by Sean Blaise
"There's your man," Frances smirked, shutting the tv off.
"He works quick," Pierre replied, still standing. Frances motioned for him to sit.
"Who can blame him for controlling the story? He heads a multi-billion-dollar corporation. If bad news gets out, the company stock crumbles for no good reason. How was your conversation with him?" Frances asked.
"Pointless. He said he purchased information from our corporate facilitator. And that it was of a sensitive and confidential nature. His delivery man, Dmitry, basically stayed the course with the same story."
"So?" Frances asked, sitting back, his belly hanging forward unwilling to lean with the rest of his torso.
"This man, Dmitry, said he met Mr. Dubois personally. It was in a hotel, where he delivered the money via wire transfer after the information was verified. He said he left the man happy and smiling in the hotel, a whole lot richer. We confirmed that his timeline is correct. It was 12 hours later, from the coroner’s report, in the same hotel room, that the man lies dead after a vigorous torture."
"You have gotten nowhere," Frances said coldly.
Pierre couldn't help but sneer at the man. "I don't buy their story. What they purchased is the key to this whole case. I have a feeling it was something valuable to some very bad people."
"Why? It could just be information that someone wanted to steal," Frances said.
Pierre stared at Frances. He knew that he would have to do something sooner or later. Ask for a transfer? He had to end the toxic relationship he had with Frances. Before he killed the fat Brit.
"This must be connected," Pierre said pointing at the muted TV.
"The pirate attack? How?" Frances asked leaning forward.
"I looked into our victim's bank records. He was employed by Mr. Popovich prior to this specific deal. Four months back he was being paid by a Cayman island account belonging to Volk Petroleum."
Frances shook his head in confusion.
"Volk is name of Alexi's oil and gas division. Means "wolf," in Russian. This employment was relatively straightforward. The payments were 20,000 a month, for research regarding the Tahitian Pearl shipwreck, according to Alexi himself. He said the files were useful, as well as getting salvage agreements in place from France. It’s a lot easier to strike a good deal when you haven't found anything, yet. But then, all of a sudden, Alexi pays our dead facilitator a lump sum of five million extra. I asked him why. He said the man had found something else, and it was more valuable than the original shipwreck information. He paid the man to keep it a secret, believing the man to be unscrupulous."
"What are you saying?"
"The man found something else while he was finding the shipwreck, and I think he was probably looking to get the highest bidder. Alexi, I think, wanted to be that person. I think before he did, however, other people became aware of whatever it was he was selling. Mr. Dubois might have enticed more than one client and couldn't satisfy them all."
"And once he sold whatever ‘it’ is to Alexi, the others weren't pleased. But what could it be?"
Pierre accessed his photographic memory.
"According to the records, the initial Tahitian Pearl is estimated to hold 500 million in gold. Perhaps it was just an exact location of the wreck instead of a general area? I read the article on this expedition in Yacht Circle Magazine, which had been published a few months back in which Alexi spoke of a 45-mile radius in which they were to begin the search for the Pearl. It could have taken them forever. Perhaps, instead, the position was pinpointed with the Mr. Dubois’s information?"
"And now other parties are on the trail."
"Exactly."
"But who killed our man Mr. Dubois? And why?" Frances asked.
"I'm searching his phone, email, and computer files for a clue. But I doubt I will find one. The man was very careful."
"I am getting pressure from headquarters on this one. Dubois had many high-placed friends, above both of our heads. And they want to know why their friend had his throat slashed in a Monaco hotel. Find me answers, Pierre."
Frances waved him out. As he watched Pierre close his office door behind him, he was secretly relieved he didn't have the case.
Chapter 59
Captain Bae dragged the metal chair across the floor, with an infuriating screech. He placed it not ten feet in front of Abdul's swollen face. He then spun the chair around so that the back of the chair was now facing Abdul. He straddled the chair, with his belly against the back of the chair. It was stupid, but Bae was self-conscious about his rotund belly, and always unconsciously strove to hide it from people.
