by David Stone
“Missa Fyke,” he said, after a moment. “You come back.”
“Nguyen Ki. This is my friend, Mr. Dalton.”
Ki’s eyes slipped sideways, took Dalton in without a change in his disapproving scowl, and then slid back to Fyke.
“You still with the Americans, Missa Fyke?”
“Not anymore. Freelance.”
Ki’s expression grew even stonier.
“You go ’way, long time gone. All the people different now. What you want me to do for you now, Missa Fyke?”
“Can we have a talk somewhere private, Nguyen?”
“You want maybe bottle Jim Beam, Missa Fyke?”
“No. No Jim Beam. A cuppa, maybe.”
Ki stood there with his callused hands flat on the worn teak boards of the countertop, looking Fyke up and down in a way that the Ray Fyke that Dalton used to know would never have tolerated. But, then, the Fyke that Dalton had known would never have let a bottle of Jim Beam get in between him and his mission. Nguyen Ki had seen the shades of the coming dead in the streets of Kuta and he had tried to stop that, and Fyke had failed him abjectly. But there must have been something in the way that Fyke stood there and looked him straight back that burned through his sorrow and resentment. His face creased a little, and he showed his yellow fangs.
“Okay—you follow me to back. Mary,” he called, and a young girl in a checkered shirt, her hair in a bandanna, looked up from a pile of white shirts. “You take counter, okay?”
“Yes, Grandfather,” she said, smiling at Dalton and Fyke, as Nguyen Ki led them down a cluttered laneway between heaps of clothing and stacks of bedsheets toward an open space in the back where he had a kind of office, a spare-looking room with a sagging plywood desk piled high with paperwork behind which sat a battered steel file cabinet. He set a kettle on a small gas burner and shoved a pile of old newspapers off a set of plastic chairs stacked in a corner. He set them out in front of the desk, and busied himself with the tea for a moment, while Fyke looked around the room like a man who has traveled back in time to a place in his past he had been trying hard to forget. Seen in the dim light pouring in through a shuttered window, Fyke looked suddenly ancient, his broad red face marked with lines and fissures. Ki brought the cups over—three delicate bowls in blue porcelain with gold rims—and they sat there for a time, allowing the formality of the ceremony to be honored for a while, as was the Vietnamese custom.
“Okay,” said Ki. “You not look good. What happen?”
“I’ve been in Changi Prison.”
Ki shook his head, as he looked Fyke up and down.
“Very bad prison. How long?”
“About a month.”
“Long time. Look like shit. Why you in Changi Prison?”
“They said I lost my ship.”
Nguyen Ki’s face tightened, and his eyes flicked across to Dalton, rested briefly there with a glitter, and then went back to Fyke.
“What kind ship you lost?”
“A tanker named the Mingo Dubai. Five-hundred-foot. About fifteen years old. What they call a gypsy tanker. A hull for rent. We made runs from Aden and Chittagong to Burma, through Malacca to Jakarta, all the way to Port Moresby. And then back. About a month ago, we were boarded by pirates at the southern end of the Strait—”
Ki made a face, showing his teeth in a skeptical leer.
“Hah! How pirates board big ship like that?”
“They had friends on board. Serbians.”
Ki sipped at his tea, glancing from Fyke to Dalton.
“Once, you with our American friends. Then, after bombing, not. So, after disgrace, you run away to sea, like Tuan Jim?”
Fyke had to grin, although the words bit deep.
“Yes. Like Tuan Jim. Hiding my shame. And then they took my boat and they killed all my friends. And everybody thinks I’m a liar, that I got drunk and sank the boat.”
“Yes,” said Nguyen Ki, his eyes half closed and his gaze downward at the steam rising off his tea. “And are you liar who sink his boat?”
“No. I’m not. Those bastards took my boat and killed my men.”
Ki sipped at his tea again and set it back down. In the silence, they heard the whine of tuk-tuks and jitneys going up and down the alley and the hiss and thump of the presses working. Ki sat back and looked at Fyke for a long time. The old man had that quality they called gravitas. It was a little like being in court and waiting for a judge to come to a decision.
