Noble Lies (16 page)

Kiao leaned on his stick and watched as the man walked toward him, one leg swinging out wide with each step, catching the water at a funny angle and sending up a fantail spray. It looked awkward, maybe even painful, but the man kept a big smile on his face.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the man said, stopping twenty feet away, the water just touching his rolled-up pant legs. “How is the fishing today?”

The old man grinned. The stranger spoke Thai with a bit of a lisp but had used the respectful forms of address that many young people seemed to forget these days. He had seen this young man before, on the beach with a tall, blond foreigner, and before that, on the ferry from Krabi, he had sat at a nearby table, holding a newspaper the whole trip. He looked to be his granddaughter's age, but he could have been younger, too. The old man knew that a hard life could make you age faster, and with a twisted leg and a fat tongue the young man's life could not have been easy. “It is a good day for the fish and a bad day for the fisherman,” the old man said.

“The rocks around here? People tell me you can find lots of crabs in them.”

The old man patted the plastic bag at his side. “That's what I'm finding out. I'm too slow to get the fish but the crabs are kind enough to stay put while I grab them.”

“Tomorrow night? There's a full moon. The tides will be even further out and you'll find even more crabs.”

“More good news for the crabs,” the old man said as he poked his stick into a crevice. “My granddaughter just told me that we are leaving for Langkawi on the afternoon ferry.”

The old man stooped down to examine a promising niche and didn't notice the look of surprise that flashed across the young man's face. By the time he determined that no crabs hid in the rock, the young man's smile had returned.

“I give the crabs to the cook at the hotel where we are staying,” the old man said, gesturing toward the shore. “The cook is Chinese but he is very good. He takes the crabs and cooks them up with some curry paste and coconut milk and a whole head of bok choy and a kilo of snow peas.”

The young man nodded his head, not hearing a word. Langkawi was in Malaysia, the first big island just south of the border. He didn't have a passport or even an ID card. He'd have to find a way to get past the customs check at the pier. It would be tricky but he had done things that were even harder. He had planned to steal back all of the un-smoked drugs he had sold to the blond ferang as well as the ferang's money, but if he was going to Malaysia he couldn't risk it. He'd leave the drugs and take the money, maybe take the Walkman, too.

“My wife used to make the best steamed catfish. She made them in banana leaves with fish sauce and fresh bai makroot. When she would send me out to the morning market for banana leaves, I always knew what we would have for dinner.”

He was picturing a map. Phuket was to the west, maybe eighty kilometers. Langkawi was south, twice as far at least. The ferry? It wouldn't be one of those open boats they had taken from Krabi. It would be bigger, all enclosed. It would cost more, too, but that wasn't the problem. He'd have to make sure they didn't see him again, especially this old man. He remembered that the old man had sat and stared out the window the whole ride from Krabi so maybe he'd do the same on this trip. Still, he would be sure they didn't see him.

“…a piece of tuna steak about this big, chopped up in cubes. You put it in with the noodles and let it cook about two minutes…”

He could tell Jarin's men where the American was, but then they would take all the credit, probably not even mention his name. No, he had come this far, he would find a way to tell Jarin himself. Besides, fate was on his side. Why else did he come out to talk to the old man? It was just something he did, no reason, but now he knew their plan. He wasn't sure how yet, but he had been waiting his whole life for this chance and he wasn't going to stop now.

“…right out of the shell. Tastes like chicken. Very good with relish, too.”

“I will remember that, sir,” the young man said. “Enjoy you time in Langkawi. Goodbye, sir.”

Kiao smiled as he watched the young man walk back to shore, his leg kicking up a splash with every step. He had wished the man had stayed longer, very polite and respectful. Pim should have met a man like that, he thought, a good Thai with traditional values. Marrying an American wouldn't work out, but he had told her that.