He sat down heavily and looked at Abdul. The man was African or Arab, or something of that nature. His left eye was nearly swollen shut; but his nose was where the real damage had been done. Abdul's nose was twice its normal size. And it was splayed over to the left side of his face, clearly broken in more than one place. His mouth hung open lazily, as he breathed hungry gasps of air through it. It reminded Bae of the puffer fish that were sometimes eaten back in his home country.
The man smelled bad, and he looked uncomfortable and hungry. Captain Bae reached into his coat pocket and retrieved the plum. It was a South African plum, and he loved them. Every time he came into Cape Town, he ordered a crate of the plums just for himself. He saw the man look at it hungrily. Captain Bae smiled.
"This is a sapphire plum from South Africa. One of my favorite fruits in the whole world," Captain Bae said with a strange British-sounding English.
Captain Bae took a big bite out of the plum, some of its juice spilling down his chin. With the grin of a small kid who'd just made a mess of himself, Captain Bae wiped off the juice from his chin.
Abdul couldn't be sure what the man wanted; he just knew he was hungry. He knew to wait for the man to ask questions rather than begin offering up information. That was until he could at least determine what the man wanted. Once he knew what the man wanted, he could better tailor his answers to meet the fat man’s needs.
"You can even get plums with yellow skin. It’s very strange, the yellow skin," Captain Bae said, to no one in particular.
He took another big bite and savored the juice as it went down his throat. He wasn't delaying merely for dramatic effect. Bae was honestly trying to formulate the best approach in his head. He was not skilled in interrogations, having never actually done one before. However, he considered himself quite the improvisor.
Better start with the basics, Bae thought. "What is your name?" he asked.
Abdul lifted his head. "Abdullah," he said quickly. There was no reason not to give his real name. The less lies he had to keep straight, the better.
"Can I call you Abdul?"
Abdul nodded. He could call him asshole as long as the man gave his nose a break.
“Abdul I’m going to tell you what I know so far. So that you can fill in the blanks. Ok?”
Abdul nodded again. The Asian was playing right into his hands.
"I know you are not a fisherman, lost at sea. I saw the bullet holes, and that vessel was no fishing vessel. I know you attacked a vessel earlier today. I heard the vessel issuing a Mayday call over the radio and giving the position I picked you up from. I have only one thing I need to know from you and then we are finished. No pain, no hitting, just one answer. Why did you attack that particular vessel?"
Abdul was shocked. The man knew everything. This was no simple merchant captain. He was working for someone. He too had been following the yacht. But for what? What was in that damn case? Abdul wondered. He didn't have long to ponder the best answer to stay alive. He would have to delay somehow; pretend he was a pirate trying to be the fisherman for a while. That way when he cracked, the pot-bellied man would believe he had cracked him.
"I fish," Abdul said, struggling to break up his excellent English to sound the part.
Bae’s face instantly went cold and hard. The anger came back in a flash, and he flung what was left of his half eaten plum directly at Abdul's fac
e with all his might. The plum smashed into Abdul's already closing left eye, and the pain was excruciating. That coupled with the humiliation of pieces of plum sliding down his face made Abdul's blood boil. Abdul tensed his arms behind his back and made a vow to gut the pig slowly when he got free.
"Torture it is!" Bae said. He walked over to the work bench and grabbed a pair of heavily rusted needle nosed pliers. He returned to Abdul and reached behind his chair. Abdul fought to hide his hands, balling them up in tight fists. Captain Bae tried to pry them open and finally managed to pull out Abdul's index finger. He grabbed a hold of the nail with the pliers and relished in Abdul's screams as he pulled with all his might. The nail pulled out of Abdul's index finger with a sucking sound and Abdul nearly passed out from the pain.
Captain Bae came around the front of the chair, still holding the bloody pliers. The nail and root were clenched in its rusted pincers. Abdul looked up at him with rage.