“Okay,” he said, glancing again at Dalton. “I think you no liar. Boat not sunk. Pirates take it. You want to find out who took it?”
“Yes. And I need your help.”
Ki’s eyes dropped again, and then he came back up.
“You go ’way long time, Missa Fyke. Many of the old names, old numbers, not around anymore. I not work for anybody long time.”
“People still talk to you, Nguyen. You still listen.”
Nguyen smiled.
“Yes. People still talk. This ship, she a pretty big boat, yes?”
“Yes. Five hundred feet.”
“If the Malays take it, they cannot go to China to sell it anymore. China want her own ships, also want much trade, so no more pirates. The China people only steal boat themselves, or turn pirates in to Singapore. So, Malay and Dyak pirates not taking big ships in long time. Singapore Navy patrol the Strait. Even in Sulawesi waters. Indonesian Navy and KIPAM patrol all way from Jakarta to Papua New Guinea now. And the Americans all over too. Very dangerous. Still take small boats and sometimes make toll from big tankers and freighters. So, not the same as before.”
He paused, refilled their cups.
“This boat, maybe five hundred feet long. Have white tower at back end? Then, long, low forward, with big hatches all along top? Red on top?”
“Yes,” said Fyke, leaning forward in his chair, spilling his tea. Ki nodded, as if Fyke had confirmed something for him, but all that Dalton could see was that Fyke had just described almost every tanker working the seven seas all the world over. Nguyen Ki went inward for a time.
“Okay. You know Bontang?”
Fyke thought about the question.
“Yes. I do. Small fishing town on the eastern coast of Borneo. Maybe two thousand people.”
“More now. Big tin mine open up thirty miles north, got conveyor run ten mile, all the way to sea, to fill ore ships. So lots of people live in Bontang until tin runs out. Many young boys from Kuta and Denpasar went up to Bontang for the mine work. Ten days on and ten days off. Lots of money to spend. But after Kuta, Bontang pretty sleepy, eh? Kuta, lots of girls, but Bontang only have hootch girls— number one Gee-Eye, all time boom-boom—”
Here he broke into a cackle, his eyes shut tight and his teeth bared, as he enjoyed his own joke. Fyke and Dalton let him enjoy it. After a moment, he settled down again.
“So, Kuta boys take company chopper to Diapati. Three hundred miles to Diapati. Lots of boom-boom in Diapati. Pretty girls. Clubs. Time back, one boy mother, Niddya Chinangah, she bring in her boy’s clothes from three months of mine work. She tells me story. Her boy, Ali Chinangah, take chopper from Bontang to Diapati. Ten boys, all in chopper. Big yellow chopper. They crossing the strait between Borneo and Sulawesi, sun go down so very dark, and pilot say look down there. Down below is a big tanker. Can’t see too much in dark, but big white tower like a T-shirt on a hanger”—Nguyen stretched his arms out to indicate the wings of the wheelhouse deck— “and long front deck with lots of big hatches. Big ship.”
“Why did the chopper pilot care about it?” asked Dalton. “They must see ten a week in that channel.”
“No. Not that many. And all other ship have lights on.”
Fyke was listening so hard he was getting a headache.
“This ship was running dark?” he said.
“Yes. Running dark. No lights. Nobody on deck.”
“And this was . . . how long ago?”
“Three, four weeks.”
“Three weeks ago. Thirty
knots an hour. Two thousand nautical miles, give or take a few, from the Kepulauan Lingga Light to the Sulawesi channel. They could do that in four, maybe five days. Dammit, Mikey, the timing is right. Nguyen, was there any flag at the staff?”
Ki shook his head.
“No. No flag.”
“What direction was it headed?”
Ki shrugged.
“North. Maybe northeast.”
“Going around Sulawesi,” said Fyke, to himself. “Why?”
Ki was shaking his head, impatience flickering across his face.
“No, no. Lissen. This not story Niddya want to tell. Like you say, all day boats like that come through Sulawesi channel. This different. Her boy says pilot come around again, maybe see if boat is in trouble, and somebody run out onto deck and shoots at them.”
“Shoots at them!” said Fyke. “With what?”
