By nine P.M., Mortimer Funke's shift had been an absolute catastrophe. The custodian had spent most of the day cleaning up messes resulting from something that went wrong with the previous task. Things had started out so well- at two P.M., when his shift began, he had been promptly asked to repair some pipes. Funke preferred handyman-type jobs to cleaning, so this had been a true boon- until a bellhop turned on the water in response to a guest's complaint. Funke was initially blamed for the ensuing flood in the basement, but while his reputation was soon cleared, his responsibility was not. Things snowballed from there. The water ruined a rug which had to be put out on the back stairs' railing to dry. The rotting railing collapsed under the weight of the rug and had to be rebuilt. The spare wood which Funke used for this purpose had been covering up a mouse hole. With the evening's last sunlight fading from the sky, Funke found himself mopping up vomit on the second floor. Luckily, the sick guest had thrown up on a tiled floor rather than wood- or worse yet, a carpet.
The Malay desk clerk shot Funke a dirty look as he passed on the way to room two-eighteen. Trailing him were a smug-looking Caucasian man who looked like a sailor and a tall Chinese man barely weighed down by a small bag. Neither paid the custodian any attention, but Mortimer's rhythmic mopping briefly fell out of its pace. The Chinese man looked strangely familiar... where had he seen that man before? It must have been recent- Funke wouldn't have remembered him otherwise. He finished mopping and made his way downstairs just ahead of the clerk and the sailor, apparently rid of the third man.
"Shore leave!" Definitely a sailor, Funke thought. He made his way across the lobby and down to the basement. The bellhop who had turned the water on was sitting in the broom closet, his features illuminated by a cell phone. Mortimer could not suppress a scowl of displeasure.
"He's somewhere around here!" The bellhop, a small, wiry Iban native in glasses framed with plastic so thick that Funke would not be surprised if a sledgehammer hit would merely bounce off, seemed especially excited tonight. Mortimer could not remember why this might be, and merely hung the broom from a pair of pegs just left of his co-worker.
"Who exactly is around here? And how are you getting reception in the basement?" Mortimer did not want to sit, so he leaned on the door frame.
The bellhop scowled. "Phones get reception in basements. Maybe not in England, but they always do here." Abidin, the bellhop, was fond of pointing out that the custodian had spent much of his life outside Malaysia. He was a rather nationalistic man, but for whatever reason had decided to befriend the unemployed Englishman who had come in looking for a job one day. "Anyway, Sun Dinghuang is around here."
Funke assumed he had heard that last line wrong. "What?"
"Sun Dinghuang. The sixty thousand dollar man. That's American dollars." Abidin's eyes grew wide behind his glasses. "I told you yesterday, Morty. You have to look for him. That money is for dead or alive-" He began fishing around in his shabby red uniform for something.
Mortimer sighed. "What are the odds we'd actually find him? Besides, how do you even know he's here?"
Abidin had managed to insert both arms into the same sleeve of his jacket somehow. "Look anyway. I know because my cousin is getting news from someone who managed to GPS tag him." Abidin's cousin, who Mortimer had met a few times, was a low-ranking pirate who barely spoke English and had lost half of his teeth in fights. For reasons unknown, the bellhop still seemed to respect him. Abidin let off a string of curses- in English, out of respect for his native language- and yanked his right arm out of his left sleeve. "Where is it?"
"What are you looking for, anyway? Is it..." Funke's voice trailed off. Abidin had whipped a crumpled piece of printed paper out of one of his inner pockets. The face on the paper was that of the Chinese man he had just seen checking in to room two-eighteen. That was where he had seen him before. Unbeknownst to the crew of the Northern Cross, the pirates had a much more recent picture than the Sri Lankan news did, perhaps because Do Young Kang knew it would do no good on the distant island.
"Abidin," Funke began again. "That guy is here. He's in this hotel. On the second floor."
The bellhop narrowed one eye and widened the other in an expression of disdain. "Don't grab my leg."
"Pull your leg, mate. Pull your leg, not grab. And I'm dead serious. He's in room two-eighteen. I saw him ten minutes ago or so. If he orders something or comes out you can see him yourself."
"He won't order tonight. It's too late. And we can't exactly wait for him while we're on the job unless he goes to the lounge. And he's very brave if he does that." Abidin folded his arms across his narrow chest. "We need to bring my cousin here."
Funke drew his head back straight into the door frame in horror and came away rubbing his skull. "Oh god, no. We don't need pirates at the White Rajah. I'll be cleaning up for weeks after him. Besides, killing a man?"
"No, we need to do it carefully. We bring him and only one or two others. One of them goes into his room, says it's by mistake. If it really is him, we let them go in and shoot him. We ask for $20,000 for a finder's fee and split it." Abidin gave a devious smile. "I thought about it already."