"Now tell me again, why did you attack the yacht?" Bae shouted.
Abdul hung his head and said nothing. He felt the man walk around again and begin yanking out his other index finger. Abdul screamed and tried to clench it shut. Bae was too strong, and he was able to force the other finger out. Abdul felt the pliers close on his nail, when suddenly the ship's alarms began clanging loudly in the room. Captain Bae dropped his hand and ran.
Chapter 60
Captain Bae ran to the bridge. He was wheezing when he finally opened the door and strode in.
"What the hell is going on?" He yelled in Korean.
"We have just been hailed by a U.S. Navy destroyer. They wish to board."
"What? How?"
"Vessel Tsung Tao, this is coalition naval destroyer Alabama, slow your speed and prepare to be boarded," boomed over the radio again.
Captain Bae looked to the port side of the vessel and saw the large naval destroyer standing off, not more than 400 meters distant. A helicopter, for support, flew low and fast over the Tsung Tao’s deck. There was nothing Bae could do. They would be boarded or fired upon.
He reached for the radio. "This is Captain Bae, merchant ship Tsung Tao, what are your intentions warship?"
While waiting for the reply Bae shouted orders quickly to his men. His first officer sprinted down the stairs towards the paint locker.
"This is coalition warship Alabama, reduce speed to 1 knot, all crew must be on deck, prepare to be boarded. Final warning. If you refuse you will be fired upon."
"Alabama, I am reducing speed. All crew will be on deck. Please advise."
"Boarding party is heading in your direction now."
Abdul heard all the commotion over the throbbing in his hand from his ruined index finger. He looked up wearily, as he heard what he thought must be a helicopter overhead. The door to the paint locker swung open and two young men he hadn't seen before rushed over to him. Things were looking up, at least the fat man with the pliers was gone. He looked up at the young men, only to briefly see the butt of a gun smashing once more into his face. Abdul blacked out.
The men unchained Abdul from the chair and laid his body on the floor. Without Abdul's conscious cooperation, and free movement of his limbs, they struggled to get the life jacket over his body. Finally, they locked the clasp at the front of the jacket closed. They lifted him, one on each side, and dragged his body out the door. The naval ship was moving closer, but they were still hidden by the ship's tanks and super structure. The helicopter overhead seemed more focused on keeping a spotlight on the wheelhouse and the Captain than what was happening on the foredeck of the Tsung Tao.
Groggy crew were filing out of the wheelhouse and onto the deck in slow motion holding their hands in the air. A speedboat was lowered off the destroyer, filled with a heavily armed boarding party.
The first officer and bosun dragged Abdul towards the #4 ballast tank. Ballast tanks were huge tanks used to hold seawater on the ship to make it either heavier or lighter based upon the cargo load the ship was carrying. One of the deckhands was busy unfastening the last of the bolts that held the inspection hatch in place.
"Hurry! Hurry!" the first officer shouted. Something in English boomed out from the helicopter on a loudspeaker. The deckhand struggled with one of the rusted bolts, but finally freed it. Abdul started to come to, his head throbbing with each of his blood-filled breaths. He opened his still good right eye just in time to see the hatch open. He tried to open his mouth to scream when the men shoved him headfirst into the tank’s dark abyss.
Chapter 61
John was worried. The man who called himself Mr. Clark had spent over two hours grilling him on every aspect of the pirate attack. In fact, had the doctor not come in three times, looking exasperated, Otter figured he'd still be getting debriefed by him.
"What did they look like? Did they say anything? What were they after?" The questions were probably standard protocol, but something was nagging at John. It was the insistence in Mr. Clark's voice that raised questions. It reminded him of when he had done something wrong and his father would question him in much the same way, already knowing the answers to his questions.
Mr. Clark, was especially curious about Alexi. He asked mostly about Alexi, now that John thought about it. How long John had been in his employ? Any strange comings and goings? John had been honest; but he hadn't exactly offered up any answers either. He didn't like Mr. Clark, and he certainly didn't trust him.