 

Chapter Twenty four

   

When he thought about the job so far—the hunt for Pim in Phuket, the “incident” at the shack in the hills, the night-long ride to the fishing village, his little chat with Captain Jimmy, taking the knife away from Andy, the midnight meeting with Shawn—the ferry ride to Langkawi had been the easiest part. The owner of the Lanta Merry Huts arranged for everything, even sending someone to buy the tickets in advance. He and Robin arrived at the pier just in time to get aboard the ferry—a sleek, high-speed job with airline seats and frigid AC. They were the last to board, and the ferry was a kilometer out of port before they found a pair of empty seats near the restrooms at the back of the boat.

It was a long ride—three hours—and with the hum of the engine and the even rocking, he was asleep in ten minutes. He woke to the sound of Robin's laughter and the scratchy audio of the in-cruise video, a Thai comedy without subtitles.

“It's hilarious,” Robin said, holding her sides as the movie's hero made a Jackie Chan leap from a moving train. “Just like the Stooges.”

“You like the Three Stooges?”

“I may be a bitch,” she said without turning from the screen, “but I know genius when I see it.”

They docked in Langkawi and made their way through the immigration pavilion. Mark watched as Pim and her family cleared customs, their Thai IDs enough to get them in the country for weekend visits. They were stamping Robin's passport when he overheard the Malaysian official berate the dockworkers for allowing one of the passengers to get past customs unchecked. They met up outside and took a cab to the no-star hotel Shawn had told him about, the last no-name independent in the area that would rent rooms by the hour. Robin booked three rooms—one for Pim and the others, one for Mark, and one for herself—spreading them out over the hotel's three floors.

The neighborhood was filled with brightly lit stores, none of them selling tourist crap, and the only non-Asians he saw were uniformed sailors hitting the duty free shops, stocking up on liquor and cigarettes. Robin joined him for dinner at a burger place in a nearby mall, Pim and the others happy with the hotel's noodle shop.

“What's the plan?” Robin said, all smiles since he had uttered Shawn's ridiculous magic phrase.

“We wait for your brother to contact us,” he said, then sighed and added, “It's his show.”

“It usually is,” Robin said, dipping a limp fry in tamarind sauce.

They walked the streets for an hour, window-shopping at the electronics stores and jewelers, splitting a fat ice cream sandwich on their way back to the hotel. No sooner had Mark shut the door of his room than the phone rang, the night manager telling him there was a note waiting for him at the front desk.

“There's a bar at the Bay View Hotel,” the note read. “Meet me there at midnight. Come alone.” Mark reread the note and laughed to himself, hoping the melodrama was intentional.

It was a short cab ride to the Bay View, a western-style hotel that towered over the busy commercial district. There was the requisite grand entrance, with floodlit fountains and strings of colored lights in the trees, and eight uniformed doormen manning the sliding glass doors. He found the bar—The Woodpecker Lounge—on the mezzanine level, the house band working through a medley of Madonna covers. He spotted Shawn watching him from a corner booth, his back to the wall, the man sitting next to Shawn glaring at Mark over the top of his pint of Guinness.

“Glad to see you could make it,” Shawn said as Mark pulled out the lone empty chair. “And I believe you know Agent Cooper…”

His scraggly hair pulled back into a short ponytail, a cigarette dangling from his lower lip, Andy raised his glass an inch as a welcome.

“Agent Cooper?” Mark said as he sat down, remembering the last time they chatted and wondering if Andy ever got the knife back. “I hope he's not your martial arts expert.”

They both smiled at Mark but only Shawn's was a friendly smile. “This is a UN operation. Andy, he's the British contingent. He's our boat man.”

“A sailor, huh?” Mark said. “That explains a lot.”

“Right, fuck you, you bastard.”

“Well, now that we're through with the introductions,” Shawn said, “shall we get down to business? What are you drinking, Mark?” He flagged down a passing waitress, her short skirt distracting all three men.

“I'll take a Singha.”

