Noble Man

by William Miller

  Noble went to the cabinet over the sink and drew out a .45 caliber pistol hidden between a box of protein bars and instant oatmeal. “I ought to put a bullet in you.”

  Burke speared eggs with his fork and shoveled them into his mouth. “Go ahead.”

  Noble centered the front sight on Burke’s chest and pulled the trigger. The hammer fell on an empty chamber with a hollow click.

  Burke put the fork down and managed to look offended. “I’m hurt. You were actually going to shoot me?” He reached into his shirt pocket, brought out the magazine, and laid it on the tabletop.

  “I knew it was empty,” Noble said. “The weight wasn’t right.” He laid the handgun on the countertop, poured a cup of coffee, and slipped into the bench across from Burke.

  “What if I had left one in the chamber?”

  “Sloppy tradecraft,” Noble said with a shrug. “A bullet in the chest is less than you deserve.”

  “Come on, Jake. You killed a politician.”

  “He was neck deep in human trafficking and had ties to Hamas.”

  “He was unarmed,” Burke said.

  “It was the heat of combat. He had his hand in his jacket. When there is doubt, there is no doubt.” Noble jabbed a finger across the table at Burke. “You taught me that, remember?”

  Burke held up both hands. “Sometimes ops go sideways. You knew the risks when you took the job.”

  Noble scrubbed his face with both hands.

  On the bench next to Burke lay a file with EYES ONLY stamped in red across the cover. He picked it up and dropped it on the table.

  “What’s this?” Noble instinctively reached for the file. On top of a slim pile of papers he found a black-and-white 8X10 of an Asian girl with bright eyes, a wide mouth, and straight black hair. The photo was an enlargement of a student ID from Yale.

  “That is Bati Malaya Ramos. She was abducted twenty-nine hours ago.”

  “Daughter of Bakonawa Ramos?” Noble asked.

  Burke nodded.

  Ramos was a well-known champion in the fight against human trafficking. As a diplomat, he campaigned to raise awareness and funds to battle trafficking rings all over the Middle East, Asia, and South America. Behind the scenes, he fed info to the CIA. He had been instrumental in the mission that ended Noble’s career.

  “The daughter’s a crusader just like her old man. After graduating Yale, she moved to Manila where she opened a Christian shelter for women. You know the type of place I’m talking about. They try to wean the girls off drugs, introduce them to Jesus, that sort of thing. Everyone from the traffickers to crooked police tried to shut her down. A combination of Daddy’s money and sheer tenacity kept the operation running.”

  “Then she has enemies,” Noble said.

  “Looks like the kidnappers knew who they were after, too,” Burke said. “They snatched her a block from the shelter. She was walking with her boyfriend, a local by the name of Diego Hawa. No one has seen him since.”

  “What do the kidnappers want?” Noble asked.

  “We don’t know yet. Ramos has gone dark. We found out about the kidnapping through other channels.”

  Noble chewed the inside of one cheek. “We should have been his first phone call.”

  Burke nodded. “And if he’s not talking with us, we have to assume he’s talking with the kidnappers. You and I both know if he gives in to their demands, they’ll kill the girl.”

  Burke dislodged himself, took his empty plate to the sink, poured another cup of coffee, and sat back down with a grunt of effort. “The D/O is worried that if Ramos loses his daughter, the goose will stop laying golden eggs. Ramos feeds us a lot of actionable intel. We want you to go over there, find Bati, and bring her home.”

  A wry smile turned up one side of Noble’s mouth. Burke had manipulated him. People who went to work for the Company were puzzle-solvers by nature; it was in their blood. Noble was no exception. Put a problem in front of him, and he would lie awake at night until he solved it. Burke handed him a puzzle and let Noble’s instincts take over. Noble closed the file and passed it back. “I don’t work for you anymore.”

  Burke cradled his coffee mug in both hands and propped his elbows on the table. “The Company is prepared to offer you $150,000 if you can bring the girl back alive.”

