Noble Lies

by Charles Benoit

  But then the boy and the big American were standing right there in front of his hiding place and that was scary because he didn’t even hear them coming. And then the boy tells him what the American wants to do, about getting everyone off the ship and leaving it for the pirates; and right there, just like that, it all came together. He really did have a plan.

  While the American was turning off the alarm he had been whispering with the boy, telling him that when they got the door open they were going to have to make sure it was safe for the others, and how he sure hoped the boy wasn’t afraid of sharks because there were going to be a lot of them, big, hungry sharks that could tell if you were scared, just like dogs; and oh yeah, would he mind running back up to the cabin and checking on the women while they stayed here and took care of the sharks? The boy nodded so fast he thought his head would pop off, and no sooner had the American stepped out onto the platform than the boy raced up the stairs.

  The American made it so easy. Of course he had to do everything himself, jumping down to untie the boat, acting like he was the only one who knew what to do. Typical ferang. He didn’t want to use two of the stun guns, but when the American pulled out the dart he was glad that he had the other gun ready. This time he held the trigger till the American just lay there twitching and kept his finger on the trigger, ready to zap him again if he moved. But he didn’t and it only took a minute to use that wide, gray tape to tie his hands behind his back and tape his ankles together around that chain. If the American tried anything he’d toss the cinderblock anchor overboard and that would be it. But the American still wasn’t moving much. His breathing sounded normal again—as normal as it could sound with his mouth taped shut—and he was blinking a lot like he was trying to clear his vision, but he didn’t seem strong enough to stand. Still, he steered the outboard with one hand and kept a third stun gun aimed at the man’s back. You never knew with ferangs.

  He kept the bow pointed at the big house on Surin Beach, five minutes away. It could have been better, he could have gotten the Thai whore and the other American man too, but this was good. He’d really make a name for himself tonight.

  Jarin had a hundred men working for him but he’d be the one to deliver the American, right to his door.

  ***

  With her palms pressed tight together and her head bowed so that her forehead touched the tips of her fingers, the housekeeper crossed the living room to kneel at Jarin’s feet. He was sitting on the couch, a drink in one hand, the remote in the other, watching a game show where obese people humiliated themselves for prizes. She waited silently for him to acknowledge her presence, listening as the TV audience’s laughter faded down and the Kara shampoo jingle began.

  “Yes?” Jarin said, not bothering to lower the volume for the commercials.

  “Sir, there is a security guard at the back door.”

  “Why do you tell me this?” he said.

  She said nothing and with her head down she could only guess at his reaction. She heard him give an angry sigh and she knew that she should tell him the rest, but her mother had taught her that those who give bad news are often punished, so she said nothing. Swearing in English and Thai, he stood and stormed past the kneeling housekeeper. He cut through the kitchen, startling the cook, who was napping in a chair, and continued down the hall, past the servants’ quarters and the entrance to the garage area, down a flight of stairs and across the footbridge that spanned the indoor koi pond to the screened in-porch. He pushed open the door and the guard snapped to attention.

  “Sir, we caught two men on the beach, sir,” the guard stammered out.

  “You call me for this?”

  “No sir,” the man said, shaking now. “The men, they arrived by boat. One is a ferang. He is tied up. The other man is Thai.”

  Jarin’s eyes narrowed as he listened, none of it making sense. “Where is this boat?”

  “It was a raft, sir. We pulled it far up the beach, up behind the shed.”

  “And the men? Where are they now? Who is with them?”

  “We took them to the game room at the boathouse, sir,” the guard said, falling in alongside of Jarin as he strode across the deck and down to the beach. “There are four security guards and four of your…associates, sir. Your driver, Mr. Laang and also three others.”

  “These men in the boat, were they armed?” he said, knowing that his men would be.

  “Yes, sir. The one man, the Thai, he had several stun guns with him.”

  “Stun guns?”

  “Yes, sir. They are electric devices–”

  Jarin swung a sharp backhand into the man’s face. “I know damn well what they are. Why do they have them is what I want to know.”

  The guard said nothing, focusing now on staying a step behind, then rushing forward to open the boathouse door. Jarin stepped inside and the uniformed security guards straightened up when they saw him, each taking a step back to give him more space in the huge room. Laang was standing next to a pool table, the non-driving driver holding a pistol to the ear of a thin-faced, bony youth, no more than twenty, who sat in a folding chair. The man’s eyes were wide and he shook with fear but when he saw Jarin enter the room he smiled, something Jarin had not expected. Jarin walked over and stood in front of the little man. He took a fresh pack of cigarettes from his shirtfront pocket and tapped it several times against his open palm. “What are you doing at my home?” he said.

  The man brought his hands up under his chin and bowed his head. “Sawatdee krup. Sir, my humble name is—”

  “That is not what I asked,” Jarin said, tearing the cellophane off the pack. He nodded and Laang struck the man with the butt of the pistol, not hard but enough to get his attention. “I will ask you again. What are you doing at my home?”

  The man winced but didn’t move. “Sir, I have brought you the American you were looking for.”

