Salty (7 page)

Somporn squashed a big mosquito against his arm and allowed himself a smile. The plan, as pathetic and desperate as it was, had turned out a stunning success. Who knew they'd catch a millionaire rock star's supermodel wife when they'd gone hunting for tourists? It was like snatching an old lady's purse and finding it filled with diamonds.

The original plan had been to kidnap a few
farangs
—Westerners—cash in on their safe return, and use the money to purchase opium from a grower he knew near Chiang Mai. After taking the opium to Hong Kong and selling it to a heroin lab, he'd have enough to give everyone a bonus, buy a small boat, and get back into business. It was a solid enough plan.

But it was nothing like the glory days when Somporn and his men had terrorized the South China Sea. They'd been real pirates then, using the element of surprise and sheer audaciousness to take down some major scores. Attacking at night, their small inflatables almost invisible in the black water, they'd drift up on a big oil tanker—sometimes a natural gas tanker—use hooks and ropes to climb aboard, disable the communicators, and take the crew hostage. Since Somporn and his men had been elite commandos in the Thai Army, they were well trained and highly efficient, able to overwhelm a boat's crew in a matter of minutes.

They would sail for a small, uninhabited island and dump the crew there with a couple of gallons of water and a few cans of food. Then it was a quick change of flag—Somporn always liked to use the Venezuelan flag for some reason—a couple of gallons of paint to change the name of the vessel, and they could sail right into Shanghai harbor and sell the gas or oil to a dealer he knew. It was an extremely lucrative business.

Less lucrative were the Pai Gow tables in the casino at the Hotel Lisboa on Macau. That's where Somporn always went after a heist.

He had a ritual. He would take his cut of the score and wire several thousand dollars to his local
Wat
in Bangkok for good luck and blessings from the Buddha. Then he'd stash a
large chunk of cash in a safe deposit box at his Hong Kong bank. This money he was saving for the day when he could afford to buy a real pirate boat. He'd then have several new suits made for him at a custom tailor he liked in Shenzen, so that when he checked in to the hotel, he looked sharp, respectable, and anonymous, like a successful businessman on vacation.

Even though the island of Macau is connected to the Chinese mainland by a bridge, the European architecture and the fact that some people still spoke Portuguese made him feel like he was far away from Southeast Asia. Captain Somporn always stayed at the Hotel Lisboa. It was his hideout: opulent, extravagant, and the last place the authorities would look for a rugged Thai pirate. He'd spend a month, maybe two, sitting at the Pai Gow tables sipping single malt Scotch and listening to the gentle clicking sounds of the tiles as they were shuffled, stacked, and sorted into eight piles of four. He loved that the game was filled with ritual, like a religious ceremony, the tiles waiting in neat rows as the dealer shook the dice to determine the order in which they'd be dealt. He loved that the dealer had to be as lucky as the player; no one really seemed to have an advantage, and most of the hands ended up a tie, a “push hand,” where nobody won and nobody lost. It was, for him, the time when he felt the most at peace.

When he was out of money, he'd make a phone call to Bangkok and alert his crew that they were back in business.

This went on for a number of years, and eventually the safe deposit box in the bank in Hong Kong contained enough money for him to invest in a very fast, Russian-made, armored assault boat—specifically, an OSA Class Type 205 Fast Patrol Boat. It wasn't that expensive. He'd bought it off a disgruntled
Russian Navy crew that had deserted and were trying to get to New Zealand, where they were planning on buying some land and starting a winery.

Somporn adored that boat. Even though he couldn't read any of the instrument panels—they were all in Cyrillic—and even though the dual diesel engines used barrels of fuel, for some reason that ship made him feel like a real pirate. Maybe it was the large and relatively well-appointed stateroom, with an actual air conditioner and private bathroom; maybe it was the radar that helped them track other ships; or maybe it was just the nifty little rocket launcher and the four .30mm guns mounted on the bow and sides that gave him that extra frisson of danger. The boat didn't have any missiles—the Russians had already sold those to some Chechens—but it didn't matter, it looked intimidating and most ships were happy to surrender without putting up a fight.

