Page 172 of Cry Havoc
“I don’t think he’s going to make it,” Serrano said.
Tom did not respond.
“Tom, did you hear me? We need to get out of here. Let’s get to the trawler and get to international waters. Tom?”
But Tom wasn’t listening. He was staring into the face of the security man. A strand of lightbulbs suspended from the floating market illuminated his face.
“Tom?Tom?What is it?”
“I know this guy. He’s the bastard who gutted Quinn.”
CHAPTER 63
TOM MANEUVERED THE LONGTAILboat through the canals of Bangkok. He kept it slow, not wanting to attract attention. They had a new destination now.
They had tied Dvornikov’s hands and feet in case he woke up.
The two unconscious captives lay in pooling blood.
“Take a left here,” Serrano said.
The boat glided down another canal.
They had been motoring for thirty minutes.
Instead of speeding out to the CIA trawler for extract, they had decided on a new course of action.
It was darker in this section of Bangkok, just outside the city. Gone were the crowded canals, stuffed with people and markets, lights and shouting. They had passed a few floating encampments of society’s forgotten, but the farther they ventured up the canal, the less populated it became, until they felt like the only creatures still alive in a world of darkness. Tom sensed they crossed a line and were now far removed from civilization, its rules, mores, and norms. He felt free.
“Here it is,” Serrano said.
Tom cut the engine and let the boat drift alongside a small fishing trawler that barely looked seaworthy.
“What is this place?” Tom asked.
“It’s essentially a junkyard. These three boats are in the lineup to be retrofitted by the Agency for a new maritime program. They’re for use in the canals and coastal regions.”
“For what?”
“Anything we need: surveillance, smuggling, storage.”
“But not yet?”
“No. Even we have budgets.”
Tom stepped forward and tied their boat to a cleat on the transom of the trawler, the only illumination coming from the sliver of a moon above. Tom studied the hunk of rusting steel and rotting wood that looked like it might sink at any moment.
“This will do. Dvornikov first,” he said.
The two men pulled the GRU officer aboard the larger vessel and down a ladder to a main interior cabin that had been entirely scavenged and cleaned out. They secured him to a pole that supported the main deck using twine wrapped around his hands and neck, his legs stretched out in front of him.
They brought the security man in next, leaving a trail of blood in their wake, and tied him to a second support column.
Serrano went topside and explored the other two derelict boats in this abandoned section of canal. He returned with two aging kerosene lanterns that Tom lit with his Zippo, bathing the cabin in a soft, warm, flickering golden glow, accentuated by the soft rocking of the boat against the side of the canal.
“Just us?” Tom asked.
“No one’s around up there,” Serrano said. “It’s a ghost town.”
