…
Turk heard a banging on his door. Or maybe he was dreaming of someone at the door. No. That was really someone at the door. Turk croaked.
“Wait.”
The banging didn’t stop. Turk tried again, only louder.
“Fucking hold on a second.”
That stopped the banging. Turk sat up, his head still swimming from the sleeping pills. He heard a muffled voice on the other side of the door.
“Mr. Henry. Mr. Henry. They are waiting for you in the manager’s office.”
Turk stood, steadied himself, and waddled over to the door. He pulled it open to reveal a young man holding a tray with a pot of coffee, a cup, and some kind of fruit juice in a little glass sealed with plastic wrap.
“Compliments of the hotel.”
Turk stepped aside and the young man slipped in and deposited the tray on a little table.
“They are waiting for you.”
“Who?”
“The American government man. USA.”
Turk nodded. He didn’t know what the fuck this guy was talking about, but whatever, coffee sounded good.
“Give me a half hour.”
“Half hour. Okay.”
And then he was gone. Turk closed the door and blinked. He opened the door again and looked out. There were the coconut palms, the beach, even a couple of topless Dutch women out for an early-morning tit bake. He wasn’t dreaming. He poured himself a cup of coffee—he had trouble opening the sugar cube wrappers, but eventually wrestled the cubes free—and then sat on the bed and let the sweet lukewarm goodness slide down his gullet.
He stared off into space for a while, waiting for pharmaceutical Morpheus to release the grip on his head.
…
Sheila had returned late, well fed, clean, and slightly tipsy. The Captain had been kind enough to handcuff her away from the woman from Seattle. It was a good thing, too, as the woman had added to her repertoire of shit and piss with a spectacular bout of projectile vomiting. This was followed by a steady stream of diarrhea that flowed up her panties and out the waistband of her shorts like a volcano oozing noxious brown magma.
The British couple were suspicious, certain Sheila had fucked the Captain for the clean T-shirt—one celebrating Real Madrid’s tour of Asia—camouflage pants, and flipflops. Of course, she hadn’t fucked him. But the thought had crossed her mind. Not for sex—basically, she was over sex—but for survival. Even though the Captain had seemed friendly, he had still kidnapped her. His men had murdered someone right in front of her. She knew that her luck could change at any moment, and she didn’t want to die. Not yet anyway. Sex for survival? Why not? To Sheila it seemed like her survival always depended on sex. She realized she’d have to bring that up with her therapist. Although she’d have to find a new shrink, as the last one had tried to fuck her.
Sunlight was beginning to filter through the hut. Sheila looked over and saw Charlie, the double-glazing king of Crouch End, staring at her.
“What’d he make you do?”
“He just wanted to talk.”
The wife looked at her.
“I’d like some clean clothes. Maybe he’ll talk to me.”
Charlie elbowed his wife.
“Hush now. There’s no need for that.”
Sheila heard some mumbles from the Seattle woman. She looked at her, feeling pity and revulsion. The woman was curled into a fetal position, lying in puddles of various viscosities. The insects had homed in on her. They swarmed around her, occasionally rising simultaneously like a dark blanket and then settling back down again. Sheila could see that the woman was sick; she quivered with fever, alternating between wild sweats and teeth-chattering chills.
That’s what happens when you order one shrimp.
She thought about protesting to Captain Somporn, but then she remembered his warning: someone has to be treated badly. Sheila averted her eyes.
…
Ben had never met a rock star before, but he’d read about them in some of the glossy weekly magazines that drifted around the embassy. He always made a point of scouring any publication for news, reviews, and gossip, anything that smacked of America. He liked to sit down at his desk with a Coca-Cola, freedom fries, and a hamburger from the Embassy commissary, read People magazine, feel the A/C cranking; and it was almost like home. The magazines kept him informed. He knew who was adopting a Cambodian baby, which celeb was getting her implants removed, which was having an affair with the other, who was bulimic and who was anorexic. Magazines taught him everything he knew about rock stars—their fast cars, drug problems, and tattoos. He knew they partied hard and lived a kind of outsider existence. Millionaires above the law. Of course, when he thought about it, most rich and famous people acted above the law. Were rock stars so different from CEOs?