  Jarin did not let his excitement show, taking his time to select a cigarette and getting it lit. He took a long, satisfying drag, blowing the smoke straight at the man’s face. “What American?”

  The scrawny man smiled again. “The one who stole your whore.”

  Laang didn’t wait to be asked, smacking the man again for his rudeness. This time the man brought a hand up to rub the side of his head, a trickle of blood smearing across his fingers. “Where is the other one?” Jarin said to the driver, the driver pointing to the door that led to the enclosed boat slip.

  Jarin walked over and opened the door. They had only turned on the one light, leaving the rest of the boathouse dark, but he could make out the smooth silhouettes of his matching speedboats and the line of jet skis his children used. Under the lone light, two of his men stepped aside so that he could see the American sitting, knees up, on the concrete dock. His hands were secured behind his back and there were bits of tape still stuck to his ankles. A wide piece of tape covered his mouth but Jarin still recognized him from the descriptions that Won and the longhaired hotel owner had given him. He stepped back out of the room and walked to the pool table. He motioned, and his driver pushed the man’s chin up with the barrel of his pistol. Jarin looked into the man’s frightened, yellowed eyes and said, “Why?”

  The man opened his mouth but said nothing, his head moving from side to side, his confusion clear in his expression.

  “Why do you bring this American to me?”

  The man wet his lips and swallowed. “I knew you were looking for him, sir, and I found him.”

  “Why do you bring him to me? What do you want?”

  “Want?” the man said, shaking his head again. “Sir, I do not want anything. It is Náam-jai, my respect for you, sir. That is all, sir.”

  “Náam-jai?” Jarin said and took one last drag on his cigarette, the embers glowing fire red, and stepped forward, leaning into the man with the cigarette, the man tensing as it neared hi
s face, but not moving away; Jarin leaning past, stubbing the cigarette out in an ash tray on the edge of the pool table. This man, this forgettable little man with his funny lisp and his bony little frame and rat face and a leg that hooked out at that weird angle—he would have never brought on a man like this, but he had done what his best men had failed to do, he had found the American.

  Rule Number Two: It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog.

  There was always a need for someone like that, some runt of the litter who had to fight his way up. Wasn’t that what he had done, fought his way up off the streets of Bangkok, fighting still? This runt had that kind of fight in him and Jarin knew that despite his size and his gimpy leg, he’d be a good man to have around, the tough little bastard.

  Still, the man had brought this business to his home, and he’d have to pay for that. Rules were rules.

  Jarin held out his hand and Laang gave him the pistol. Jarin racked the slide, ejecting an unfired round and chambering a new one. There was no reason to do this, the gun was already loaded, but it looked good and he could see from the man’s eyes it had the desired effect.

  “What is your name?” Jarin said, holding the pistol down by his side.

  The man looked at Jarin then down at the gun. They waited as he sat there, not moving. Then, slowly, he raised his head back up, meeting Jarin’s eyes full on, sitting up straight, his chest out, his chin forward. “My name?” he said, his voice strong, even loud, “My name is–”

  “Stop,” Jarin said, swinging up the gun.

  The room fell silent and the man looked at Jarin, still holding his stare.

  Jarin smiled. He wanted to say something to the man, something about pit bulls and never giving up, but instead he said, “I think now that it’s better I don’t know. In case I change my mind. Now get off my island.”

  Jarin walked back to where they held the American, closing the door behind him, and for a full minute after he had gone no one moved. Then the man stood, and when he walked out of the room, Laang and the others watching him go, not one of them noticed his limp.

  Chapter Thirty two

  When Jarin walked back in the room the first thing Mark noticed was the gun.

  No one told him it was Jarin, no one had to. He could tell by the way the others stepped back when he walked toward him, the way he looked past people as if they were invisible, which, to a man like Jarin, they were. And he could tell by the way the two men had brought him in the room. The security guards had been rough, jerking him out of the boat and dragging him down the beach. But these two didn’t have to play tough. They lifted him up by the shoulders—one of them flicking open a knife to cut the tape from his ankles—and walked him into the boathouse and out onto an enclosed dock. They were professionals and they wanted him to know it as well.

  The ride in on the boat had been the worst of it. So far. The shocks had left him nauseous and with the tape over his lips he was afraid he’d be sick. He thought he had seen the man somewhere before but wasn’t sure, not that it made a difference. And he had had a good idea where the man was taking him—not this spot, this house on the beach, but to Phuket and, eventually, to Jarin. Nothing else made sense. But Mark knew he was lucky. It could have been days before he’d be taken to see Jarin and by then it would have been too late for anything. But now, with Jarin right in front of him, there was still time.

  He knew he’d have one chance and that’s it.

  It had worked before but this time was different.

  He’d have to be faster, better—no, not better, perfect.

  It would all come down to him, and he had to play it through, right to the end.

  He had planned it in an instant, the parts falling in place. Now, as Jarin walked toward him, the automatic at his side, Mark felt himself relax.

  It was time to cast.

