courtyard. It was the same man Shepherd had seen with the Iranian-looking shooter when they entered the courtyard. Was he looking for a new angle from which to attack, or was he trying to escape? It was impossible to tell.

From the white folds of his
dishdasha,
Yankee Cap produced what Shepherd could see was an Ingram MAC-10. He held it high as he ran, out away from his body with the muzzle up. The MAC-10 isn’t a particularly accurate weapon, but it’s cheap and it’s reliable and it lays down a thousand rounds a minute. Fire a thousand rounds a minute in a confined space and you don’t have to worry a hell of a lot about accuracy.

About halfway across the courtyard Yankee Cap twisted toward the camera and began to lower the muzzle of the Ingram. Charlie’s security man pulled back behind his cover, but the cameraman held firm, his lens never wavering. He was either the bravest man Shepherd had ever seen, or the dumbest.

Yankee Cap started shooting. His gun was firing so fast that the individual reports merged into a single continuous noise. The sound of it was deafening. The muzzle of the MAC-10 tracked inexorably downward. Moving lower and lower, it swung toward the cameraman. Then, abruptly, the noise stopped.

Yankee Cap stopped running, turned the MAC-10 slightly to one side, and stared at it with a confused expression on his face. That was when the driver stepped out from behind the crates with the Korean writing and fired six evenly spaced shots. All six appeared to hit Yankee Cap in the chest and the man jerked from left to right like he was trying out a new dance step. Big stains blossomed his stark white
dishdasha
. They made the garment looked like a choir robe printed with red flowers.

Charlie’s security man rose up and targeted his own volley. He fired four shots that punched Yankee Cap straight back into a pile of white canvas rice bags. The cap fell off his head and he sat slowly down right on top of it. Leaning back against the rice b뀀ap ags, his legs out in front of him, Yankee Cap jerked a few more times and a thin line of blood appeared between his lips.

Then, as if resigned to his fate, perhaps even a little embarrassed by the way it had come upon him, the man turned his head discreetly away from the camera, pulled his knees to his chest, and died.

CNN AIRED THE
story over and over. It must have been seen by hundreds of millions of people around the world. Journalists are never more tireless than when they cover each other so the death of the network’s producer in the attack gave it real legs. Every television news broadcast in the world led with the story and it stayed at the top of the news cycle hour after hour.

Until then, most of the world had never heard of Charlie Kitnarok, the former prime minister of Thailand now living in exile in Dubai. Maybe a good part of the world had never heard of Thailand either. But everyone certainly knew about Thailand now, and they knew exactly who Charlie Kitnarok was.

Charlie was the man who had stood up to the killers sent by his political opponents to prevent him from restoring democracy to Thailand. Charlie was the man who had bravely faced down a hail of gunfire. Charlie was the man who had risked his own life to pull an unidentified assistant to safety. Shepherd shook his head every time he heard that last part. The unidentified assistant, of course, would be him.