Ben realized he would have to scare Turk, control him, and get him dependent so he would call Ben before he even thought about calling anyone else. If Ben could control Turk, he could control the investigation, and that would allow him to resolve it before Diplomatic Security and the legal attaché could swoop in and steal the credit.
Carole, the manager of the resort, had been nice enough to provide Ben with some fruit, coffee, and croissants. Ben didn’t care for baked goods in Thailand. Not that these weren’t okay—he was sure they were fine—but he was suspicious of anything with butter in the tropics. Butter wasn’t natural in this kind of heat. There was probably a reason why the natives never ate it. Pasteurized? Doubtful. He was sure it would be swimming with bacteria, a fatty microbe spread.
Ben drank some coffee and ate the fruit. He was particularly fond of the mangosteen—a strange fruit that was purple on the outside but looked like a pale orange on the inside—and the rambutan, a scaly red globe covered with spiky hairs that you had to crack open to extract the translucent sweet-sour fruit. He preferred to eat fruits with skin. That was key to avoiding a parasitic infection.
Ben expected Turk to be a bedraggled, bleary-eyed scruffian with long greasy hair and a torn T-shirt, so he was not disappointed when Turk was finally ushered in to Carole’s office, the faint scent of stale beer wafting in the air behind him.
The two men shook hands. Ben produced his badge and U.S. government identification. He handed Turk a business card. Turk looked at it.
“Immigration and Customs Enforcement?”
Ben nodded. “ICE has a broad mandate.”
“ICE? You’re an ICE agent?”
“Yes.”
Turk couldn’t help himself—he laughed. “You’re serious?”
“I assure you, Mr. Henry, ICE is very serious.”
“What about Mr. Freeze?”
Ben winced, as if he’d heard that joke a million times and didn’t think it dignified a response.
“Coffee? Mr. Henry?”
Turk nodded.
“Thanks.”
Ben poured him a cup and did what he’d been taught in counterterrorism classes: he observed the subject, looking for any telltale sign of duplicity, involvement, or untruthfulness.
“I need to ask you a couple of questions, just to establish a time line.”
Turk nodded. This is exactly what they did when they interviewed people on those police procedural shows that were on every channel, every night. He’d seen hours of them, and somehow having this agent asking the same kinds of questions was comforting to him.
“Why weren’t you with your wife?”
“Why?”
“She went on the excursion alone. Is that not correct?”
Turk had to think about it. “She went with a group.”
“But you didn’t go?”
Turk shook his head. “Riding an elephant isn’t high on my to-do list.”
Ben took a small notebook out of his pocket and scratched a few facts onto a page. Turk looked over and saw the word “Phuket” scrawled on the top.
“When did you hear about the ransom?”
“That night. That’s how I knew she was k
idnapped.”
“How did the message reach you?”
“It came to the hotel. The French chick got it.”
Turk watched as Ben made some more notes. It was just like on TV.
“They asked for a million dollars?”
Turk nodded. “U.S.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
Turk shrugged; his relationship to money was not like most people’s. “My banker is already sending it.”
“You didn’t wait to consult with your own government?”
“I’m consulting with you now.”
Ben leaned forward and looked him in the eye. “Do you want my professional opinion?”
Turk nodded. “Yeah. For sure.”
“Seems to me they knew that your wife was going to be taking that elephant ride. That means they have organization, on-the-ground intelligence, planning, execution. All the hallmarks of a terrorist cell.”
Turk blinked. “Terrorists?”
Ben nodded. “They don’t want you to know this, but southern Thailand is a hotbed of terrorist activity.”
Turk thought about all the topless Europeans lying on the beach. Ben continued. “It’s the proximity to Malaysia.”
