The Defector Read online

  The Defector

  Mark Chisnell

  Published by Mark Chisnell at Smashwords

  Originally published as The Delivery by:

  Century Books Limited

  20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London, SW1V 2SA

  Copyright © Mark Chisnell 2009

  Mark Chisnell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

  Thank you for downloading this ebook, you are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to:

  http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/markchisnell

  to discover other works by Mark Chisnell.

  There are more books, blogs, journalism and lots more information on the author at:

  http://www.markchisnell.com

  Reviews of The Defector

  ‘An excellent drug-smuggling thriller.’

  The Bookseller

  ‘This is a remarkable thriller – chillingly violent, full of tension and with a very original ending.’

  Publishing News

  ‘New British fiction writer Mark Chisnell will have to go a long way to top his debut.’

  Bristol Observer

  ‘A fabulous and brilliantly written story.’

  Peterborough Evening Telegraph

  ‘What an impressive debut it makes … Compelling, hard to put down.’

  City Mix Auckland

  ‘A taut thriller… The Defector allowed Chisnell to create Janac, a truly memorable anti-hero.’

  The Press, Christchurch

  ‘An evil storyline, with little relief and with great tension created.’

  Hawke’s Bay Today

  ‘This thriller has pace and immediacy.’

  Wairarapa Times-Age

  ‘Throw in a love triangle, the microcosm of a boat at sea and some good sailing and you’ve got a fine yarn… Chisnell has managed to create a smart and articulate villain, always the best kind.’

  Sailing Magazine, USA

  ‘The culmination of the game will astound you.’

  Trade-a-Boat, NZ

  ‘Never, never, never would I read a psychological thriller … Just as well, then, that I didn’t read the description on the back cover until after I’d finished the book, and by then was too breathless, terrified and awed to care…. The book’s strength is the author’s confident, original, at times tawdry, writing style.’

  Boating New Zealand

  Janac returns in The Wrecking Crew – also by Mark Chisnell

  Reviews of The Wrecking Crew

  ‘It’s a great escapist yarn with Janac a really nasty villain who gives Hamnet untold grief. I enjoyed this one.’

  Hawkes Bay Today

  ‘I found it impossible to put down.’

  Boating New Zealand

  ‘A real ripping yarn, hard to take seriously but begging to be made into an all-action film.’

  Qantas in-flight magazine

  ‘Perfect for summer reading.’

  CityMix Auckland

  Foreword

  The Prisoner's Dilemma - n. A philosophical conundrum enacted through a game with two participants which gives an insight into the behaviour of the individual in society

  The Prisoner's Dilemma was ‘discovered’ by Merrill Flood and Melvin Dresher, two scientists at the American RAND Corporation think-tank, back in 1950. It got its name from the story told by one of their colleagues, Albert W Tucker, to illustrate the ‘game’.

  Two prisoners are held in solitary confinement, both accused of collusion in the same crime. They are each given the chance to turn State's evidence to assist in the conviction of the other. If they both choose to remain silent, they will each be convicted for one year. If they both choose to turn in the other, they will be convicted for three years each. However, should one of them remain silent and the other turn State's evidence, the squealer will go free and the other will do five years.

  In Prisoner's Dilemma terminology squealing to the authorities (hoping to leave your fellow prisoner to his fate while you escape scot-free) is known as defecting. To remain silent, (hoping for the shortest combined prison term for the two of you) is known as cooperating. We can use these terms to write the Prisoner's Dilemma down in short-hand.

  Two Co-operators: Both receive one year in jail

  Two Defectors: Both receive three years in jail

  One Defect and One Cooperate: The Defector goes free and the Co-operator gets five years.

  The problem for each player is whether or not they can trust their fellow prisoner to remain silent. If they can, both of them get off lightly. But of course if one player, with both their interests at heart, decides to cooperate and remains silent whilst the other defects and squeals, then the co-operator ends up in jail for five years whilst the defector gets away completely. That would seem a pretty bad deal if you were the co-operator. So, the thinking goes, wouldn't it be better to squeal - just in case? But if both prisoners are thinking the same thing they both end up in jail for three years instead of one - if only they could have kept quiet.

  Such is the train of thought which takes us to the most frequent result of a Prisoner's Dilemma in modern western society - mutual defection. But the Prisoner's Dilemma is not just a mind game, it appears everywhere, everyday of our lives - it is the central metaphor for our interpersonal behaviour. Take the case of an unmanned barrier on a railway system that has no ticket inspectors. Hop over the barrier and you get a personal gain - you save the fare. But if enough people do it, eventually the rail company has to put the fares up - and everyone who pays will suffer for the free ride the barrier hoppers are getting. In Prisoner's Dilemma terms the freeloader is defecting - putting his personal welfare ahead of the group interest. Whilst the ticket buyer is cooperating, hoping that everyone else will do the same and prices will stay down.