He laid back and closed his eyes. He tried to remember everything that had happened during the attack detail by detail. The attack and the shooting of the helicopter kept creeping into his mind. Something was wrong about that. If they had been after a ransom, in typical Somali pirate fashion, it was in their best interest to let the owner get away. That way they'd have someone to negotiate with. Killing him would be like sinking their own ship. No, it didn't make sense for pirates. Of course, John thought, there was always the possibility someone got trigger happy. But he doubted it. It had taken two separate shots to take it down. It was deliberate.
There was also the shooting, itself. The attackers had gone after the helicopter, not the yacht _ that was odd. The yacht was filled with valuables and was far more valuable than the helicopter. And they had no way of knowing Alexi was in the helicopter. Most of the time, with yacht deliveries like this, only the crew were ever aboard. Very few owners enjoyed ocean crossings the way Alexi did. The whole pirate attack didn't smell right.
And then there was the gun that saved their lives. Where had it come from? Where did Dmitry get the weapon? And had it been hidden aboard the Ivana the whole time? After Alexi had preached about not carrying weapons on board. Was he was lying all along?
John had doubts about Alexi now. He thought that he was trusted. But, apparently, Alexi had thought it best not to tell him about the weapon. And why had Alexi asked about the security situation before they left Yemen? Unless he had something, he was worried about, too. Unless he knew something might go wrong. Alexi on the bridge when they left harbor was the first time John had ever observed that behavior from his normally aloof boss. Alexi had known something might go wrong. He knew something, and he hadn't told John.
Otter thought about Mr. Clark's questions again. It seemed everyone knew something that Otter didn't. And he didn't like the feeling one bit.
Chapter 62
Abdul screamed as he fell into the pitch darkness, waiting any moment to hit the floor. His legs wind-milled in the air from the momentum of being pushed, and they flopped over his head. He landed with a sickening thud on his back into the seawater that filled the ballast tank. Instant pain radiated to his neck and he kicked his feet in panic as the water closed in around him, filling his nose and mouth. He realized with terror that his arms were still bound; but he suddenly felt himself being torn back towards the surface by the life jacket the men had wrapped him in.
Abdul sputtered when he surfaced, struggling to suck in air through his mouth and spit out the water he'd swallowed. His nose injuries stung like crazy,
as well as his index finger. From the taste, he could tell he was in a pool of saltwater. He yelled as he saw the man above him close the tank hatch over his head. The darkness was excruciating, not a lick of light entered the sealed ballast tank. He tried to fight off the increasing panic he felt.
Abdul was at least able to rest, as the life jacket kept his head above water easily. He leaned his head back and breathed in deeply with his eyes closed, trying to get a grip on his sanity. When he opened his eyes again, the panic hit him instantly. Abdul could see nothing but endless darkness. Water was sloshing all around him. The tank seemed cavernous. He yelled and heard his echo back, not far ahead. He kicked his feet and felt himself moving along the tank for what seemed like forever, until he felt his back hit the far wall of the tank. He was breathing loudly through his mouth and could feel his pulse racing.
Captain Bae slowly pulled the Tsung Tao’s throttles back, until she was at nearly a dead stop, drifting in the rolling seas. He left the controls of the bridge and walked out on the front deck where the rest of his crew was lined up. He held the passports of his crew in a brown satchel under his arm. Most of his crew had good South Korean fakes, or other passports from nearby Asian countries. He had no fear of getting caught. He had passed the scrutiny of the South African immigration services many times before. They were considered one of the toughest in the world. His men had stowed all the weapons in secret compartments located throughout the vessel. She was, after all, designed to evade precisely this sort of boarding.
He refused to raise his hands. Instead, he held them clasped at his front, and a look of annoyance on his face. Not one of panic, that his men seemed to carry. The only loose end was walking back towards him now. His first officer nodded his head letting Bae know that it was done. That was his only loose end, the prisoner.
