Noble Lies

by Charles Benoit

  “With a cabin like this what you’re really paying for is the view,” Mark said, hands on his hips, admiring the blank, off-white wall.

  Robin walked back to the door and ran a finger down the list of rules. “It is strictly prohibiting the eating of durians while aboard.” She looked over at Mark. “What the hell’s a durian?”

  “The forbidden fruit. It’s got a wicked smell to it. Tastes all right, sort of, if you can get past the stench.”

  “You’ve had it before?”

  “Last night. Got it from a street vendor outside a—” He stopped himself. He hadn’t gone into the brothel but he didn’t want to explain why he was waiting there. “Outside some club. At least I think it was a durian.”

  “It says here that the complimentary dinner is only five ringgits. Well that’s a bargain.”

  “Is there a map of the ship with that list?”

  “Yeah, but it doesn’t show much. I guess these boxes are our rooms. This must be the door we first came though and these squiggly lines I think are the stairs. If it’s any consolation I don’t think there’s too much to see.” She squinted as she read the fine print on the map. “Here’s the way to the dining hall—or as it says here, the dinning hull.”

  Mark walked over and looked at the map. It showed the layout for their section and a similar, smaller section somewhere else on the ship. There was no larger diagram that put their location in perspective. He had a rough idea where they were in relation to the gangplank, but as to the location of the crew’s quarters or the bridge, he could only guess. He could find his way to the stern of the ship, but finding the stairway that would take him down to the one door that led out to the fantail deck, well, that was going to be something else. He had a few hours of daylight left, hopefully enough time to get his bearings and make a few sorties below deck. If he bumped into any of the crew he could play the lost passenger bit, but that would only work once. Shawn had assured him that if he stayed toward the back of the ship and kept heading down, he’d find the door he was looking for; and last night, after three beers and four shots of tequila, it sounded easy enough. Maybe Frankie the bartender was right. Maybe tequila really did make him stupid.

  “Check this out.” Robin stooped over to read the last page, a fifth-generation photocopy of a low-quality fax. “Anti-piracy precautions will be in effect from eighteen-hundred hours to zero-five-thirty hours whenever the ship is sailing within fifty kilometers of land in the waters east of the Andaman Islands to the Philippines and from the Asian mainland as far south as northern Australia.” She looked up at Mark. “We’re in that area, right?”

  “It’s a big area,” he said, and remembered Shawn’s beachside comments about the futility of the IMP’s mission. “You could fit the whole US in and have enough room left over for Europe.”

  “Muster point is in the number 1 deck alleyway,” she continued. “Great. It’s not even shown on the map.”

  What could he say? That it was too late, that the precautions didn’t work, the pirates are already aboard? That the captain was a killer, about to turn over a massive floating bomb to a bunch of terrorists? And for reasons that now seemed ridiculous, their little group was on that ship? Instead, he said, “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “If pirates succeed in boarding—holy shit—do not place yourself or others in further jeopardy by resisting or antagonizing them.” She stood up and shook her head. “You think Shawn knows about this?”

  “Yeah, probably,” Mark said, and despite everything he knew already, despite everything he knew was coming, he couldn’t resist smiling as he said it.

  ***

  The door to Pim’s cabin was ajar but Mark still knocked. Their room was larger, with four sets of bunk beds, a couple tall wardrobes, and a writing desk but no chair. Ngern had made a fort of pillows on one of the upper bunks, his head popping up at Mark’s knock. He jumped down and ran over to pull the door open, all smiles and giggles, his shyness finally wearing off.

  “Hello Mister,” the boy said, dragging the words out so that it still sounded Thai.

  “Hey Ngern,” Mark said, hoping he got the name right, “how ya doing?”