Funke had to admit the plan sounded like it would work. He would just need to arrange to be as far away as possible when it was put into effect. With ten thousand dollars, he would be able to get to somewhere that better jobs were available. Working in a hotel that had changed fairly little since the actual White Rajah had stayed there a century ago was certainly not what Funke planned to spend his life doing, even if he had no other prospects at twenty-five. Abidin spent most of the next forty-five minutes trying to catch a glimpse of Sun Dinghuang, and when their shifts simultaneously ended at ten P.M., both made for Abidin's car, a relatively tiny machine that Mortimer was fond of comparing to the trunk of an average English car. They were able to travel along the coastal road as fast as the car would allow, which was barely above the speed limit- most people lucky enough to own cars would be in the city for the night.
"Pirate country" in Sarawak was not like the dirt-poor pirate country in, say, Somalia. The pirates were largely ignored by the government, just as in Somalia, but they were ignored because of an unspoken understanding with the navy. As long as no Malaysian-flagged vessels were taken, no international hostage situations developed, and no pressure was put on the government, the pirates would be viewed as a source of free money for the local economy. This arrangement helped the Malaysian oil company, Petronas, because of its rivals' fear of the pirates, but could lead to problems for anyone unlucky enough to be captured by the pirates. The pirates would not take hostages- they would take the ship, sell it, sell the cargo, and either kill or abandon the crew. Mortimer Funke was well familiar with this last part- his father had vanished less than twenty miles from his current position some years ago.
Piracy was not a full-time job for most of the individuals who set out with old assault rifles in small boats from the ports in this area. While the community of itinerant bounty hunters in the area was made up of career fortune seekers, only the most or the least successful pirates wouldn't have a "day job" to devote most of their time to. Mortimer didn't know when exactly Abidin's cousin actually put out to sea- the self-proclaimed pirate was a worker in a general store who seemed to only sporadically make any money stealing boats. Nevertheless, he was able to drink regularly in a fairly infamous pirate bar in the area. The mostly Muslim peninsular Malays were more upset about the presence of such bars than what they viewed as the traditional work of their Iban subjects.
It was at this bar that Abidin parked his sputtering car and boldly strode in, drawing no attention from the assembled pirates and those elements of the local economy who did, in fact, benefit from them. The unassuming Englishman who followed him in suddenly found himself being followed by a dozen pairs of eyes, though. Funke was not the only Caucasian present, but he was the only one who was clearly not a bounty hunter. Abidin led his companion to the corner of the bar, where his pirate cousin leered at a cracked cell phone. Mortimer was forced to stand awkwardly, still the object of occasional glances from all directions, while Abidin and his cousin conversed in low tones. After a few minutes, the pirate stood up and clapped Funke on the back. "Good job." He stumped out of the bar, and Abidin pushed Funke along behind him.
Abidin explained as they climbed into his car that they would be picking up two other men and a few weapons, and then sleeping over at his family's house. Funke made no objections, feeling thoroughly uncomfortable but not wanting to upset the armed and somewhat intoxicated pirate next to him in the back seat. The same scenario played itself out with an extra pirate at each of the next two bars they visited. The car was thoroughly cramped by midnight. It chugged along at roughly two-thirds of its top speed on the way to Abidin's house.
The bellhop lived with his family in an old tribal longhouse, somewhat modernized by one of the younger generations present. No lights were visible when Abidin pulled up alongside three equally tiny but more flamboyantly painted cars, but one came on at the far end of the house after a heated argument broke out between Abidin and his cousin. The two pirates looked on with expressions of boredom. After a few minutes, a middle-aged man who Mortimer recognized at length as Abidin's father leaned out the screen door and threw a clod of dirt at the gap-toothed pirate, ending the argument. The five men trooped in and were shown to a room with bamboo mats on the floor and a pile of blankets in the corner.
"He wanted to bring more backup." Abidin scowled as he pulled a blanket from the pile. "We have enough. We have surprise. We don't need to split the money more." He flopped down under the blanket on a worn mat in the corner. His cousin muttered something, but was ignored by all.
Funke didn't enjoy his current situation, but it would be well worth it for ten thousand dollars. He could cross town, go to the airport, and be back in Britain in a matter of days. He fell asleep repeating it mentally.
All were awakened a few hours later by the sound of Abidin's aged grandfather beating a pot with a ladle. He apparently had not been informed that there would be guests, and struck the slower pirates with the ladle to speed them along. Mortimer was the first one out of the house. It was just after dawn, and a thin fog was dissipating. The house was built in a clearing in the middle of one of Sarawak's last great stands of native forest. At the edge of the clearing, three Iban men who Funke assumed were more of Abidin's relatives had seen him and were now heading behind the house.
In time, they were all back in the car and driving in sparse traffic toward Miri. Abidin took several inexplicable detours, including one through a village that the three pirates vehemently objected to in Iban. Mortimer, now sitting in the front seat, turned to Abidin. "What's wrong with them?"
"This area is where Gerasi Burong lives. It should get rid of anyone following us." Abidin kept his eyes on the road, his features tightly set to avoid showing any emotion.
Funke glanced out the window and saw a longhouse, crop fields, a collection of shacks. A Red Cross flag flew over a two-story building with walls of corrugated metal. "Who is Gerasi Burong?"
