The Noble Path: A relentless standalone thriller from the #1 bestseller by Peter May (learn to read books .TXT) 📕

George wandered casually through the tropical pot plants. The downdraught from the ceiling fan scattered his cigar smoke. He nodded at the seated figure. ‘American?’

Elliot looked up. ‘English.’

‘Ah.’ He tried not to show his disappointment, but his curiosity was not dulled. ‘Must have been quite a journey.’

‘Yes,’ Elliot said. He leaned forward on his knees and examined his hands.

‘I mean, uh, you hear about these boat people.’ He laughed. ‘I guess there’s not many Englishmen among them.’

‘I don’t suppose there are.’

The American stood smiling awkwardly for a few moments, then he thrust his hand out towards Elliot. ‘Calvin. George Calvin. San Diego, California.’

Elliot glanced up, hesitated, then gave the outstretched hand a cursory shake. ‘Elliot.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Elliot. You must have been right glad to make land.’

Elliot nodded.

‘If there’s anything I can do . . .’

The door of the manager’s office opened, and the captain of police appeared in the doorway. ‘Would you come this way, please, Mistah Elliot.’

Elliot rose. ‘Excuse me.’

‘Sure.’ George stepped back and watched Elliot shuffle into the office.

Captain Ghazali closed the door, and left Elliot standing in the middle of the room as he crossed to the desk and picked up two passports. He examined them briefly, then dropped them back on the desk and sat down. His eyes were hidden behind dark glasses. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Your passport seems genuine enough. Perhaps you would like to tell me how you came to be travelling on fishing boat PK 709, registered to the Vietnamese port of Rach Gia.’

‘I’m very tired, Captain. I’ve told the story several times already.’

‘One more time.’ Ghazali smiled. ‘For me.’

Elliot sighed. ‘I’ve been on holiday in Thailand.’

‘Where?’

‘Bangkok, then Pattaya Beach.’

Ghazali grinned. ‘Lots of pretty women at Pattaya, they tell me.’

‘Yes. Lots.’

‘Go on.’

‘I was sailing in the Gulf of Thailand.’

‘Alone?’

‘Yes, alone. I got caught in a storm, lost my rudder and my outboard. I was drifting for several days before these people picked me up.’

‘Which explains why there is no exit stamp from Thailand on your passport.’ Ghazali removed his sunglasses and sucked the end of one of the legs thoughtfully. ‘You must be very grateful to them.’

‘I am. I injured my shoulder during the storm. They patched me up.’

Ghazali gazed at him with shrewd eyes. The story was plausible enough. It was Elliot who didn’t ring quite true. There was something about him. He didn’t look like a holidaymaker out for a sail. The weapons and kit that lay on the seabed a mile offshore might have told him more, had he known of their existence.

‘Is that why you are so keen to help this . . .’ He glanced at one of the passports. ‘This Ang woman and her family? Gratitude?’

‘That’s right. She told me her husband is in Bangkok. He escaped from Phnom Penh before the Khmer Rouge victory and now has US citizenship.’

‘Of course.’ Ghazali made no attempt to hide his sarcasm. ‘She has no doubt been in constant touch with him.’ He shook his head and lifted Elliot’s passport. ‘I have heard many such stories, Mistah Elliot. One grows weary of hearing the same tune.’

‘Why don’t you phone Bangkok?’

Ghazali stood up, his patience suddenly worn thin. ‘I would not waste my time, or my government’s money.’ He handed Elliot the passport. ‘You will remain here until immigration officials from Tumpat come to clear your entry into Malaysia and stamp your passport. Then you are free to return to Thailand. The border is only twenty miles from here.’

He moved towards the door. Elliot grabbed his arm. ‘Wait a minute! What about Mrs Ang?’

Ghazali pulled his arm free and glared at the Englishman. ‘Do not touch me again, Mistah Elliot. Mrs Ang and her children will be taken with the other refugees to Bidong.’

‘What’s Bidong?’

‘It is an island some way off the coast. If any country will take them, then it will be arranged by the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees. They will find many like themselves there. Criminals and drug smugglers. These people have given us very much trouble.’

*

Elliot watched the captain of police climb into his waiting car and drive off. The policeman at the main door touched his arm. ‘You wait here for immigration.’

‘I know.’ He looked down to the beach and saw the first refugees wading out to the waiting launch. Serey was still squatting in the sand clutching her single bag of belongings. Ny was gazing out towards the launch. Hau spotted Elliot and waved.

As he approached them Serey rose to her feet. She knew at once from his face. ‘My passport?’

He shook his head. ‘They kept it. They say you have to go with the others.’

‘And you?’ Ny asked.

‘They’re letting me stay.’

Serey held out her hand. ‘I’ll say goodbye, then, Mistah Elliot. And thank you.’

He took her hand and shook it. ‘For what?’

‘Our lives.’

Ny threw her arms round him and pushed her face into his chest. She clung to him for several moments, long enough for him to feel her stifled sobs. Then she turned away and, taking her mother’s hand, started wading towards the launch without a backward glance. Hau stood uncertainly for a time, then he too held out his hand. Elliot shook it firmly, and the boy turned away to hurry after his mother and sister, fighting hard not to let the tears show.

Those who still remained on the beach came in turn to shake his hand: the doctor who had dressed his wounds, the captain who had saved his life. They all smiled their gratitude. And he watched them head out to the waiting boat. He had done everything he could. He knew that they did not blame him. He would tell Ang that his family were on Bidong Island. His money and his passport would buy their freedom from there. Yet still he could not turn away. The only reason he could stay and they must go was the colour of his skin, the crest on his passport. But his skin colour had not mattered to any of