“Gone native on us, have you? Suit yourself. Again with these.” Shawn pointed to the two dark stouts on the table. “And, because he doesn't know better, a Singha.” They watched her turn and walk off, the tension dissipating in her wake.

Shawn turned back to the table. “Let's see, what's the least I can tell you and still make this all happen?”

“You're going to have to give me more than that. I'm not going to walk into something unless I know what it's all about.”

Andy grunted. “You don't have to know shit.”

“Obviously not,” Mark said, watching the insult fly over Andy's head, “but you need me more than I need you. We're in Malaysia now. I doubt the cops would care what might have happened up in Phuket. You want my help, you tell me what's going on.”

“What about Robin? You told her you'd find me? You don't help, you can't deliver.”

Mark shrugged. “Won't be the first job I screwed up.”

Shawn drained the last of his Guinness, licking the tan foam off his upper lip. After a long pause he said, “All right, here it is.”

“What the fuckin' hell?” Andy said, spitting the words out, both hands coming up in disgust.

“It's my call,” Shawn said, his eyes locked on Andy's until, with a grunt, Andy slumped back in his chair. Shawn turned to Mark, his eyes hard. “Like I told you on the beach, the ship we're following is the Morning Star, an old wreck waiting to happen. Six months ago it was due to dock in Dar Es Salaam but it never showed. That's why I thought it went down off Madagascar. Last week we get word that it was spotted in Singapore, except now it goes by the romantic name of AIS-3267. That happens, ships change owners, change names, no big deal. But this time our man in Singapore spots the captain, a Ukrainian guy, ex-Russian Navy. Now he's a pirate.”

Mark's head snapped up at the word.

“I see I have your attention,” Shawn said, holding up his hand as the waitress returned to their table with their drinks, flirting with her as she cleared away the empties. He waited until she was gone before continuing. “You say pirate today and people think CDs and designer jeans, but I'm telling you, it's huge. And it's never been easier, either. With those big tankers, everything's automated. All you need is a crew of, what, twenty-five, thirty?”

“If that,” Andy said, looking into his beer. “Remember the Burnett? Sixteen. And half of them never shipped before.”

“So you've got these third-world shit holes—sorry, undeveloped nations—with double-digit unemployment and everybody trying to live on a hundred bucks a year, and you've got these floating department stores as big as the Empire State Building sailing on by, a mile off shore, with a tiny crew and millions in cargo.” Shawn sipped his beer. “One man's pirate is another man's opportunist.”

Mark pictured the container ships he had seen in port, fifteen stories tall with decks a hundred feet above the water line. “They still have to get on board.”

“These are organized gangs. Well-armed, well trained. I've seen as many as fifty on one job. Grappling hooks, scaling ropes, all that shit. Now I'm not saying it's easy. The advantage is definitely with the tankers. They run with these huge blinding spotlights pointed straight down the side, and then take their fire hoses and spray off the side of the ship, full blast, all night long. It's like a waterfall. There's no way you're going to get up that. But you don't have to. There's always some idiot captain who thinks his ship's too big to mess with or some worthless rating who forgets to turn on the lights.”

“Or the hoses,” Andy said, still looking down at his beer. “Aim ‘em too far out or turn ‘em off after midnight.”

“The shipping companies, they don't want any trouble,” Shawn continued. “They all have the exact same policy. Do what you can to keep them from getting on, but if the pirates get aboard, do not fight back. Give them the ship, give them whatever they want.”

“Wouldn't that just encourage more pirates?” Mark said.

“Actually it's pretty smart,” Shawn said. “They know the pirates are looking for stuff they can haul off. Cash, small electronic shit, porno DVDs the crew might have stashed away. They're not going to be off-loading some eighty-foot container onto their long-tails. So the crew gets roughed up and they lose the petty cash. No big deal.”

Andy held up a finger. “Right, petty cash ain't so petty. They got four-hundred thousand US off the Valiant Carrier.”