  Since the debacle in Vietnam, the United States government had not been overly kind to the men and women who protect their borders. They hadn’t even given Noble a severance package when they cut him loose. According to the Director of Operations, he should be happy he wasn’t going to Leavenworth. Now they were offering him $150,000 for a single job. Mighty generous. He whistled. “Sounds a little too good to be true.”

  “Time is against us,” Burke admitted. “Bati is type-one diabetic. If she doesn’t get insulin soon, she’ll go into a diabetic coma and die. If we play by the book, the girl doesn’t stand a chance. We need someone who can bend a few rules.”

  Noble snorted and shook his head. “And if it all goes sideways, the D/O can deny any involvement.”

  Burke conceded the point with a shrug. “South East Asia is your territory, Jake. No other agent knows that corner of the world better. If anyone has a shot at bringing Bati home alive, it’s you.”

  Noble leaned back in his seat, raked both hands through his hair, and exhaled. He didn’t want to be manipulated by the Company into mercenary work. It was a slippery slope. Once he started down that path, it would be hard to turn back.

  “How much do you make taking photos for Deep Sea Diver?” Burke thrust his chin at the July issue on the countertop. One of Noble’s pictures graced the front cover. Photography put diesel in the engine and coffee in the cupboard but didn’t leave much left over. Most nights Noble had to catch his dinner.

  Burke tapped a thick, black finger against the stack of unpaid medical bills in a brass holder shaped like an octopus. “Do it for her.”

  That comment pushed Noble to the tipping point. “Get the hell off my boat.”

  Burke drained his coffee, stood up, and went to the cabin door. “The clock is ticking on this girl’s life, Jake. The D/O needs your answer by sundown.”

  Burke stepped topside. Noble sat at the galley table and refused to move until he heard the onboard motor crank. Then he got up, reloaded his weapon, and watched through the window until Burke and the dinghy disappeared from sight.

  11

  Noble motored around the southern tip of Saint Petersburg and docked the Yeoman in its slip at South Yacht Basin. His father had been a sailing man. He bought the Yeoman when Jake was twelve. Together they spent the next nine years painstakingly restoring her. The old wooden schooner stood out amid the floating parking lot of glaring white fiberglass hulls bristling with modern antenna arrays.

  Jeremiah Noble had spent twenty years in the Navy and another ten with a commercial shipping outfit. When he dropped dead of a heart attack at fifty-seven, Jake inherited the ship. During his time with the Green Berets, he had used her to unwind after grueling fourteen-month tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. After Burke recruited him into the Special Operations Group, Noble had put her in dry dock. Work with the Company didn’t leave much time for anything else. His team was either on a mission, gearing up for a mission, or planning a mission. All that changed after being unceremoniously drummed out of the company. Noble burned through his savings account, had to give up his apartment, and the Yeoman became his home.

  He toyed with the idea of selling her but never gave it any serious thought. He needed it for work as an underwater photographer, at least that’s what he told himself. The truth was the Yeoman symbolized the last piece of his father. It was the only thing he had to hold onto. Noble would never willingly give up the old girl.

  He changed into linen slacks, suede lace-ups, and a white cotton button down. It was late September. The mercury in Saint Petersburg hovered just under 85 degrees Fahrenheit. Noble slipped a Bersa .380acp into a leather holster at the small of his back. The Argentinian-made semiau
tomatic was small enough to conceal and packed enough punch to get him out of a scrape.

  In the parking lot, he pulled the cover off a 1970 Buick GSX hardtop. It needed a new carburetor and the transmission was ready for an overhaul—Noble didn’t have the money—but the engine was solid. It turned over on the first try.

  He cranked up the air conditioner, pulled out of the parking lot, and turned onto Bay Shore, enjoying the feel of the big V-8 engine. Noble liked old machines, machines made to last, made with character and class. Driving, sailing, flying—these were activities to be savored in Noble’s opinion. And the best way to do that was in a vehicle he’d re-built with his own two hands.