  His English exhausted, the boy looked at him and laughed, then ran back and dove onto one of the empty bunks. Mark thought about how exciting this would seem to a kid his age, all the boat rides and the different hotel rooms, and now aboard a huge ship. The kid had seen a lot in the past year, but somehow he still seemed like a normal eight year old. In two days it would all be over and he’d be back in Phuket, his old life gone and the new one uncertain. Maybe that’s why the kid was warming up to him—he could sense that they had something in common.

  “Mister Mark?” Pim came and stood close to him. She glanced over her shoulder where her grandfather was busy making his bed. “I heard the man say we are going to India,” she said, her voice lowered. “Is this true?”

  “That’s where the boat is supposed to go,” Mark said, dropping his to match hers, “but we’ll be going to Phuket Town first. But you can’t tell anyone this, not even your family.” Pim nodded her head, and he continued. “Tonight you must stay in your room. Do not open it for anyone but Robin or me. Or your husband.”

  “He is here?”

  “Not yet, but he will be. After dinner just stay in your room, no matter what. You may hear some stuff going on, you just stay in your room. Got it?”

  She nodded again, her eyes wider now but alert.

  “It’ll all be over soon,” he said, hoping it was true.

  ***

  At one end of the hallway was the stairwell they had used, at the other an open bulkhead door and a passageway that ran left and right. He could see pipes and cables running overhead in the passageway and could hear the distant hum sound of an electric motor. The talkative sailor had led them up three flights from the main deck. Given the size of the ship and the low headroom, he was at least ten stories above the waterline and the fantail deck. He knew where the stairway led—he turned and walked the other way. He passed other cabins—most were empty—but behind one closed door he could hear muffled voices, and from another the steady thump and shrill singing that passed for talent in a Thai pop tune. The door to the last cabin was open and he glanced in as he walked past. Sitting close together on the floor, their bodies twisted so their feet pointed away from each other, five dark-skinned men shared a meal, the curry-rich smells wafting out into the hallway. One of the men looked up and waved, his fingertips coated in sticky rice. Mark gave a nod and continued, but paused just past the open room.

  In a few hours IMP agents would be swarming aboard. Shawn said they’d take the ship from the pirates without firing a shot, but who knew what the pirates would do. In all the commotion it would be easy to mistake one of the Indians in the cabin for pirates. He could go back and warn them, tell them to stay in their cabin just like he had warned Pim. But as soon as the idea formed, he dismissed it. One word from them, one nervous look and the whole operation could be ruined and all of it traced back to him. They could well be innocent tourists but they could also be part of the captured crew. They could even be the pirates. He walked on. One way or the other, when the shooting started, they’d know what to do.

  Mark stepped through the open bulkhead door and into the passageway. There was a fresh coat of white paint on the walls and exposed pipes, and there was a dull sheen to the linoleum floor. The ship seemed better maintained than he expected but cosmetic repairs were cheap—the real problems would be under the paint. Hands in his pockets like he was out for a stroll, Mark headed toward the humming sound. He could hear voices echoing from somewhere in the ship, the words lost in the ambient noise. Just past a coiled, wall-mounted hose and long-handled fire ax, a stairwell opened on his right. He turned and without a pause, started down the steep steps. He’d only have one chance to claim he was lost, might as well make it
count. He moved quickly but made little sound, counting the flights of steps as he went, the engine noises getting louder with each level. Six flights down he heard them, seven flights down he could make out their voices, Thai or Chinese, he didn’t know. He thought about ducking out on one of the levels, waiting till the voices passed, but he wasn’t sure where they were. He might walk right into them. He slowed up but kept moving down the stairs. He rounded the top of the ninth flight and froze. Two men were sitting in the passageway, their backs to the stairwell. Neither man turned as Mark backed up the steps, the diesel engine masking the sound.

  Mark moved into the shadows of the landing. Below, the conversation continued, and he heard someone open a soft drink can. From his angle the passageway looked just like the one he started on, just like every passageway he had passed, down to the fire hose and fresh paint. But there was something different about the one below. Every passageway had the same wall-mounted light fixtures with the same fluorescent bulbs in clear glass casings, the lighting dim and industrial. But below it was different—the warm glow of natural light—and Mark knew he had found the fantail deck and the door he would have to open.