"Not who. What. Gerasi Burong is an evil spirit. He appears to the sick and torments them, and he kills the wicked. He is said to appear as a man or as a bird and to drink the blood of those who see him at night." One of the pirates added something in Iban. "What? I haven't heard of him coming out in the daytime." Abidin's expression did not change, but his foot jerked slightly as he maxed out the accelerator.
Mortimer was more worried about car trouble than any evil spirit, even if the other four occupants of the crowded vehicle were intent on getting back to the main road with all haste. As they turned back onto the coastal highway, Funke noticed a fairly new sign on the side of the road. The text was in Malaysian, but a drawing of a white bird's head with disproportionately large black eyes seemed to renew his companions' fear. He assumed this was the Gerasi Burong. It looked more like a cartoon character than something to fear.
Upon arriving at the hotel, Funke realized he had no more than fifteen minutes left before his shift began. He hurriedly changed into his uniform in the basement while the four Iban sat outside in the car, planning. Mortimer found himself cleaning vomit less than two feet from the previous night's puddle. As he finished mopping up the last traces of half-digested food, Abidin came bounding up. "Morty! Morty!" He was cut off by the door of room two-eighteen creaking open. Two of the sailors Funke had seen the previous night silently left the room, the taller Caucasian man and the lone woman of the group. They said nothing, merely glanced at the employees as they passed, and departed.
Abidin grinned. "Mercs." He dragged Funke down the stairs to watch them leave. "I think you found him. Those were definitely mercenaries. They must be his guards, and they just left. They might come back, we have to hurry."
Mortimer was having second thoughts about potentially tangling with professional mercenaries. "Uhh... wait. Don't at least a few people here know your cousin?
The bellhop hissed with rage. "You're right. We need a diversion. I'll flood the basement."
"You bloody well won't. All that will happen is I'll have to clean it and you might get fired." Mortimer clenched the mop handle.
"Fine. Let's see... Who here knows my cousin." He scanned the lobby, fairly devoid of employees at this time of morning. Another Malay clerk was watching them from the desk. "Him. I know how to deal with him. Tip over the dryer. He'll want to fix it himself, because he thinks he's better at it."
Funke tried to protest, but Abidin was already headed outside. He followed the bellhop out into the gravel parking lot. An argument had already broken out. Funke stood by as the cousins shouted at each other for a few minutes, watching the two other pirates stuff AK-47s from the trunk of the car under their clothes. He waved his hands in protest when one silently offered him a M-16 that looked like it had seen better days before his birth. Abidin was able to accept an old pistol and his cousin a rusted sub-machine gun without a break in their argument. Mortimer nervously glanced around, hoping nobody saw the weapons. One of the pirates saw him glancing around and misinterpreted Funke's obvious trepidation.
"No worry. Bounty hunter leave to Miri." He pointed at the city. The feuding cousins seemed to be snapped back to the task at hand by this comment, realizing they didn't know how much time they would have. Abidin gave his cousin the keys to the car, then tucked the pistol into his pants.
"He was bringing backup, but the backup never came. That's why I went by the Gerasi Burong signs." Abidin grinned. "They had four other pirates coming in a jeep. They probably turned around rather than follow us into that place." His smile diminished slightly. "I wonder why my cousin said he couldn't call them, though."
Mortimer gave a mocking smile. "Cell phone trouble, I think." He knew where this would go.
"There is no cell phone trouble in Malaysia!" Abidin slammed his hand down on the roof of the car. "Foreigners!"
The custodian assured the others he would create the necessary diversion, then strode back inside. The desk clerk, a more suspicious man than the previous night's clerk, watched him all the way from the door to the basement steps. Funke waited briefly, hoping Abidin was in the building watching, then tipped the precariously perched dryer forward, spilling out a load of damp, wadded hotel uniforms. As expected, the fuming clerk was making his way down the steps in under a minute. "You! What happened?"
"It was rocking back and forth and it fell over again." This was a regular enough occurrence that Funke knew he would be believed without question.
"And you didn't hold it steady?" The clerk scowled, pushing past Mortimer to get to the machine. "I propped this up two days ago." Funke noticed that the nearest overhead light was off and pulled a cord hanging from the ceiling, illuminating the collapsed machine. "Thanks." He began rearranging the pile of boards which had supported the machine. Mortimer thought he heard footsteps upstairs, but couldn't tell if it was just his imagination. The clerk shouted something in Malay. "It's gone! Some of the boards are missing! Is that what that Abidin has been doing down here?"
Funke had no intention of telling the clerk that the boards were now part of the back railing. "I don't know if he did that."
"He's been wandering around here this morning acting stranger than normal. Help me out here." The Malay picked up the far side of the dryer. Funke leaned his mop against the wall and complied, carrying the device about halfway across the stack of boards before the unmistakable sound of gunfire rang out upstairs. The clerk immediately released the machine, causing Mortimer to drop it into the pile of boards. Funke tried to extricate himself from this new mess while the clerk bounded over him and ran up the stairs.
ns 15.158.61.8da2
