A Killing to DIE For

by P Gaseaux

  Chapter Twelve

  Total blackness. Her nose, eyes and mouth still had traces of whatever the mixture was -- maybe solvents and Rohypnol -- used to disable her. A sickly-sweet substance mingled with a bitter taste, the concoction had floored her. At last, it was leaving her system. She could think, she could function. Right now there was an overpowering fish and seawater odor and she couldn’t see a thing; they’d covered her up and stuffed her in. There must have been air though, flowing in a drainage plug at the end. Otherwise she would have suffocated.

  A crash as the lid was torn open, she felt the wind. Hauled out of the tackle box and to her feet the black cloth hood covering her head was removed. Slowly she regained her senses; she felt cold and her throat was parched. She was shivering, even though at sea level and so close to the equator. It was well into the evening, perhaps twelve hours after the ‘extraction’.

  Pakdee gained her bearings…bobbing in the rough sea in the middle of nowhere. A small but potent floodlight beamed down on the deck from a derrick that stood over the deck. The craft tossed in the ocean and an electrical storm drifted by.

  Upright, she swayed and stumbled now; she was fastened with zip-ties and surrounded. Likely some of them were the same assailants who seized her that day, she could not be certain. All of the hands on board were young and like football players, save two -- one older man with very short hair and a female with raggedy blonde hair. Not-so-golden locks that came from the sun’s rays instead of a bottle.

  The plastic things binding her arms behind her back were beginning to cut and constrict her flow of blood. The older man was kneeling before her…not in worship. He was fastening a coil of galvanized marine chain to her ankles. To her horror she saw the end of it, anchor attached, dangling over the starboard side brushing the ocean’s surface. Flashes of green phosphorescence in the water which was choppy and spray whipped upward in the strong breeze. The nearest land was miles away and in the distance a magnificent thunderstorm reflected with a stroboscopic effect, lighting up the jagged peaks of Luzon to the north; Oriental Mindoro to the south.

  The man at the helm cut the engine of the old fishing trawler in the middle of the straits; to the north the lights of some coastal town. A modern gas-turbine plant twinkled in the distance and to the south they could just see the town of Puerto Galera. Far away a huge white passenger ship cut through the black ocean on its voyage from Manila to somewhere down south. The civilized world sailed on by this evening, blissfully unaware of her plight.

  All alone with strangers on a leaky, thirty-foot tub in the deep waters of the Verde Island Passage and it was a million miles from anywhere. Strangers who meant business -- tonight would be no pleasure cruise.

  “Soong, soong…soong” (stand tall, persevere) she whispered to herself.

  Facing her was a man with nondescript features. With close-cropped hair he could have been a monk although he was dressed normally and his face had no expression. As this man leaned towards her the two on either side tightened their grip on her arms. One of the kidnappers from this morning, she was sure of that, and a female on the other side.

  The older one addressed her in English: “Miss Pakdee-Chaiyochaichana, I presume…how nice it is to finally meet you. We know who you are. Do not be surprised. I apologize for any discomfort you may feel this evening but I have been hoping to speak with you. I am hoping for your help with a slight problem I have.”

  His eyes…like a wolf’s eyes, clear and cold. At least he got her name right, said it just like a native speaker. It was a worry, though.

  “I know you can understand me. I would like you to assist us. I think you can. Tell me what were you have been doing here this past year. You and the American.”

  She kept her silence. The male and female restraining her arms held her firmly, both hands locked to each arm and in a forward stance. The others on the boat had light weapons all muzzle-down pointed seaward rather than the deck. The old one doing the interrogating, the boss, had the appearance and demeanor of those westerners who frequented the saunas and boy-bars of her home. Guys like that were clean cut, well preserved and had plenty of money. He was the same size as she, maybe a few pounds heavier. He had forearms and hands like Popeye. No tattoos or other markings. An old puncture or two in the earlobes and a chunky Breitling on his right wrist… Definitely not into the ladies.

  Major Lowenstein held up both his hands opened, palms facing her. “Miss, please consider this. On my right hand I can make you an offer. You help me and I shall help you. I can give my word, our government will protect you.” He then indicated the inky black waters lapping at the side of the boat. “On my left hand I can only guarantee bad things for you…” His voice trailed off and he tapped the chain twice with his left foot. “You be the one to choose.”