Ki didn’t know.
“Just a sparkle-twinkle-crackle from a little chatter gun, all dark against big deck. Never hit nothing, but the pilot he goes up high and gets out of there.”
“Did he call it in?” asked Dalton.
Ki shrugged that off, grinning.
“Call in to who? No business. Maybe people on boat think chopper is pirates. Everybody trust nobody in open water there. People can be fisherman one day and pirate next. So, maybe ship captain frightened too.”
“No honest ship’s captain would let his ship run dark,” said Fyke. “He was sneaking through that channel. But where the fook was he going?”
“Diapati’s a port,” said Dalton.
Fyke shook his head.
“Mikey, my lad, you can’t take a ship that’s supposed to be sunk in the Malacca Strait and just steam her all-happy-go-lucky into Diapati with her name painted out. If that was the Mingo Dubai, they were headed for someplace where they could change her looks, paint her up brand-new. Get new registry papers. Alter her superstructure enough to disguise her. They’d need a dry dock big enough to hold her. And it couldn’t be someplace on the sea-lanes either. Nor any port where there’s the rule of law, or a Coast Guard, or a Navy. It would have to be . . . Christ, I have no fooking idea. There’s no place like that in Southeast Asia anymore.”
“Who would?” said Dalton.
Fyke stared at him.
“Who would what?”
“Who would have a fooking idea?”
“Fooking? Do I actually talk like that?”
“Only when you’re speaking. Come on, Ray. This is your turf.”
“Nguyen, how much of our old network is still intact?”
Ki shook his head sadly, made a very Proustian ou sont les neiges d’antan face, raised his hands to Buddha.
“Only a few here, in Kuta. Diapati, nobody, since Cao Ki died—”
“Cao Ki died? He was only forty. An athlete.”
“Big mako shark. Right off shore. Ten feet out. Children watch.”
“Jesus. Anybody else?”
“Tia Sally, but she pretty old now.”
“So am I. She had a pub in Manado, didn’t she?”
“Yes. The Blue Bird. Next to KIPAM, near Sam Ratulangi Airport.”
“Kee Pam?” said Dalton. “Who’s Kee Pam?”
“Komando Intai Para Amfibi,” said Fyke. “Indonesian Special Forces. Snake eaters, just like you, only Marines instead of Army. You never heard of them?”
“Not under that name,” said Dalton. “This Tia Sally, she a good source?”
“She was,” said Fyke. Ki shook his head.
“Not now. She have diabetes. Lost legs. She sit in wheelchair all day by cash register, smoke-smoke, make sure her people not steal too much.”
“She always knew who was doing what in the Celebes, though.”
“Yeah,” said Ki. “She lissen pretty good still. You want I call?”
“No,” said Dalton. “Don’t call. We’ll go up to Manado and see her.”
There was a commotion at the front counter. Dalton heard his name being called. He and Fyke came out of Ki’s office and saw Delia Lopez standing in the entrance to the shop. She saw them as soon as they came through the doorway, and ran to the counter.
“Micah, Ray—you have to come. It’s Mandy!”
“What is it?”
“She’s in the bar. I think she might be having a heart attack. I have to go back! Come quick. We’ve called the ambulance.”
They all hit the street at a dead run, weaving through the traffic. A crowd had gathered outside the bar area, tourists and backpackers and Kuta residents, all pressed together in the doorway. Dalton and Fyke went through them like pulling guards, sending people flying into tables. The interior of the bar was crowded with customers, most of whom were gathered around two young Balinese women who were crouched beside Mandy, who was kneeling on the floor, breathing hard, her hand on her chest, her eyes wide. There was a Thai silk scarf on the floor by her left knee, lying in a tangled heap of fiery oranges and brilliant scarlets.
Delia crouched down beside her. Mandy was looking at Dalton, a terrible fear in her eyes, her breath coming in gasps, each shorter than the last. She was trying to speak. They could hear sirens in the distance, coming closer, closing in fast. Dalton knelt down beside Mandy. She reached out and pulled him close, forced out some words he could not understand. He leaned in closer. Her body was hot, and she was coated in perspiration. Mandy tightened her grip on Dalton’s shirt.