  “Fuck you doing here?” a voice shouted, the thick Australian accent loud enough to be heard over the engine’s din. Mark turned, his best blank expression on his face. He was a big man with a full beard and small eyes that squinted in the darkness. He was carrying a pipe wrench in one hand, a clipboard in the other. He shifted his grip on the wrench as he hung the clipboard on a peg in the wall.

  “I’m looking for the dining hall,” Mark said, doing his best to look lost and foolish.

  The man stared at him hard, his small eyes narrowing as he spoke. “Rack off the way you came. And don’t let me see you down here again.”

  Mark gave a timid smile and pointed up, still playing his role. “Do you know where the dining hall is?”

  “Yeah,” the man said, hefting the wrench to his shoulder, not saying another word.

  Mark knew he could step over and take the wrench from the man, slap him upside the head with it before the man saw him move. Instead he nodded and looked down, turned and went up the stairs two steps at a time. He was two flights up when he heard a group of men laughing below.

  He reached his level and kept going, the stairs running out three flights up. The passageway looked like all the others—he turned to his right and started walking, stepping outside to a narrow deck that looked out toward the open sea. The ship was still at the dock and toward the bow, cranes loaded pallets of last-minute supplies onboard. Open hulled transports chugged past and a few cabin cruisers darted through the port. He was looking out at the water, watching a line of long-tails negotiate the passage, and didn’t see the man approach.

  “Are you English?” the man in the captain’s uniform said, coming toward him, a stack of papers rolled in his hand, the words clipped by his accent or anger, Mark wasn’t sure.

  “American,” Mark said, certain the man already knew the answer.

  The captain stepped closer, crowding Mark against the waist-high railing. “Then you will tell me what I need to know.”

  Mark waited.

  The captain unrolled the papers and glanced down. “Tell me, Mister American, what is a four letter word that starts with K?”

  Mark looked straight at the man as he shifted his weight off his heels to the balls of his feet, ready now. He said, “Kill?”

  The captain leaned forward. “No, mister American, that is not it.” He held up the papers in his hand and jabbed a fat finger at an unfinished crossword puzzle. “The last letter must be J.”

  For a moment, no one said anything.

  Mark wet his lips, still watching the man’s eyes. “What’s the clue?”

  The captain pursed his full lips and looked down at the crossword. “Ach, I don’t use the clues. I put in any words that fit.”

  “Isn’t that cheating?”

  “You think it is easy?” the captain said, his voice rising. “Ach. Clues. Anyone can do it with clues. Now you tell me, what is the word?”

  “Four letters, starts with a K and ends with a J?” Despite everything, Mark found himself running down lists of words. After a moment he shook his head. “I don’t think there is any.”

  “What about kudj?” the captain said, his eyebrows arching as he waited.

  “That’s not a real word.”

  “Perhaps. But it fits,” he said, pulling a pen out of his shirt pocket and printing in the letters. When he was finished he took a last look at the papers, then rolled them up and stuffed them in his back pocket. He leaned his forearms on the railing and looked out to sea. “How do you like Malaysia?”

  Mark leaned in alongside the man, their elbows almost touching. He hadn’t expected to talk with the captain that Shawn had called a filthy pirate, but now saw no reason why he shouldn’t. “I didn’t see much. Just here in Langkawi.”

  “Ach, you should get down to Penang. That is a…a picturesque, yes? That is a picturesque city. You can skip KL—Kuala Lumpur—it is not as nice, unless you like big cities, then it is very nice. But now you go to India. Have you been?”

  “No,” Mark said, looking at the horizon.

  “It is different from Malaysia. Very crowded. Good trains, though.”

  They stood there, leaning for several minutes, watching a sleek cabin cruiser glide past. The boat turned and they could read the name painted in black across the stern. The Pirate’s Curse.