  Again she did not reply. The only sound was the wind and the choppy water lapping around the vessel. Distant thunder…Pakdee could smell the salt, diesel and paint and the rocking of the stationary boat unsettled her. She had to persist; she had to keep it together -- this was a test for her. A seafarer, she was not.

  The man swore in her language as he slammed his left hand upon the cowling covering the engine bay. She flinched. A foreigner who talks too much Thai…no good.

  He repeated the question: “What were you two doing in Manila? Tell me. Do you want me to speak Thai? Shake your head if you do not understand and please excuse my accent.”

  “I think I can speak English, more than you,” she hissed.

  He withdrew a hand Taser and discharged it, inches in front of her face and she lurched back. Those on either side only squeezed harder.

  “Smart a bit on your fillings, miss.”

  “Not fillings, Scheissen-hausen,” she snapped. He sounds like a German. “Platinum prosthetics with titanium anchors, five in total -- more than you can afford.”

  He didn’t reply. He barked some orders to the others in a language she did not understand. She was fluent in so many but not this one.

  Arabic? Turkish? Yugoslav maybe; no idea.

  Now they let go and stepped away from her and Lowenstein moved forward. He reached and picked up the anchor on the end of the chain. He lowered it into the water, another fathom, and then some more. With every new link dropping below the ocean’s surface he was straining and the veins in his arm bulged.

  “I do not have time for this. Tell us about your work here and I promise; I give you my word I can help you. I can give you new identity, anything within reason; a foreign passport, perhaps.”

  Pakdee shook her head, mystified. Why on earth would a good Thai girl need a new passport? Traitor!

  “Shut heads! Untie me now,” she demanded.

  Lowenstein faced her. “Last chance…”

  “Last chance for what-“

  Just like slow motion; he let go and she could only watch as the stacks of marine chain started unwinding, clattering as it tore away and over the side of the boat. The others had jumped well back and watched in disbelief -- she would be snatched from the deck and dragged to the floor of the straits, half a mile beneath the keel. The precious prisoner, ‘The Cat’, whom they’d risked their lives to locate and capture. But she stayed put…the last of the chain flicked up and nearly tore Pakdee’s head off as it went over.

  Sadist. He’d cut it.

  A few feet of the chain remained on the deck. Pakdee looked down and drew a deep breath. She looked around at the horrified faces of the others then back at the man who was sneering. She smiled at him. Then she laughed in his face.

  “Coward!” She snapped. “Don’t have the bottle, you know that?”

  The man leant forward. “There’s another one on the bow of this thing.”

  Lowenstein nodded to one of the crew. “Stay with her.” Stepped over to the female with the raggedy blonde locks and tugged her sleeve. “Upstairs a moment please, Ms. Blue.”

  Th
ey headed up to the wheelhouse, about eight feet above. Lowenstein lit a cigarette and offered one to the rider who shook her head.

  “You know, we may have caught ourselves a tiger, not a cat and we’re holding it by the tail.” He inhaled. “What’s your take on this, Ms. Blue?” He peered out into the distance. The storm was receding but the waves had picked up. “I’ve seen grown men, even the guys from our elite units that I used to instruct, they’d literally piss themselves when we did that.”

  The rider thought about this. “It’s very strange indeed. She’s a nasty little thing. Give me five minutes alone with her-”

  “That’s my point, she almost seems glad to see us. I am wondering -- was she expecting this?”

  “Should we even be speculating on this, Mister Gold?” She glanced behind; The Cat was standing there with the others around, watching her.

  “Very true, Ms. Blue,” he replied.

  “What is our authority with her?” she asked. “Are we to interrogate her, or just locate and render?”

  “Well if you remember the briefing, the boss told us to locate and work out whether she’s neutral or hostile.” The running man took a deep draw. “I’ve reported back already. They passed on their congrats; job well done and all.”

  He took a last drag from his Lucky and flicked it in a shower of sparks. “A Shekel for your thoughts, Ms. Blue? Having fun so far?”

  The rider nodded. “Sir…” she replied. The rider averted her gaze, uneasy at the running man’s question, unsure of how she should answer him.

  No longer in uniform; a new game in a different part of the world with totally different rules.

