There were suddenly no urgent jobs, no frantic activity or the spectre of the ship they had saved from sinking. Jack felt flat and decided to join the others on board the Gronkowski 34 to see first-hand what was happening. As he walked along the deck of the old freighter, towards the bridge, he passed dozens of the refugees. They were standing or sitting in small groups and savouring the warm afternoon sunshine. He suddenly smelt it, food! The background smell of burnt fuel oil and paint was replaced by the prospect of rich sauces, aromatic herbs and spices as well as freshly baked bread! Jack hadn’t eaten since breakfast and saliva filled his mouth as he was drawn towards the smell.
A middle-aged woman, with a young girl in tow, was stepping out of the hatchway from the galley as Jack turned to enter. They both stopped and Jack began to step backwards to let the woman pass. It was spontaneous. Tears sprang from the woman’s eyes and a tight smile spread across her face as she stepped forwards and embraced him. Jack couldn’t understand what she said but it was obviously heartfelt. No sooner was he embraced than he was released. The woman lowered her head, grasped the hand of her child, and hurried away. It was over in seconds and Jack stepped over the lip of the hatchway and into the mess hall and galley.
Two young men were queuing to be served with food. Jack joined the queue. He picked up what he thought was a stainless steel tray but then realised it had shapes pressed into it for various dishes and a place to put a plastic beaker. The cook in front of him pointed to the various dishes and with a big smile said:
‘Fatteh, kubbeh… basbousa.’
Jack smiled in return and gestured for some of each. He also picked up a drink before turning to find a place to sit. He recognised Murat and walked towards him. As he did so the man facing Murat started to stand up and leave. He said something in Arabic to Murat:
‘Can I join you?’ asked Jack.
Murat broke into a big smile and gestured for him to sit.
‘You are honoured my friend,’ he said. ‘Rahel is from a very traditional family. I doubt she would embrace her husband in public, let alone a man she doesn’t even know! For her it was a major gesture.’
‘I wouldn’t want to embarrass her. Could you thank her for me?’ he asked as he started to eat.
Murat simply nodded and waited patiently as Jack ate. He was sampling the various dishes and was just about to plunge the spoon into one of them when Murat gestured for him to stop.
‘This dish is called basbousa. It’s a sweet cake made from semolina and soaked in syrup. It is very sweet and is delicious with strong, black coffee; I will fetch you a cup,’ he added.
Jack had eaten too much, too quickly and now felt tired. He sat back and asked Murat how his fellow “passengers” were feeling.
‘We are all glad to be alive and safe,’ he said. ‘It seems we are to remain on board this ship until we reach Syracuse and will then be disembarked. Some are happy to seek asylum in Italy but others would like to go to other European countries. I’m hoping we will be able to go to Germany. I have friends in Germany and speak German. I may even be able to get a job in a German university,’ he added.
Jack had seen the squalor in hold no. 5 and seen the TV images of bodies floating in the Mediterranean Sea. He was suddenly aware that Murat and everyone else on board could have been at the bottom of the sea.
‘How come you were on board this ship? It’s a long way from Damascus.’ he asked.
Murat sighed, his shoulders sagged as he looked down onto the smeared table top.
‘Six weeks ago my only son was killed in the fighting on the outskirts of Damascus; he was twenty-five years old. He had joined a group of freedom fighters and died in an air strike. His friends told me it was a Syrian war plane that attacked them. My only daughter, her husband and son were killed three days later by a rocket fired from eastern Damascus into the city. The government said it was terrorists but others say she was living in an area sympathetic to the freedom fighters. It was targeted.’
Murat raised his head and looked directly at Jack. There were tears in his red-rimmed eyes.
‘I buried my daughter and her family but couldn’t bury my son. There was nothing left for my wife and me in the city but death. We decided to leave. Once you have made the decision it is easy. I knew of a conference being planned in Cairo and through friends and colleagues arranged for an official invitation to be sent to me. I was to be a keynote speaker and through bribes managed to get travel documents to Egypt. It was easy to alter the document to include my wife.