  The Prisoner's Dilemma can be found residing just as clearly in insurance cheats, tax dodges and traffic queue jumpers - all relatively innocuous examples. But what if the Prisoner's Dilemma were taken to the other extreme? What if the choices involved were life and death? And what if the lives belonged to people you knew and someone you loved? This book is about just such a Dilemma.

  Prologue – June 1992

  It was Friday, and Fridays were always bad. This particular Friday was worse because of the rain. I love the place. Always have, and probably always will. Good old England. But I hate the rain, boy, do I hate the rain. And more than anything I hate driving in the rain. That day was typical, it was June and barely drizzling hard enough to get the wipers out of intermittent and into first gear, but there was a cloud of spray on the road so bad I could barely see the end of the bonnet on the BMW. And I was late. I was always late, I guess it was just a part of the lifestyle.

  I saw the lorry a little late too, coming out from the slip road on my left. These guys, they think they own the road. And this one was typical, indicator on and just shove it out. I was doing nearly twice his speed and he only had to wait a few seconds and I'd be past him. But oh no, he wanted me to move over. But I didn't, I flashed the lights onto full beam, thumbed the horn and floored it. I'd just burst through the curtain of solid spray kicked up by the front wheels as they moved to avoid me. He over-reacted a little, I must have surprised him. I felt it more than saw it. The cab rocking and the squwoosh noise as the tyres let go on the wet road.

  It was when I saw the trailer fill my rear view mirror that I knew it was going to be
bad. Then there were the horns, the almost human wail of anguish as the inevitable slowly, hopelessly, became fact. The gate closed, the trailer just shut down the motorway behind me. I heard one crash, a high pitched screech that lowered into a grinding, ripping tenor howl before exhausting itself in a dull whumf. But by then I was gone, mist and drizzle and spray swallowed up the scene behind me. There was nothing, no one in the rear-view mirror. I watched a rain drop slide down the back window. I was the last one that made it through. I drove on, there was nothing else to do. You have to carry on, don't you?

  Chapter 1

  Seven months later: Ko Samui, an 'emerald island jewel set in the sapphire sea of the Gulf of Thailand' - or so the brochures would have you believe. But I knew it was costume jewellery, superficial glamour that barely hid a cheating heart. A heart I should avoid, but there I was, back on the dusty strip of bars and clubs where Ko Samui slinkily slipped out of its formal white sand and blue water into something more comfortable.

  Chaweng Beach. The main drag. Midnight. Purple Haze pounded the air from a couple of bars down, the lights flared and the darkness turned into day-glo orange, then red, then green. The bar-girls shrieked at the conveyor belt of passing humanity. The women tourists looked away as their men leered. I picked up the glass of Mekong and coke and unsteadily raised it to my lips, ice was only a ghostly memory in the warm sugary fluid. I'd lost count of the evening's tally a while back. I gazed over the rim at the girl beside me. The beauty of Thai women is only matched by the country's reputation for selling it cheap: jet black hair, sultry eyes, the slim figure tucked neatly into the short, silk and very red dress. The brazen come-on was offset by a startling, almost luminous naiveté in her face. But it was the come-on quality I was interested in. The eyes said she was available - they all are, at a price.

  The jet black curtain of hair shrouded her face as she bent to light a cigarette, a match flared in the gloom, dangerously close to it. This was the moment I'd been waiting for, I lifted my hand to brush it to safety.

  ‘No touch girl.’ said the voice.

  I looked round, a little surprised, my hand frozen a couple of inches from her. It was the barman - he'd been watching our slow conversation for the last hour, why the problem now? My nostrils wrinkled involuntarily at the pungent cloud of smoke in my face. I turned back to the girl. She exhaled towards me, the red lips kissing the air then spreading into a smirk. A twinge of alarm forced its way through the alcohol. The barman took off his apron and stepped forward from behind the bar. The T-shirt underneath was not much cleaner than the apron had been, and it was stretched tight round a substantial frame. He looked like he had muscles in his shit.

  ‘No touch.’ he repeated.

  ‘Who says?’ I replied, almost before I'd thought about it.

  ‘I do.’ He answered, simply. The face was expressionless, the eyes impassive. I could have walked away from it - if I'd been smart. But my mouth was quicker.

  ‘And just who the hell are you?’ I said.

  The eyes flickered, off to his right. I followed his gaze, another Thai had appeared behind the bar. The expensively tailored, white button-down shirt at odds with the thick, tattooed forearms, it had to be the manager. But it was the iron bar he put on the wooden counter between us that got my attention.

  ‘The boss don't like you touching girlfriend.’ said the barman.

  Ah. The manager's girlfriend.

  ‘You been hittin' on her all night, and he just about had enough.’

  It was that moment in all conflicts, potential and resolved, when your deepest instincts either get you out of the mess or cast you hopelessly adrift in it. This time, the booze had the final word.

  ‘Well, he shouldn't let her sit up here, dressed like a tart, along with the rest of the merchandise.’ I slurred out.