  That good feeling evaporated, however, as he turned into the parking lot at Saint Anthony’s Hospital. He found a spot in the shade and entered through the emergency room doors. A dozen people occupied hard plastic seats. Some sipped vending machine coffee. Others thumbed messages into smart phones. A mother bounced a two-year-old on her knee, making shushing noises. Her eyes were rimmed in red. The smell of disinfectant clung to every surface, trying in vain to mask the lingering scent of death and heartache.

  Noble took the elevator to the second floor and spotted Doctor Lansky coming out of a patient room with a clipboard stuck under one arm. He wore glasses and walked with his head thrust forward like an overgrown vulture. Lansky recognized Noble and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his hooked nose. “Mister Noble, I’m glad you are here.”

  “How is she today?”

  “She is feeling better.”

  “Any change?” Noble asked.

  He paused a beat. “Maybe we should talk in my office.”

  Lansky led the way to a small room lit by lifeless neons. Medical degrees hung on the walls. The doctor sat behind his desk, and Noble sat across from him.

  “I think it is time to bring in hospice, Mister Noble,” Lansky said.

  Noble gripped the arms of the chair. “Are you saying there is nothing more you can do?”

  “Your mother’s treatment has exceeded the cap on her medical coverage. I’m afraid any further treatment would have to be paid for out of pocket.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Lansky sighed. “We could try another round of chemotherapy. But out-of-pocket expense is very costly, and there is no guarantee that it will work.”

  “Do it,” Noble told him.

  “I’m afraid that’s not up to me,” Lansky said. “The hospital won’t authorize any more treatments until they know who is going to pay for it.”

  Noble’s knuckles turned white. He spoke through clenched teeth. “I’ll get the money. Just make sure she gets the treatment.”

  Lansky pressed his lips together, but nodded. “I have to prepare you. If this doesn’t work, it’s only a matter of time.”

  “I understand.” Noble heard the words coming out of his mouth. His hands and feet felt disconnected from his body. He swallowed a hard lump in his throat. “Is she awake today?”

  “Awake and telling me all about the Apostle Paul.”

  “Yeah.” Noble rolled his eyes. “He’s one of her favorites.”

  Lansky forced a smile. “I’d better get on with my rounds.”

  Noble shook the doctor’s hand and then made his way to room 214. He paused with his hand on the latch. Part of him wanted to turn around, drive back to the marina, get on the boat, and sail until he ran out of gas. Losing his father had been hard enough. Noble had been deployed to Afghanistan at the time. He got home two days after the funeral. Dad was already dead and in the ground. It all happened so fast. In a way, it was a good thing. Disaster struck and then Noble got on with the process of healing. This was different. Watching his mother waste away felt like living with a demon eating his soul. He took a deep breath and pushed the latch.

  It was a dual-occupancy room painted pale green. Machines beeped and hummed. Sometimes Jake wondered if those machines had a purpose or if they existed to break up the silence.

  In the bed next to the window, Mary Elise Noble sat up with a Bible open to Ephesians on her lap. She had an IV in one arm and a half dozen wires snaking out the armholes of her hospital smock. Her hair was gray. Her frail chest labored for every breath, but her eyes still had the spark of life in them.

  She smiled. “How did your pictures turn out?”

  “I think I got some good stuff.” He tried and failed to get comfortable in the hard plastic seat next to the bed. “Lots of cannon with barnacles. Magazines love that sort of thing. How are you feeling?”

  “Grateful,” she told him. “Every day with the Lord is a good day.”

  It wasn’t quiet the answer he was hoping for. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “If God is so damn good, how come there is so much evil in the world?”

  She planted her boney hands on the mattress and made an effort to push herself up straighter in bed. “He made men like you to stand up to evil.”

  The words drilled right to his core. The idea that he might be God’s answer to evil, ordained by a higher power, struck Noble as strangely poetic. It was also the very same reasoning extremists had used to justify some of history’s worst atrocities. The Caliphates who attacked Spain and got the ball rolling on the First Crusade believed they were ordained by God. What made Noble any different?

