Noble Lies by Charles Benoit Page B

sunset,” Pim said, translating as the man spoke. “There should be no problem with sà-lât.”
    Mark had been looking out over her grandfather’s shoulder to the fluid line where the turquoise shallows met the navy blue channel as Pim spoke. At the Thai word the man’s eyes became alert and he saw the muscles in his scrawny neck tighten.
    â€œSà-lât are sea robbers,” Pim explained. “But I don’t think they will be a problem.”
    â€œSea robbers? You mean like pirates?” Robin let go and the girl squirmed free again.
    â€œYes, but we will be there before it is dark. There should be no problem.”
    Mark sipped his still warm, still sickeningly sweet tea. “We were on the water all night. You should have told us there might be a problem.”
    â€œWhere we were last night, on the west of Phuket, all that are there are fishermen. Here on this side, between Phuket and the mainland, there are many boats transporting goods and there are more ferang—more foreigners with their own sailboats.”
    â€œBut it’s just going to be us,” Robin said, “so there should be no problem, right?”
    â€œYes, no problem,” Pim said, pausing too long, then adding, “I think.”

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Chapter Fourteen
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    Jarin pushed in the clutch and downshifted around a sharp bend in the beach-hugging road, thirty kilometers over the posted speed limit. In the rearview mirror he saw the two bodyguards lean against the curve, while in the passenger seat, Laang—the man hired a year ago to be his driver—braced a knee against the dashboard, straining not to slide into his boss’ space. In Bangkok he would have had a string of black Hummers or at least an Escalade, not driving himself around in a four door Honda. But that was Bangkok and this was Phuket, and here he didn’t need a flashy car to stand out since everybody who mattered knew who he was. Besides, he liked to drive.
    His earliest memory was of watching his mother pray in front of the shrine in the family’s one-room home, not much bigger than the parking space it bordered. She would kneel in front of the painted wooden alcove that held the postcard picture of a seated Buddha—a wispy flame fluttering over his head—her face shrouded in a veil of smoke from the joss sticks held between her pressed palms. When he was old enough to imitate her movements, she had him kneel beside her, watching the candles burn on the altar as his mother whispered prayers. Once he asked her what she was saying, and she told him that her prayer was that one day he would grow up to become a taxi driver. From that day on he doubled his devotions, kneeling alongside his mother, praying that his mother’s prayers would not be answered. But as the engine redlined and he popped the car up a gear, he was glad that some of her prayers had gotten through.
    It was a twelve-kilometer drive from his home near Surin Beach down to Patong, but in many ways it was a much longer journey. At his home he was Jarin the successful businessman, dutiful husband and loving father to his six adoring children—the eldest just finishing her first year at the private international high school. He could relax at home, enjoy the panoramic view of the ocean on the rustic patio—the hidden AC vents blowing out chilled air—or soak in one of the Jacuzzis, listening to the water splash down the eight-step waterfall. Home was his sanctuary and no one was stupid enough to bother him there.
    But in Patong or Kathu or Ra Wai or Phuket City—anyplace outside the walled compound of his estate—he was Sua noi, the Tiger, demanding head of an army of criminals, source of millions in bribes to government officials; the man to see if you wanted something that laws prevented you from getting. And every day the list of people who needed him grew.
    That was in the book, too. Rule Number Seven: Offer the