Shawn nodded and sipped his Guinness. “True, but what they don't want is to have the pirates take over, steal the whole fuckin' ship. They used to do that, steal the whole thing, take it out to the Indian Ocean, paint a new name on the back, whip up some forged papers, then sail right back to port. Here we are, fresh from East Bumfuck with a cargo of whatever,” Shawn said, changing his voice to play the role. “We're ready to sell on the cheap, in a big hurry don't you know. What's that? Deliver your cargo to Tokyo? What'd ya know, that's our next stop. Load it on my friend, load it on. It was that easy. They could do this two, three times. Load up, sail off, sell the stuff in another port, all the money wired to some bank account. Then they'd take the ship on one last run, up to the breaking yards in India or Bangladesh. They'd sell it for scrap, pennies on the ton. Six weeks later even the builder wouldn't be able to identify it. A year after that, nothing. GPS changed all that. The big ships have a dozen transmitters on them. They sail five miles off course, some home office in Lisbon is on the radio. The old ships—like the Morning Star—well, their GPS systems have a nasty habit of turning off.”

Mark took a long pull on his Singha. The place was crowding up. Chinese businessmen in Aloha shirts and naval officers on shore leave were filling the tables of the Woodpecker Lounge, finding extra room for the hotel's version of bar-beer girls who squirmed up close, giggling on cue. He knew he should stand up and walk away, tell Robin and Pim they were on their own, but he knew he wouldn't. Maybe he had spent too many years doing nothing, maybe it was all the testosterone in the room. Didn't matter. Mark still wasn't sure where this was all going, but as he finished his beer and waved for another, he knew what he would do.

“This captain,” Mark said, over-tipping the waitress as she handed him a fresh Singha, “if you know he's a pirate, why don't you just raid the ship while it's at port?”

“Give us some credit, Mark. If it was that easy, that's what we'd do. But the minute we get the local cops involved, somebody would tip them off and they'd scatter. If you haven't noticed by now, there's a lot of corruption out here. There are cops in every town that are on the payroll of one gang or another. They get the inside information, act as a lookout for the gang, all while drawing a government paycheck. We work with some of the cops, the ones we can trust, but on the whole, it's best to avoid them.”

Mark thought about Captain Jimmy up in Krabi, bragging about his promotion and the graft it would clear, and he thought about the cop in the parking lot, the one who led him to Shawn. Mark had spent most of his adult life avoiding cops in one country or another and saw no reason to change now. “This isn't about petty cash or some insurance payout on lost cargo,” Mark said. “You've already said it's worthless, so it's not about the ship. What's the story?”

Shawn and Andy exchanged glances, Andy giving his fingers a flip then focusing back on his beer. Shawn cleared his throat and leaned in.

“You got Malaysia here on the east,” Shawn said, folding a bar napkin into a long rectangle. “And you got Indonesia on the west.” He stretched out a second napkin and laid it alongside the first. “Right here, this is the Malacca Strait.” He ran a fingertip between the napkins. “A mile and a half wide at the narrowest point. It's the busiest shipping lane in the world, from Phuket down to Singapore, thousands of ships every week. A quarter of the world's oil passes through a space no wider than a mall parking lot.”

Mark looked down at the thin strip between the napkins as if it were a map. “He could scuttle the ship, close it all down.”

“No money in it,” Shawn said, shaking his head. “But you've got the idea. We got word—you don't need to know how—that a bunch of terrorists were looking for a ship in these waters. And no, it's not al-Qaeda. Some homegrown separatist group, real small but looking to make a name for itself. And if we don't stop them, they will.”

Mark took a drink and thought it through. “This Morning Star, what's it loaded with?”

“Last time we heard it was hauling molasses. In shipping, that's the bottom end of the food chain. The next stop is the breakers. But now the Morning Star is loaded with bunker fuel. It's a low-grade, heavy oil, not good for much, but it'll burn and it'll make a real mess.”