  I heard the whistle and saw five other Thais separate out from the isolated groups of drinkers. Lots of gold jewellery clashed with the understated Brooks Brothers shirts. Chairs screeched on the wooden floor as the rest of the clientele turned to watch the show. The five approached casually from my left. They didn't seem to think I was going to give them much trouble. I guess I didn't think so either. I could feel the swoosh of alcohol around my brain, thoughts were slow and movements slower. I couldn't deal with this. I saw the tyre lever hefted off the counter by the boss. He moved slowly to his right, trying to pin me between him and the barman. I backed off the stool, getting some distance, closing the angle between the groups. My eyes flicking between them. The girl had disappeared.

  Primitive survival instincts clicked into gear. Blood was pumping, my head clearing. The Thais came in a rush, like the adrenaline that suddenly coursed through my body. I dived in under the swinging tyre lever and my kick caught the manager off balance. He doubled up at the stomach. The tyre lever spun free. I lunged after it. I got half way to it before a chair slammed into the back of my knees. I went down hard, thinking that was it, they'd kill me now. I squirmed round, struggling to keep moving, lashing out at nothing and everything. Backing off, trying to stop them closing the circle. Aware only of the coming blow, the anticipated flash of pain. But it didn't happen to me.

  They say in those books that glory in this kind of detail, that to win bar fights you have to be prepared to go straight to total violence. No pussy footing around with any of this wrestling stuff you see in the movies. Just hit the sucker as hard as you can in the softest spot you can reach with the hardest object you can lay your hands on. The head butt to the unprotected, fleshy nose, the knee to the groin and the finger in the eyeball are all good, solid, bar fight moves. But this guy, he must have written the manual.

  He appeared behind the ring of encircling Thais. I hadn't noticed him before and he certainly didn't look like some kind of all action hero; lightly built, five eleven tops and dressed in chinos and an open collared shirt. The ginger hair was close-cropped, military style. No rippling muscles or martial arts stance. But he was fit, and the face was as lean and hard as the body, creased and freckled by too much sun. His expression had an almost surreal calm, no grimace as his left hand chopped down into the neck of one of my attackers. The man dropped heavily; heaving, retching, struggling to suck air through a traumatised wind pipe. His nearest companion turned, but too slow, something metallic flashed as the newcomer's right hand drove in a straight arm punch. The Thai spun away clutching at a bloodied face.

  Then everything was still. Smart move I thought, if I was them I wouldn't be in any hurry to shift either. The newcomer quickly took the opportunity and stepped in between me and the Thais, ‘You ok?’ he asked over his shoulder. American.

  ‘Sure, thanks....’ I eased myself gently to my feet, brushing away the dust, taking some much needed deep breaths.

  He didn't take his eyes off the five still standing as he slid the heavy steel watch back from his knuckles onto his wrist. In the silence I heard the catch on the strap close. ‘We're leaving now.’ he said to them. No one moved. ‘We'll just move off nice and easy,’ he went on in a lower voice. ‘You go first, watch the back, I'll keep an eye on these boys.’ I shuffled to the door, the stranger backing up, until he joined me on the street. We set off together, walking rapidly. He glanced over his shoulder once or twice, but no one was following. After about a hundred metres there was still no sign of pursuit from the bar. I started to slow and then stopped. I must have been a good couple of inches taller and several stone heavier than this guy, but I held my place against the flow of people around us with a difficulty he didn't appear to be having.

  ‘Can I buy you a drink?’ I said, ‘You saved my hide back there.’

  ‘No problem, those guys are pricks.’ he finished with a grimace that might have been a smile, revealing some unamerican yellow teeth. ‘But I'll take the drink anyway. I know a place just down by the beach. The owner's an acquaintance - no one'll bother us there.’

  I followed him down the hill towards the ocean, visible only by the line of white surf on the beach. We tu
rned west along the sand and ducked through a t-shirt stand. I clattered against a bench of trinkets. Christ, how much had I had to drink already? The sobering effect of the adrenaline rush was beginning to slip away. We emerged in a back alley of wooden shacks, crackling fires and silent stares, walking another fifty metres to a bar well hidden from the tourist strip. The kind of local bar where the clientele have to be friends of the owner or they don't get in. There were some bamboo chairs and tables scattered around a hard earth floor. Otherwise the place was empty. I sank gratefully into a chair and sucked at a split knuckle.

  A waiter stepped out of the gloom like a ghost. The American spoke rapidly in Thai and the man returned with a bottle.

  ‘What are we drinking?’ I asked.

  ‘Local stuff, but it's ok.’ he said. The glasses clattered onto the table top and the amber liquid rolled into them. The waiter had started to move away when the stranger's hand flashed out, grabbing him by the wrist, ‘We'll keep it.’ he said.

  The barman looked at him and then down at the hand imprisoning his arm. He quickly let the bottle go. In the silence I dropped a fistful of notes on the table. The waiter snatched them up, revealing the ugly red welt left on his wrist.