Outfitted with a fast warship, Somporn and his crew went to work terrorizing the Strait of Malacca between Indonesia, Malaysia, and Singapore for two fun and profitable years before a Thai fighter pilot managed to get their coordinates and lock on a couple of missiles.

Most of the crew managed to escape the explosions and elude the helicopters that hunted the water for survivors. Somporn, however, was unlucky—it seemed the thousands of dollars sent to the
Wat
had been for nothing—and was scooped out of the water by the Thai Navy. Perhaps he should've sent more money to the monks; perhaps it was just his karma. He used the rest of his savings to bribe the officers and crew of the Navy boat to let him go. Once the cash transfer had been confirmed, they were happy to help him, setting him adrift in a rubber raft fifty miles off the Thai coast in shark-infested waters.

Defeated, dehydrated, hungry, and broke, he finally washed ashore and began the slow process of reassembling his crew. That's why he was here, feeding mosquitoes in this mangrove swamp; but this was just the beginning. Soon he would return to his pirate life, the high seas, easy money, and the Pai Gow tables of Macau.

…

Somporn swatted another mosquito. He hadn't noticed this one feeding on him, and it had filled itself with his blood. The bug exploded in a burst of crimson. Somporn stood and went over to his bed. He rummaged through his duffel bag until he found a bottle of Calvin Klein's Obsession cologne for men. It smelled nice, sophisticated, and he wasn't stingy as he splashed it on his face. He turned and checked himself in the mirror, running his hand through his hair, making sure there wasn't anything stuck in his teeth. Somporn started to leave and then stopped himself. He took the bottle of Obsession and shook a few drops down his pants, onto his pubic hair. He'd never met a supermodel before.

…

Captain Somporn didn't knock. It wasn't about being polite; it was about control. He carried a battery-powered lantern—the light swarming with a variety of exotic insects—into the hut. The smell was the first thing that hit him. Sharp, astringent, and nasty: shit mixed with fear. He'd smelled it before, once when a Cambodian drug lord took his patrol captive and several of his platoon mates were executed in
front of him. It happened so fast and was so terrifying that the men lost control of their bowels. Somporn didn't like to be reminded of it.

He saw the four miserable hostages leaning against the walls of the hut, their faces pale and exhausted, their skin clammy and bug-bit.

“Are you hungry?”

The British couple nodded, the woman from Seattle whimpered and pissed herself, and Sheila glared at him.

“You've got to let her clean herself.”

Somporn smiled.

“Perhaps if her husband had shown a little more respect.”

“If not for her, then for me. Please. It's disgusting.”

Somporn's expression changed; he stared at Sheila for a moment, then bent down and unlocked the handcuff holding her.

“Come with me.”

He quickly—because he didn't like the smell any more than Sheila did—cuffed the Seattle woman's hands together, and led Sheila out of the hut.

…

Once outside, Sheila took a few deep breaths to try and clear her nostrils. She looked around the camp and saw several of the kidnappers sitting around a fire, drinking beer and eating bowls of noodles. A few women sat on the ground listening to a transistor radio and peeling mangoes. For the first time since she'd been kidnapped, her stomach growled.

“Captain? Why don't you help that woman? What you're doing is cruel.”

Somporn looked at her, sympathetically.

“It's not that I'm cruel. It's a psychological technique.”

“Letting her sit in her own shit?”

“I want you and the others to understand that if they act out, like that woman's husband, they will be killed and their spouse will be made to suffer. Then they will understand that what's happening to them isn't so very bad.”

“Where'd you learn that? Kidnapper school?”

Somporn led her into his cabin.

“I'm not a kidnapper. I'm a pirate.”

Sheila looked confused.

“A pirate?”

Somporn nodded as he set the lantern down and lit a second, gas-powered lantern that was surprisingly bright. Its hiss and clear white glow reminded Sheila of camping trips with her family.

“Right now I'm a pirate without a ship. But that is about to change.”