“So they’re Malaysian?”
“We don’t have confirmation on that.”
“So they could be from Thailand.”
“Mr. Henry. They could be from anywhere. What’s to keep an Iraqi insurgent or a Moroccan terrorist from coming here and starting a sleeper cell?”
Turk shrugged. “Fuck if I know.”
Ben nodded. “Exactly. We just don’t know.”
Turk rubbed his hands together nervously. He didn’t know where this conversation was heading, but it wasn’t going the way he’d thought it would. “So what happens next?”
“What do you mean?”
“What are we going to do? You know? To rescue Sheila?”
Ben sat back in his chair. “Officially our hands are tied.”
“What?”
Ben looked at Turk with a slightly sad and very sincere expression, as if he were about to deliver bad news to a small child or a retard.
“The United States government doesn’t negotiate with terrorists.”
Turk’s jaw dropped.
“That’s always been our policy.”
“But how do you know they’re terrorists? An hour ago they were kidnappers.”
Ben leaned forward conspiratorially. “I can’t reveal my sources. You understand.”
Turk shook his head. “No. I don’t understand. Are you saying you know where they are? Can’t you do some kind of rescue? Send in commandos?”
“You’d have to take that up with the Thai authorities, but I doubt they’ll be much help.”
Turk slouched in his chair and stared at the floor. This was not what he had been expecting. He wished his coffee would magically turn into beer. A beer would taste really good right now.
Turk continued to stare at the floor while Ben rattled on about national security, government policy, and stuff that Turk didn’t even listen to. It was all just a bunch of fucking excuses. It was annoying. Like the time he bought a new, custom-shaped electric bass that wouldn’t stay in tune. No one could fix it; no one seemed to know what was wrong with it. It was beautiful, but irritating. One day he’d had enough and, without even the benefit of an audience, he’d smashed it into the floor until it was reduced to splinters and strings. Ben was starting to look a lot like that electric bass.
“Fuck it. I’ll make the deal myself.”
Ben, who had been watching Turk for some kind of reaction, something that he might put in his report, spoke in a firm, official voice.
“We can’t allow you to do that.”
“What do you mean? You already said you couldn’t help. You have your reasons, fine. So stay out of it. This is none of your fucking business.”
“You are a U.S. citizen, Mr. Henry. It is a violation of the Patriot Act to aid any terrorist or terror organization. If you try to pay them the ransom for your wife, I’m afraid you’ll be arrested. If convicted, you could receive ten to fifteen years in prison.”
“But what about Sheila? She’s a citizen.”
Ben put his notebook away.
“I’ll level with you, Mr. Henry. We’re at war. Think what those terrorists could do if they got ahold of a million dollars.”
“Maybe they’d stop being terrorists and open a restaurant or something. That’s what I’d do.”
Ben shook his head. “They’ll purchase nuclear arms. They’ll make a dirty bomb and blow up Cleveland. Hundreds of thousands could die. How would that make you feel?”
Turk shook his head. “Cleveland? Why would they attack Cleveland?”
“Or St. Louis, Kansas City, Des Moines. Anywhere in the heartland is vulnerable.”
Turk couldn’t help himself. He laughed in Ben’s face. “You’re fucking joking.”
“Let me assure you, there is nothing funny about a dirty bomb detonating on American soil.”
As often happened when confronted with information, rules, or regulations that went counter to his desires, Turk lost his temper.
“I find it hard to believe that Malaysian terrorists want to nuke Cleveland. Besides, have you seen the Cuyahoga? It’s already toxic.”
Ben put on his most sympathetic expression. It was the same expression he’d used when he worked in customer service at the Land Rover dealership. A fake look of pained, shared exasperation at the small everyday tragedies that turn a pampered life into a living hell.
“I’m sorry. I know how you feel. But in every war there are casualties, innocent people who find themselves in harm’s way. I’m sad to say that your wife is just one of them.”