‘At the same time, I announced a party to celebrate our wedding anniversary and to honour our dead children. We booked a hall next to the mosque, invited friends, relations and neighbours, arranged for food and musicians. We packed a small suitcase each and drove out of the city on the morning of the party. We simply closed the door behind us and left everything behind. There was no backward glance.’
Murat paused and breathed heavily through his nose as he stared at the table top:
‘By mid-morning we were in Eilat in the south of Israel and en route to Cairo. As our friends were celebrating we were driving on the coast road from Cairo to Benghazi. I now realise that everything has a price. It’s just a question of how much. I paid two border guards US$1000 each to turn their backs as my wife and I drove through the checkpoint. No stamp in the passport, no record, we did not exist. Friends of my son had given me a name and an address in Benghazi. It was simply a case of negotiation.
‘They wanted US$80,000 to take my wife and me to Bremerhaven in Germany; I only had US$78,000 left. In the end the man I was negotiating with said he would give me US$2000 for my car; it was worth ten times what he gave me. We were taken to an apartment in Benghazi and simply told to wait until the ship was ready to take us to Europe. We stayed in the apartment for almost ten days. One night we were collected and driven to a fishing village somewhere along the coast. It was all in darkness but I had to show them that I had the money for the passage before they would let us on board. There must have been twenty or thirty of us crammed onto that boat. I can’t remember how long it took but sometime in the middle of the night we met this freighter and were allocated a bunk. You know the rest.’
‘What will happen to your home? What about your friends, family and job at the university?’ asked Jack.
‘Ah, my home and country are no more. When a government starts killing its own people there is no future for it. I gave the friends of my son letters. They will be delivered and will try to explain what we have done. They are free to pick over the bones of my previous life. As to the job? A university is not about buildings and lecture halls, it’s about people and ideas. I’m sure the university will survive without me. I will simply try to share my ideas with other students and other colleagues. Thanks to you, I may be able to do that in the future.’
Murat placed his hand on top of Jack’s. He looked straight into his face and said “Thank you” as he rose to join his wife.
Several hundred kilometres away Petra replayed the conversation between Jack Collier and Officer Pendleton-Price. She had decisions to make.
Chapter 40
An offer you can’t refuse
Kev spotted it first. He called to Jack and Sandro to say a boat was coming directly towards them. He had checked the display console on the bridge of the Sultano and the AIS, the Automatic Identification of Ships. It offered no data about the oncoming vessel. He judged it to be a small motor cruiser, well, smaller than the Sultano, but with the vessel coming head on, it was difficult to estimate the size.
‘What do you think?’ asked Kev.
‘I don’t like it,’ replied Jack. ‘Penny told me off for contacting the coast guard. She was afraid that if those associated with the ship learned it was still afloat they may want to cover their tracks. I’m just hoping it’s not a visit from them.’
Jack thought for a moment and turned to Sandro.
‘We could cut loose from the Gronkowski 34 and outrun them but we don’t know w
ho they are!’ he said.
‘Remember, we still have the Moffat set up ready to pump out more water if needed. It would take time to disconnect and we would be leaving all the refugees to these characters, that’s if they want to cause us harm,’ added Sandro.
‘I’ll rig up a couple of hoses and have them ready. It’s better than nothing but if they have weapons we could have a problem,’ said Kev.
‘Looks like our options have just been reduced,’ said Jack. ‘Let’s see what they want,’ he added.
It was an old Chris-Craft motor cruiser, pretty smart in its day, now many years past its best but still looking good. The hull was painted deep blue with blue trim on the pristine white paintwork. As they started to come alongside Jack could see the name Deep Blue painted on the bow. There were four people on board. It looked like the skipper was on the bridge. A faded baseball cap was covering his white hair. His dress and body language suggested he was confident in handling the boat. Near the bow was a youth with a line in his hands. Again, from his faded baseball cap, bleached polo shirt and cut-off jeans and manner, Jack guessed he made up the two man crew. However, the well-built guy on the rear deck, holding a stern line, was definitely not a sailor. Even at this distance Jack could see a heavy gold coloured watch on one wrist and a heavy gold linked chain on the other. He was hunched over trying to keep his balance as the two boats closed. He looked like a city boy who was out of place. The two lines were thrown with Patrick and Kev catching them and slipping them over bollards. They let the people on the cruiser pull on the lines and secure them.