  “Stand him up,” Jarin said to the guards in Thai, stepping off to the side to light another cigarette, stepping back as one of the men ripped the tape off Mark’s mouth. “Mr. Mark Rohr, you have made me very angry. You have shown me great dis–”

  “I don’t have time for this shit,” Mark said. “You’re already in enough trouble as it is, Jarin, so don’t piss me off and make it worse.” He doubted that the others spoke English but there was no mistaking his tone and from the way that he looked at him—mouth dropping open and eyes blinking—he was sure Jarin understood as well.

  Jerk the line, bob the lure.

  “Your brilliant decision to bring me here may have just screwed up an operation months in the planning and if it falls apart, you are taking the blame, you got that?” Mark grit his teeth and gave his best disgusted headshake, waiting for Jarin to start speaking, then cutting him off, keeping his words hot and angry but under control. “We left you alone—gave you this island—and you pick tonight to fuck with us? Tonight? What is your problem?”

  It was just an eyebrow twitch, a half-second, but Mark knew that the hook was in. Head up, nostrils flaring, he waited for Jarin to run with it.

  “I do not know what you are talking about. You are just—”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Jarin. You know damn well who I am and who I work for, so cut the bullshit.”

  “You work for Mr. Shawn.”

  “Work for him? Is that what you think?”

  Jarin blinked once.

  “I should have known you were going to be trouble,” Mark said, chuckling as if he was recalling some inside joke. “That cop over in Krabi, Captain Jimmy, he said you were behind my visit to the police station. Well he’s paying for that little screw up. Bangkok came down hard on him. Didn’t you realize something was up when he let me go?”

  “I…I do not know what you are—”

  “The IMP, Jarin, or are you gonna pretend you don’t know?”

  “I do not know the IMP,” Jarin said. There was a strange lost quality to his words, as if someone else was speaking through him. Mark noticed the guards’ grip shifting, their feet shuffling, unsure what was being said but certain something was wrong.

  “Jarin, you run this island, you can not be that stupid.” He sighed. “The International Maritime Police, a UN task force. You do know the UN, right?” When Jarin nodded he knew the hook was deep. The Noble Lie, American-style. “Well in case you haven’t heard, I’m the Section Chief for this part of the world and you, Jarin, have put a major multi-national anti-terrorist operation at risk. If I’m not at the rendezvous point on time, it all falls apart and I will take it out on you.”

  “You are forgetting that you killed one of my men.”

  Mark shrugged. “Cost of doing business. I had to infiltrate Shawn’s organization and that was my way in.”

  Jarin brought the gun up and held it level, pointing at Mark’s chest and Mark felt the two guards leaning away from him. “No one knows you are here. If you disappear it can not be connected to me.”

  Mark made a show of rolling his eyes and said, “GPS.”

  Jarin said nothing. He licked his lips and swallowed.

  “Global Positioning Satellite?” Mark said. “There’s a transmitter on the boat. Microscopic,” he added, hoping it wasn’t too much. “They know exactly where I am. And when I don’t show and this mission fails, they will come looking for me.”

  For a long moment Jarin held the gun level but when it dipped, just an inch, Mark knew it was time to reel him in.

  “You’ve got three options, Jarin. One. You shoot me and get rid of the body.” Mark shrugged. “I think it’s a stupid idea but I put it out there just so you can see that I know what you’re thinking. They know I came here, our people in your organization will confirm it and that’s it, game over. Two. You let me go and one of your goons drops me off in Patong. This is the one you’re considering but it’s also stupid. You do that, I miss my ren
dezvous and the mission fails. Tomorrow, me and one hundred of my closest friends raid everything you own and take you down. Here’s what you do instead. You listening?”

  Gun still out but arm lower now, Jarin nodded.

  “Good. Now, how many men you got?”

  Chapter Thirty three

  The cruiser cut through the water as dark as the starless night. The wind had picked up and so had the waves but at over sixty feet long the Fairline Targa cabin cruiser barely rocked. With the running lights off even the hazy glow of the instrument panel was too much and someone covered it over with a beach towel. A mile ahead, the Morning Star sat anchored just outside the shipping lane. The deck lights were on and there was light behind most every window, but there were no fire hoses spraying down the sides of the ship and the pivot-mounted searchlights were all off. It was well past midnight, hours since he had left, and he didn’t know if the lack of activity on board meant an opening or a trap.

  There were twenty men on the cruiser but no one made a sound. It had taken Jarin less than an hour to assemble his men, one SUV arriving with boxes of black tee shirts, loose-fit black warm-up pants and all-black sneakers, another with a rack of SWAT-style MP5 9mm submachine guns and an assortment of handguns, most fitted with suppressors. The shirt was a tight fit and the sneakers a bit snug, but the shoulder holster felt right.

  Jarin was somewhere on the boat, down in one of the salons. Mark was surprised when he had climbed aboard back at the dock, not bothering to change out of his red and white Aloha shirt. There had been a moment when Mark was sure he was a dead man, Jarin staring down the barrel of his handgun and the bullshit deep and getting deeper. And while Jarin had given a nod and the tape binding Mark’s hands had been cut and Mark’s demands for men and arms had been met, he still felt as if it was all just a short reprieve, Jarin simply amused or curious.