Turk stood up. He wasn’t going to sit around and listen to any more of this bullshit.
“She’s not a casualty yet.”
“Sit down, Mr. Henry.”
Turk did as he was told.
“I’m going to do you a favor.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going to look into this, personally. But you have to promise me something.”
Turk nodded.
“You have to promise me that you won’t tell anyone about this. Just sit tight and let me handle the terrorists.”
Turk was thinking about it when the door opened and a uniformed Thai policeman interrupted them.
“Agent Harding? Could we have a word?”
Ben turned to Turk.
“I’ll be right back.”
…
Captain Somporn had given it some thought and come to the conclusion that making multiple exchanges with the hostages exposed him and his men to arrest, imprisonment, and the inevitable execution that comes with abducting foreigners and jeopardizing the lucrative Thai tourist trade. It would be better, he realized, to do one extremely lucrative exchange and walk away from the kidnapping business forever. It was only sensible. Somporn relayed this plan to his men, who quickly agreed. Holding hostages was boring work, like being a waiter in a restaurant filled with pissed-off diners. They were tired of bringing them food, cleaning up the shit. Although several of the men, notably Kittisak, wanted to murder the remaining hostages and dump their bodies in the sea, Somporn talked him out of it. It was, he said, more trouble than it was worth.
He had his men serve the hostages breakfast, a nice hot bowl of rice porridge with dried shrimp and some wild spinach. They’d be angry, outraged, when they got back to their hotels. So he thought he ought to feed them, make them happy, and show them a little kindness before he kicked them loose. It would take the edge off their outrage, stifle their screams for justice, complicate and conflict their emotions.
…
Sheila sat on the ground eating her porridge. She was surprised how good it tasted; perhaps it helped to be really hungry. She found a spot where the sun filtered through the trees and allowed herself to be warmed by it. She looked over when she heard Captain Somporn shouting to one of his men. The man
jumped up—Sheila noticed that he was wearing her Chanel sunglasses—and hurried over to her with a paper umbrella. He drove the sharp end of the pole into the ground, angling it so that it shaded her.
Sheila looked at Somporn.
“I like the sun.”
Somporn wagged a finger at her.
“Your skin is too dark. I am saving you from skin cancer.”
Sheila heard Mrs. Double-Glazing make a tut-tutting sound. As if this were proof of something.
They watched as the woman from Seattle was carried out of the hut by a couple of Somporn’s men. They carried her toward the beach, dragging her shit-smeared ass across the sand and into the water. Sheila could tell that the men weren’t happy to be dealing with her. While one held her head and shoulders above water, the other one carefully stripped off her clothes.
They kind of swished her around in the water—moving her body back and forth—then dragged her back and dumped her on the beach. She lay naked on the sand, her heavy white skin exposed to the sun, her breasts hanging low and heaving as she took in deep, terrified breaths. Undressed and rinsed off as she was, the festering insect bites were now clearly visible on her body, making it look like she’d slept on a bed of hot nails. The salt water stung her wounds, and she writhed around, trying to focus, struggling to figure out where she was. Occasionally she let out a groan.
Somporn looked at Sheila and pointed to the woman’s naked body.
“Better without a tan.”
…
Turk sat in the back of the police car. The ICE agent sat in front with the Thai police officer. Turk didn’t know where they were going, but it had something to do with one of the people who had been abducted with Sheila. They were hoping Turk might be able to identify someone. Turk didn’t want to go. But they’d insisted, making him feel like he was under arrest.
They pulled into the parking lot of some kind of big department store. It was all concrete, modern, with brightly colored flags flying from poles. Looking like it’d been dropped out of the sky from the New Jersey suburbs, it could’ve been a Wal-Mart or a Target. A large orange sign said something in the indecipherable curlicues of the Thai alphabet. Maybe it said “Wal-Mart” in Thai. When had Turk ever been in one of those? He wouldn’t know a Wal-Mart if it landed on him.
Salty: A Novel Page 7