Somporn pulled a bottle of whiskey and two small Chinese teacups out of a cupboard along the wall.

“Would you like a drink? It's Jack Daniel's. World-famous.”

“Sure.”

Somporn poured some into each cup and handed her one.

“I'm sure you'd like to wash up. I have a shower. Over there.”

Somporn pointed to the corner of the cabin, where a small showerhead hung from the end of a plastic tube. Bamboo slats were cut into the floor for a drain. It was crude, but it was a shower.

Sheila couldn't believe it. There was nothing more in the world she wanted right now than to cleanse her body of the Seattle woman's excrement. If the smell was nauseating—it clung to her like a putrid aura—the actual sensation was even worse. But the thing that really freaked her out, the bacterial thought that echoed in her head, was the cold and thick and slimy truth that she had spent the day sitting in another person's shit. She wasn't sure she would ever get over that.

Captain Somporn was offering salvation: soap and water, a chance to get clean. Still Sheila hesitated.

“I don't know.”

“The water is not warm, but it is clean. And there's some soap.”

Sheila sipped her whiskey. She could feel it going down, trace its journey past her throat and into her stomach. It warmed her, and she began to relax. She studied Somporn. She watched as he sipped his whiskey. She saw how he was sitting, relaxed and in control.

Sheila had been a beautiful woman long enough to understand what was going on.

“You want to watch me shower?”

“I can't have my hostage escaping.”

“I need some clean clothes. I can't put these back on.”

“I have clothes you can wear.”

Sheila looked at Somporn. The Captain, she realized, was like a lot of men she'd met in her life. Like the actor she had lived with, the one with the famous dimples; or the movie director, the cerebral one with the glasses and shaved head; even that ridiculous television producer, obviously gay but wanting a beautiful female model to front for him at parties.
All of them so insecure, so scared of women and their bodies that they had to hide behind fame, status, and money. Incapable of intimacy, they had needed to dominate her. They needed the feeling of power, of control. As if being equals would emasculate them, cause their dicks to shrivel up and retreat like turtleheads. They had desired her because it enhanced their status among other males. She had been as important to them as a Maserati, a vacation home, or a Rolex watch.

Sheila often wondered why men were such babies. What was their problem? What were they afraid of? What would they lose if they opened up and shared themselves with a woman? How would they feel if they let themselves be taken, conquered, and dominated?

Maybe they would like it
.

She began unbuttoning her shirt. Somporn sat cross-legged on the floor and lit a cigarette. He watched as she took her shirt off. She was nonchalant. Not coy, not embarrassed. He assumed she was used to getting undressed in front of others; isn't that what models did? But nothing could have prepared him for what happened next. As Sheila removed her bra, Captain Somporn's jaw dropped. Although her breasts were large and voluptuous—perfect, yet with a Japanese raku–like imperfection that made them more than perfect—it wasn't the size or shape that caused his astonishment. It was the color of her skin under the tan line; he had never seen skin so white before. Where the rest of her body was brown and golden, her breasts were white and shimmering, almost translucent, like fresh squid. Her nipples were a shade of pink that Somporn had seen only on coral reefs. She slipped off her pants and revealed an equally pallid ass.

“How is it your skin is so white?”

Sheila stood under the showerhead and removed a clamp on the hose. Cool water began trickling over her body, and Somporn noticed that her nipples jerked erect the moment the water hit them.

“That's the color of my skin.”

“But in the pictures you are so brown?”

Sheila squirted some soap into her hand and began lathering her body.

“I used a bronzer.”

Somporn rose from his chair and picked up the lamp. He began walking toward her.

“What are you doing?”

“I've never seen such white skin before.”

Sheila stopped washing and instinctively covered herself for a moment, then realized there was nothing she could do about it and dropped her hands to her side. She watched Somporn's eyes as they studied her breasts. They were wide in amazement, yet focused in discovering ever nuance and detail. Even her dermatologist didn't look at her this intently.

“This is your natural skin?”

She nodded.

“Why did you color yourself brown?”

Sheila shrugged.

“It's called a healthy tan.”