“Bitten,” she managed to say. “I put the scarf on . . . I think something bit me!”
“Are you in pain?”
Mandy’s brief sideways glare was truly killing, one of her very best, and she gritted out her answer through clenched teeth.
“Do . . . I . . . look . . . happy?”
“She was bitten,” said Dalton, looking across at Delia Lopez. “She thinks something was in the scarf.”
Lopez immediately pulled up Mandy’s sleeves, tore her blouse open. A large brown spider scurried across the upper swell of Mandy’s china-white breast. Dalton saw a tiny red dot with a drop of blood on her skin. Mandy saw the spider and screamed, slapping at her torso. Delia caught her hands: “No! It will bite again!” The spider was incredibly fast, darting for the cover of Mandy’s shirt. Dalton snatched the spider off her skin; felt a sharp stinging sensation in his palm. Delia threw a bar glass toward him, saying, “Don’t crush it— we need to know what kind it is!” Dalton slapped the glass over his palm and turned his hand over, dropping the spider inside. It immediately began to climb up the side of the glass again, feelers twitching. Dalton turned the glass upside down and slammed it down on the floor.
Men in blue were all around him now, and Fyke was pulling him backward away from Mandy. In a moment, she was surrounded by paramedics. Fyke picked a menu up from a nearby table, slid it under the glass on the floor, and held the glass up to a light. His face changed as he watched the spider scuttle around the interior of the glass.
“Do you know what it is?” asked Dalton.
The spider was about an inch across including legs, dark brown, with a smooth hide and an odd marking on its back. To Dalton, it looked like a violin, and as soon as he realized that his left hand began to pulse. He looked down at it and saw the same kind of mark that he had seen on Mandy’s breast. Spiders, he thought, remembering Venice.
Why does it always have to be spiders?
“Yes,” said Fyke. “It’s a brown recluse. A female.”
“Jesus. I thought so.”
Necrotizing wounds the size of dinner plates. Renal failure. Coma.
Fyke looked down at Dalton’s hand, saw the lesion there, a tiny red mark with two bright drops of blood, glittering under the light like tiny rubies. Dalton stared down at it. There was pain, not bad yet but building.
“Boyo,” said Fyke. “You and Mandy need to get to a hospital. Now.”
36
Selaparang airstrip, Tengarra Barat, sixty miles east of Kuta City
For once, Kiki Lujac did exactly what Gospic told him to do. He had B
ierko fly him to Selaparang airstrip, sixty miles across the channel from Kuta, and he waited there. And he waited alone. Bierko took off again in a few minutes, telling Lujac that he had orders from Gospic to get the Gulfstream back to Bari right away. There was nothing Lujac could do about that, other than shooting Bierko in the knee with the late Corporal Ahmed’s little semiauto—he’d kept it as a memento of their brief but memorable affair—which wouldn’t have helped, since Lujac couldn’t fly a jet. So, here he was, and if this place wasn’t Hell then it was the place where people who didn’t have the pull to get into Hell right away had to wait around for an opening.
The airstrip was a narrow, pitted stretch of blacktop, unmarked, carved out of the scrub bush all around, and used mainly by local transport services and a few private planes owned by some of the mining interests in the region. A squalid cantonment of tin huts and wooden shacks was clustered tightly around the strip, fighting a losingbattle with the encroaching jungle. There seemed to be no young people, only a few emaciated ancients, stumbling around in the gloom under the forest or sitting slumped over on their porches, staring blankly out into the mist and nursing bottles of lukewarm Singha. There was a large cinder-block building at one end of the strip, tucked into the edge of the tree line, roofed in corrugated iron, with a neon sign in one gun-slit window—TIGER BEER SOLD HERE—and it served as a kind of ticket counter, Laundromat, penny flop, whorehouse, latrine, and wet bar to whomever was unfortunate enough to have to spend any time here, which, in this case, happened to be the Lovely and Talented Kiki Lujac, who was leaning against the pitted wooden countertop and staring down at the surface of his beer, where a tiny winged creature was struggling to stay afloat and looked about to lose the fight at any moment.
