Noble Lies (18 page)

Chapter Twenty six

   

They rode to the dock in two cabs, Robin and Mark in one, Pim, Ngern and Kiao in the other. There was no security checkpoint at the port, no passport control to clear, just angry-eyed guards in military-style uniforms and shoulder-slung AK-47s, bored enough to be dangerous.

The cab dropped them off in front of a warehouse—high windowless walls of gray-white aluminum with the words To Ship stenciled in black paint under a droopy spray-painted arrow. They followed the arrow around the corner of the building to a fenced-in walkway that led through the loading area and to the waiting ship. Late-night movies and Louis L'Amour paperbacks had left vivid memories of Far East ports in his mind, but nothing looked familiar. There were no wooden crates marked This End Up or soft-sided bundles held fast with burlap and netting, no sweaty stevedores in coolie hats and wife-beater tee shirts, no banana-eating monkeys or talking parrots, no spice-soaked smells, no oriental flowers with porcelain skin and jet-black spit-curls riding past in open cars and rickshaws, the high band collars of their fiery-red kimonos hidden behind paper fans. Instead there were rows of shipping containers stacked five high and men in light blue jumpsuits and hard hats, scanning barcodes and punching numbers into handheld computers, directing giant rolling cranes to the right coordinates, the loudest sound the high-pitched beep of a forklift in reverse.

Ten stories tall and longer than a football field, the former Morning Star loomed above the concrete pier. The hull was painted in thick coats of black marine paint, a dull red stripe running the length of the ship, just below the deck. The ship's superstructure was crowded onto the stern, boxy and industrial, like a factory outbuilding or a French museum. It was painted white but the late afternoon sun gave the whole ship a pink tint. Shawn had said that it was an old ship, already overdue for the breakers, yet from where he stood it looked seaworthy enough. But what did he know about ships? Mark smiled as he remembered the ditty that had kept his grandfather's used car lot in business. A little putty and a little paint, makes it look like what it ain't.

Leaning against the chain-link fence that enclosed the gangplank, a man in a blue jumpsuit and two dark-skinned sailors chatted with a uniformed guard. The guard sat on a wooden barstool, his weapon laying on its side across his lap, the barrel pointing down the walkway. They watched as Mark and Robin approached, the others following a step or two behind. Without turning his head, the guard said something that made the others laugh, and the way they kept their eyes on Robin, Mark could guess what was said. The guard held out his hand, and Mark handed him the envelope Robin had received from the shipping office. The guard unfolded the bottom three copies of a form, peeling off the top pink copy and handing it to the man in the jumpsuit. Mark wondered if any of them—or all of them—were with the imposter pirate crew. The two sailors bent in to read over his shoulder as the man studied the form, the guard keeping his eyes on Mark. Two minutes later, the man handed the pink copy back to the guard, saying something official sounding while the sailors nodded in agreement, pointing up to the ship. Mark put the envelope in his pocket and started up the gangplank. Behind him, the four men turned to watch Robin walk past.

The air was heavy with petrochemicals—diesel exhaust, oil-based paints, the cloyingly noxious fumes that had to be the low-grade bunker fuel. Mark could feel a headache building with every breath. The guards were on post for hours at a stretch, inhaling the same kind of chemicals that rotted the brains of glue sniffers and paint huffers. He wondered about the long-term health affects the guards faced, and he wondered about the wisdom of giving them machine guns.

At the top of the gangplank, two men leaned against the ship's railing, European, about forty years old. One was heavy-set and doughy, with wavy steel-gray hair, the other was short and thin and wore a baseball cap on his shaved head. They had on matching short-sleeved white shirts, and there were four gold bars stitched on to the epaulets of the big man's shirt. Captain's rank. Mark stepped aboard the ship and the smaller man turned and smiled.

“Welcome aboard,” he said. It was an eastern European accent, maybe Russian, maybe Polish, maybe Ukrainian. “You are passengers sailing to India?”

Mark nodded, remembering what Shawn had said about the boat's alleged destination, how the crew wouldn't jeopardize the deal by keeping innocent people off the ship. “That's right. All of us,” he said, thankful some shipboard clatter kept Robin from hearing them speak. Mark held out the forms but the man waved them off, pulling a small walkie-talkie from his pants pocket.

“Singh to the gangway, please,” the man said, then pointed to a passageway with the radio's stubby antenna. “Through there, to your right. Mr. Singh will meet you. He will show you to your quarters.”

Mark thanked him and led the others through the doorway, glancing back at the two men before he turned. Before Oklahoma City, before 9/11, it would have been hard for him to picture two middle-aged men as terrorists. Now it was too easy. But these men were pirates, not terrorists, and their motive was profits, not prophets. Not that that mattered to those they killed. Ahead, a slight Indian in black slacks and a Miami Heat tee shirt came down a spiral staircase. He took the forms from Mark without saying a word and read them as he turned and walked away, assuming that they would follow him down the corridor. He led them up three flights of stairs and down a short hallway lined with doors. It reminded Mark of the dorm-style barracks he had seen in the Corps, only not as well maintained, no gunny sergeant there to ensure that the brass fixtures were shiny enough to shave in.

“Here. And here,” Singh said, pointing to two rooms on opposite sides of the hallway. He opened one of the rooms and motioned for Mark to follow. The room was larger than he expected, the size of a one-car garage, but he could reach up and touch the ceiling without straightening his arm. Other than a bunk bed and a single folding chair, the room was empty. There was no window. The mattresses were rolled up at the foot of the beds with the sheets and blankets folded on top. The man pulled the door half shut and tapped a finger on a column of typed papers taped to the back of the door.

“These are rules. You must read. You are lifeboat number two. No smoking.” He waited for Mark to acknowledge that he understood, nodded once, then went across to the second room, pointed at the typed list and delivered the same message, this time in Thai.

“I like to be on top,” Robin said, brushing close past Mark to claim the upper berth. She turned back and winked seductively before she burst out laughing, cutting through the tension that had been building all afternoon. It was good to see her smile again, and Mark found he was smiling too. “Can you believe this? It's like a frickin' prison cell,” she said.

“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.