  Besides, if God did exist, Noble had an altogether different question he wanted answered. Forget all the megalomaniacs of the world. They could kill each other from now until doomsday for all Noble cared. He wanted to know why a loving God would let his father and now his mother die.

  Mary Elise Noble reached over, took her son’s hand, and squeezed. Her skin felt like dry paper. A sad smile formed on her lips. As if she could read his thoughts, she said, “We take the time given to us and make the best of it.”

  Noble sat in brooding silence.

  “They want you back?” she said. It was more of a statement than a question.

  “Yeah,” he said. “How’d you know?”

  “I’m your mother,” she said. “And you get all quiet before a mission.”

  He grinned.

  “Is it bad?”

  He hitched up his shoulders. “Bad enough.”

  “When should I start to worry?”

  “A week,” he told her.

  She nodded. As a Navy wife, she had gotten used to long absences. At least Dad had been able to say where he was going and when he’d be back. Jake could only give her vague time frames and promise to be careful.

  “When do you have to leave?” she asked.

  “Right away.”

  He wanted to say more. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her. He wanted to say he couldn’t bear to lose her and beg her to get better. Some nights, lying in his bunk and feeling the ship roll on the ocean, he begged a God he didn’t believe in. He shook his fists at heaven while tears spilled down his cheeks. He pleaded, cursed, and cajoled. Waves lapping against the hull was the only answer he ever got.

  He placed a kiss on the back of her hand. “I’ll visit soon as I get back.”

  “Be careful,” she said.

  “I will.”

  On his way across the parking lot, Noble dialed Matt’s number and put the phone to his ear. Burke picked up on the first ring. “You in?”

  Noble unlocked the Buick and stood in the open door with his elbows propped on the roof. “I get half up front.”

  “Done,” Burke said. “Be at the Birchwood in two hours.”

  12

  Across from Straub Park in downtown Saint Petersburg, commanding a view of Tampa Bay, stands the Birchwood Hotel. Built as apartments in the 1920s, it has since been renovated and now looks like someone turned a Spanish mission into a posh nightclub. The top floor is an open-air bar called the Canopy where singles go to hunt.

  Noble strolled into the air-conditioned lounge and found Burke in a corner wearing a summer weight suit and sipping a fruity cocktail with a little umbrella in it. Noble sat across from him and indicated Bu
rke’s choice of drinks with raised eyebrows. “You look ridiculous.”

  Burke smiled around the stem of a curly straw. “I’m secure in my manhood.”

  “You’d have to be,” Noble remarked.

  Burke reached into a leather attaché case and produced a sealed package. “The alias shop worked around the clock to put together a legend on such short notice. All your documents are inside.”

  Next, he brought out a small black kit containing syringes and a battery-powered tester. “Your sugar kit,” he explained. “All diabetics carry one. Your passport lists you as type one. You’re cleared to travel with those. Don’t lose them.”

  Noble picked it up and turned it over in his hands. He didn’t know much about diabetes. “How long can Bati last without these?”

  Burke shrugged. “Hard to say. Diabetes is different from person to person. Our best guess, according to her medical profile, is four or five days. She always carried a shot in her purse. But who knows if the kidnappers let her take it.”

  “It’s already been thirty-two hours,” Noble said. “She’ll be well into day three before I even land in the Philippines.”

  “That’s why we hired the best,” Burke said. He reached into his jacket, brought out a Samsung, and passed it over. It would be preprogrammed with numbers that matched Noble’s cover identity in the Philippines, plus photos and apps that backed up his legend. Noble passed Burke his real cell phone and took a moment to thumb through the Samsung.

  “What time is my flight?” he asked.

  “You fly out of Tampa International at 7:15. You’ll need to memorize your legend in flight.”

  Noble consulted his Tag Heuer. It was already ten minutes to four. “That doesn’t give me much time to pack.”

  “Don’t waste it talking to me,” Burke said. He picked up his cocktail and slurped the last of the pink mix from the bottom of the glass. The straw gurgled.