  Lowenstein slid down the stainless ladder and barked at the crew: “Get those ties off her, give her a blanket, sit her down and get her something to drink.” Time to move; the wind was picking up. “Start her up!” he cried out to the rider, up at the wheel. “We set sail to Puerto Galera. Follow the lights. We can drop anchor and spend the night there.”

  The Gardner-Six diesel coughed into life and the vessel tuned south. Below deck Pakdee washed and changed into some borrowed clothes. They were loose and crinkled. Her black outfit was filthy and reeked of fish-scales. The gun she used was long-gone, of course.

  Secondhand rags; possibly belonging to the tomboy with the bad hairstyle.

  They were nearly the same size, baggy. The cabin was cramped but well appointed. The lights drew close. The little ship rounded the cape and past Sabang Beach. Music thumped from some bar or another, they heard the noise from the beach. Two in the morning, the party never ended there…past another headland and south into a cove. The rider cut the engine and the tub glided to a halt. The anchor at the bow crashed into the shallow water…the real anchor this time; it was a rusty old sculpture.

  The others squeezed in next to her and they slept, exhausted. She drifted into a fitful sleep but the dreams always came.

  Phayao…before electricity came; before they put the second reservoir in.

  Childhood…in the old days before television came; after they put the rice-crop in.

  Life was simple then. School, taking care of the water buffaloes, making sure they never got sick. Making sure the wild boars didn’t break the fences at night, they had traps. Up well before dawn; work in the rice-fields then school. More work…worship at the temple. Cockfights -- if they had a few spare copper coins they could place bets.

  Always a ceremony of some sort or another. The elders would gather at night, they’d drink moonshine and sing.

  And the waterhole, the one with the tamarind tree leaning over it. They’d jump from the tallest branches. That’s where they would gather in the evenings of the rainy season. The waterhole…that’s where Daow drowned that day. Her sister; one afternoon they both went down there and only one returned.

  But her sister never let her forget. She came every time, especially when danger was near. The village never let her forget. Forever jinxed. She carried it round like a monkey on her back. The monkey was still there, everywhere she went; it came along for the ride.

  Pakdee let out a tortured yelp and lurched awake, clipping her forehead on a timber beam. The others were asleep in the cabin and she wrinkled her nose when she realized a pair of feet had been only a few inches from her pillow. None of them snored, they slept silently. None of the others had washed that evening; they were on a mission but she always did without fail, even if it meant a half bucket of seawater. Three times every day, a cold shower…just had to do it.

  She inched out carefully, like a cat. That was what they called her.

  “Halt right there,” whispered a man slouched at the stern, one of the crew. Held a machine pistol, trained on her.

  She stayed put at the hatch. “Wouldn’t shoot an unarmed lady in distress, would you?” She batted her eyelids. “Glock 18 with selector? Easy to control?”

  “Stop and stay there,” he whispered once more. “Don’t come any closer. Try to escape and I will fire.”

  “No you won’t,” replied Pakdee. “You’ll jump me and cry out to your friends and then that beastly Russian lady will tie me up again.”

  “She’s not a…” He stopped, mid-sentence. Almost…

  Pakdee crouched down where she was, she gazed upward and back at the crewman. A cloudless sky now, the storm had drifted out to the South China Sea. He’d removed his protective vest, for comfort and probably against orders. His face, it was gentle with soft brown eyes just like a deer. Yet he had a powerful and lean physique. He was no deckhand; he was a specialist…like all of them.

  She watched him with harmless curiosity. It had been a while, she thought.

  He watched her every single move like a hawk.

  She reclined -- as she gazed toward the heavens a shooting star passed overhead trailing a spray of sparks. Pakdee was reminded of her lost sibling’s name so many years ago: ‘Daow’ …their word for star. She felt a shiver on the back of her neck. Surely this could be a sign, a message. Far to the west the lightning flickered. It was so eerie.

  She thought of Will Hatfield and Port Barton, where they stayed one weekend just before this all went down…that place on Palawan with the huge black and green butterflies everywhere. They sat on the beach and watched the sun set. It wasn’t too far away from here, perhaps two hundred nautical miles at the most.

  Right now, they might as well been on the other side of the universe. Everything changes with time.