It was with a swagger that the fourth man, dressed in city clothes and holding on tight with one hand, hailed them. Speaking in Italian he shouted across to the row of people standing by the rail of the Sultano and looking down.
‘I wanna talk to Alessandro Calovarlo or Jack Collier. I’ve got a business proposition for them,’ he shouted.
‘I’m Alessandro Calovarlo. How can I help you?’ replied Sandro.
Speaking directly to Sandro, and again in Italian, he said.
‘The offer is private and confidential.’
With a look of disdain he scanned the people leaning on the rail. Then, without an invitation, he added, ‘I’ll come on board,’ and started to walk along the deck of the cruiser, up a level, but still short of the deck of the Sultano.
‘I’ll lower you a ladder,’ said Sandro as he and Shaun clipped a short ladder between two railings and over the low gunnel.
With obvious trepidation the man waited until he could synchronise the rise and fall between the motor cruiser and the ship and then stepped off the cruiser and onto the ladder. He slowly made his way upwards. Sandro helped him onto the deck but as the other city boy started to move towards the ladder Sandro and Shaun raised it.
‘Just one at a time,’ he said to the man hanging on to the cruiser roof as he turned and invited their guest to follow him.
With Jack following, Sandro led the way to the main lounge and invited their guest to sit. Without any thanks or acknowledgement, he surveyed the layout and slowly lowered himself into an armchair. There was the start of an awkward silence until their guest started to speak, this time in English with a strong Italian accent:
‘My name is Julio, my boss has a business proposition for you. It’s an offer you can’t refuse.’
Jack couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t stifle a laugh at the classic line that Don Vito Corleone had expressed in The Godfather. Julio gave Jack a look that stopped any further laughter.
‘My boss wants you to sink this load of Russian shit that you came across and do it quickly. There will be one hundred thousand British pounds waiting for you in your office in Manchester when you get home. If you don’t sink the ship you will both have an accident, a fatal accident, in the near future. I’ll give you two minutes to make your mind up,’ he added indicating that the offer wasn’t open to negotiation.
Julio looked around at his surroundings and obviously saw the coffee machine next to the galley and then said:
‘I’ll have an Americano while I wait.’
Sandro simply moved across the deck to the machine and mechanically fed coffee grains into the holder, carefully pressed the mound of coffee down, twisted the holder in place and placed a cup underneath. As he turned back to face Julio he pushed the button on the machine to serve the drink and said:
‘Help yourself to hot water. Jack and I need to tell the others what is happening.’
It was more than two minutes before Sandro and Jack returned. As they entered the lounge an odd sound, like muffled thunder, filled the air. They walked directly towards Julio and stood, hands behind their backs, immediately in front of his chair. They looked like two chastened schoolboys about to be disciplined by a schoolmaster. A smile spread across Julio’s face as he reached sideways to place his coffee cup on a side table. He then sat back and rested his arms on the chair in satisfaction.
The smile disappeared as they pounced. In one fluid movement they launched themselves forwards and half turned. Jack and Sandro both slammed their shoulders into Julio and grabbed an arm and wrist each. Sandro snapped an open handcuff over the wrist he was holding and then around the arm of the chair. As Julio recovered Jack snapped the other handcuff in place. He got a glancing head butt in the process but it was all over in seconds.
‘What the fuck are you doing? I’ll cut your balls off for this,’ shouted Julio as Jack and Sandro turned and sprinted for the door.