  “Ach, that is a stupid name.”

  Mark nodded. “Especially in these waters.”

  “Yes, I suppose that, too. Who would put a curse on their own boat?”

  “I heard that there are a lot of pirates around here,” Mark said, surprised that the words came out so easily, the hair on the back of his neck dancing.

  “Nayah, this is true. Not so much now, but ten years ago, yes, very true. But not for ships like this. Nothing to steal.”

  “But they could still get aboard,” Mark said, pushing it. “They could damage the ship.”

  The captain pointed along the bow of the ship. “There is the wire,” he said, miming razor sharp points. “And at night we put on the hoses and the lights. That is enough.”

  “Is it?” Mark said, looking over as he smiled.

  “Yes, plenty. Still, we have these,” he patted an odd-shaped holster on his belt.

  “That a gun?”

  The captain grunted and reached back with his hand, popping open the snap and drawing the weapon. It had a standard pistol grip but that’s all Mark recognized. Instead of a barrel there was a stubby black box capped with a bright yellow plastic cover. Matching yellow hash marks moved down the side of the box ending in a lightning bolt that ran down the grip to the wide base. It reminded Mark of a cordless screwdriver.

  “Taser,” the captain said. “You know these?”

  Instinctively Mark’s left hand dropped down and rubbed his side. It was six years ago and there were never any charges filed, but he remembered the first time he saw a taser. The border guard had said he jumped five feet but Mark didn’t remember a thing. “Yeah, I know them.”

  “We all have them. The people on the water, the fishermen, they know it too. They tell others, soon everyone knows. We don’t have problems.” He holstered the taser and was leaning back on the rail when his radio squawked. He held the radio to his ear.

  “If he says he is not a cripple, let him walk,” he said into the radio, pausing for the reply. “That is not my problem. Let the Indians worry about that. If he has paid his fare we don’t need a passport.” He looked at Mark and shook his head. “You ask about pirates? They are easy compared to this, this,” he pulled out the papers and glanced down at the crossword puzzle. “This kudj. We sail soon. Have a pleasant trip.”

  Chapter Twenty seven

&n
bsp; Mark lay on the bottom bunk, hands behind his head, eyes open, too dark to see the mattress that was just overhead. There was no clock in their cabin, but there was one in the communal bathroom at the end of the hall. When he had checked it had been eleven, so now it had to be close to midnight. He had to have the door open at two. He couldn’t go early and wait, somebody might spot him, and he couldn’t open the door and leave, somebody might come by and close it. He needed to be there right on time. It would only take a minute to rig up the alarm bypass. If he screwed it up and the alarm went off anyway, they would lose the element of surprise but the IMP team would be aboard and, as Shawn assured him, it would be all over in a few minutes. All he had to do now was stay awake.

  He had started the day with an intense hangover. The same bottle of tequila he drank at home seemed somehow more potent in Thailand, and while the unknown pills the pharmacist gave Robin and the warm can of Zam Zam worked their collective magic, he knew he would have felt even better if he hadn’t been drinking at all. A nap would help, but he knew he couldn’t risk it. He rubbed a hand across his face and took a deep breath and counted the days in his head. Shawn had said they’d be back in Phuket City by early Sunday morning, so that would make it nine days. Robin had agreed to five hundred a week plus expenses. He hadn’t thought to break it down per day but figured he’d just charge her for the week since she had to foot the bill for Pim and her family. Besides, the bonus would make up for the extra time.

  He thought about Frankie Corynn. He could see her behind the bar in Phuket City, hazel eyes, red hair, hot body, that you-are-so-stupid smirk most guys thought was a flirtatious smile. You went too far, she had said, referring to the way he handled the bar fight; but she had said it so many times in the past, him going one step too far then stepping back to survey the damage, trying to find a way out of it. But this time was different. It wasn’t his show. All he had to do was open a door and step back and let Shawn and his team handle it. It had been pretty easy after all.