The Moffat water cannon, on maximum power, could deliver 4,500 gallons of water per minute. In the last minute or so it had poured twenty thousand kilos of water and fuel oil over and into the cruiser. The sheer force of fluid the cannon delivered had simply burst through the two for’ard flexi-glass windows of the cruiser. They hadn’t smashed the windows. Under the sheer weight of water, they had merely buckled and were forced out of their frame. The solid jet of water and oil had knocked the white-haired man and youth off their feet and washed them off the bridge. A quick flick of the nozzle by Shaun had redirected the jet and washed the other city boy over the side and into the water. Twenty tons of fuel oil was pouring into the cruiser every minute. The bow and stern lines became as taut as bow strings as the cruiser began to settle in the water and then twist as it tried to burrow deeper into the sea. If the Sultano hadn’t been lashed to the Gronkowski 34 it’s likely she would have tilted as well.
Kev lay on the deck of the Sultano and with a diving knife was sawing at the bow line. There was a high-pitched squeak and then a sound like a shot gun blast as the line parted and the bow of the motor cruiser dipped below the sea. Almost immediately there was a dull boom, followed by a sharp clang, as the cleat holding the stern line was simply pulled out of the deck of the motor cruiser. It flew across the space before smashing into steel plate and leaving a bright scar on the paintwork. It was as if a huge fish had been released from a line. The motor cruiser simply slipped, nose first, below the surface of the sea. Bubbles and turbulence were disrupting the sheen of oil on the surface when a white barrel shot out of the water and started to deploy an emergency lifeboat. The release mechanism must have been activated as designed when the cruiser passed through a certain depth.
Jack scanned the scene below and could see three people in the water. The white-haired skipper was clinging onto a fender. Almost next to him was City Boy thrashing around in the water. Was it a flailing arm or a deliberate punch that knocked the skipper off the fender so that City Boy could grab it? A few metres away the youth looked as though he was struggling to tread water as the white-haired skipper started to swim towards him.
Patrick braced himself on the deck as he threw a life ring to the skipper and let the attached line follow it. To his surprise the skipper slipped the ring over the head of the youth but then struggled to pull his arms through. Eventually he managed it and signalled to Patrick that he could pull him up. With Patrick, Kev and Sandro on the line it was fairly easy to get the youth up to the rail. Howe
ver, before pulling him through the railing, Kev slipped a cable tie around one wrist and then another through it and around the bottom rail. The youth may be on board but wasn’t going very far! He also didn’t look too well!
It was harder to pull the skipper up the side of the ship. Fuel oil covered the line and was splashed around the rail and deck. The stink from it caught in their throats and they could feel it on their skin. It was only when they had him at the rail that it was clear he was not a young man. The baseball cap had disguised his bald head and his remaining hair now clung to his scalp However, there was no protest as he allowed his wrist to be cable tied to the rail. He turned his head to Sandro and said:
‘Please, help my grandson, he is hurt.’
Sandro looked at the youth more closely and could see he was pale, trembling and had a detached expression as though he wasn’t aware of what was going on.
‘Leave the other one in the water, he’s not going anywhere. I’ll get a hot drink and a blanket for this one. Kev, can you cut off the old guy’s clothes? Patrick, can you get some hot water and stuff to wash off the fuel oil?’ ordered Sandro.
‘I’ll catch the lifeboat and pull it away from our friend in the water,’ offered Jack.
The last few frantic minutes were replaced by more considered action as fuel oil was washed off, hot drinks swallowed and heat returned to cold bodies. It seemed that the grandson had banged his head as he was being flushed into the sea but was recovering quickly. The skipper was grateful and keen to explain to Sandro how the Mafioso had commandeered his boat and forced him to motor to a coordinate and intercept them. It was all plausible but Jack was adamant that for the time being they remain cable-tied to the rail.
It took the five of them to haul City Boy from the water and pull him up to the rail; he was a big, heavy man. Sandro told him to grab the bottom rung of the rail as he moved to slip a cable tie over his wrist. It was clear that City Boy wasn’t going to cooperate. Swearing at Sandro he waved his arm away and started to make a grab for the rail to haul himself onboard. The rail and line were soaked in fuel oil and slippery. Through the oil-covered shirt Sandro could see the muscles bunching in City Boy’s arms and shoulders as he struggled to get a firm grip. There was no way they could afford to let this gorilla on board.
Missing Presumed Lost Page 24
