The material in Jack’s notebook was touching on subjects and raising questions Macbeth thought had been buried forever. Long forgotten ghosts came floating towards him out of the shadows, demanding answers and reaching out for justice and retribution. Somehow, Jack had succeeded in delving into Macbeth’s past life like no one else before. Many had tried, but none had succeeded. Macbeth was anxious to find out just how much Jack knew, and how he had managed to uncover so many of his carefully guarded secrets. For a man living in the shadows and obsessed with privacy, this was a major concern.
Macbeth couldn’t believe his luck. To have Jack’s notebook in front of him was an unexpected bonus, which only added to the excitement of the moment and gave him the upper hand. He would now be able to drill into Jack’s head by using his own words and ideas, jotted down by him in his personal notebook meant for his eyes only. This was a rare opportunity Macbeth intended to exploit to the full.
Thanks to Kobo’s cousin paving the way with a small river of US dollars, arriving in Mogadishu had gone much smoother than Lola expected. Sharif had met them at the airport and provided a few armed men to keep an eye on the plane around the clock. He had even found some basic accommodation for them close to the harbour. After that, things turned into a frustrating waiting game.
The HAU compound was not only heavily guarded, but completely enclosed by a high fence with razor wire and floodlights. Armed guards with dogs were patrolling the grounds day and night. Getting inside was therefore impossible, but Sharif had managed to position two of his men across the road from the compound to keep watch.
Sharif had received confirmation from his network of informers that Jack and Dr Rosen were being kept somewhere in the compound. That was the full extent of his intelligence until he received a phone call from one of his men early that morning.
‘I can see them,’ the man said excitedly.
‘Are you sure?’ said Sharif.
‘Absolutely. They are being taken to a boat, right now!’
Sharif quickly made another call and alerted his men watching the compound from a boat in the harbour. ‘Follow them, but stay out of sight. You know what to do.’ Sharif then radioed one of his trawlers standing by off the coast and asked the captain to come into the harbour to pick him up.
‘We may have something at last,’ said Sharif, bursting into the room. Kobo and Lola looked up, surprised. ‘What’s happening?’ she asked.
‘They’ve been spotted,’ said Sharif. ‘They are on the move. Come, we’ll meet my boat at the wharf. This is what we’ve been waiting for. Let’s go!’
Macbeth had instructed Carlotta to allocate a cabin to each of his guests, as he liked to call them, to give them an opportunity to freshen up. A change of clothes was also to be provided. This had nothing to do with courtesy, but was part of a tried and tested strategy. It was all about tactics.
After their violent abduction and the harsh treatment Jack and Dr Rosen had received in Mogadishu, their arrival on board would herald a new beginning and in some way, it was just that. Macbeth was sending a clear signal of what life could be like if they cooperated. They already knew what could happen to them if they didn’t. He wanted them to believe that the outcome was somehow in their hands, which was, of course, an illusion.
Macbeth liked to think he was in complete control and pulled all the strings. However, remembering Alexandra’s stubborn and, he had to admit, successful defiance, brought a frown to his face. It only lasted for an instant and he dismissed the fleeting doubt as a sentimental lapse and immediately returned to the present. He rang the bell on his wheelchair. ‘Send Johannes in,’ he said to Carlotta. ‘Let’s hear what he has to tell us.’
Jack took off his filthy clothes and dropped them on the floor before stepping into the shower. He hadn’t washed in days and feeling the hot needles of water caressing his back was bliss. Jack closed his eyes and tried to focus on the extraordinary events of that morning.
As soon as he set eyes on the Calypso anchored in the bay, everything began to make sense. This was the same ship Alexandra had been taken to in Sydney not that long ago. She too had been abducted, intimidated and questioned. The famous ship belonged to Blackburn Pharmaceuticals, and at the helm of that empire stood only one man. A powerful, enigmatic man who reputedly lived on board and never left the ship.
All the confusing and often incomplete snippets of information Jack had recently uncovered were somehow coming together, forming a complicated, but ordered pattern with purpose and design, like the intricate web of a deadly spider. And sitting in the centre of it all – sinister and dangerous and ready to devour his prey – was Alistair Macbeth.
Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires, thought Jack. Could this be the man behind the attack on Lord and Lady Elms? Could he be the Machiavellian mystery backer and mentor of the young charismatic Labour leader in the UK? Was he the man involved with the Mafia and the illegal dumping of toxic waste in Somalia that had caused such misery to so many? Was this the man behind those dreadful medical experiments in that horror camp Dr Gaal had discovered? Jack had to admit that considered objectively as a whole, the evidence collected so far seemed rather compelling, and it all pointed to one man – Macbeth.
However, many big questions remained unanswered, but Jack sensed that all the confusing threads would come together when he met the man himself and that, he was certain, was imminent. Once we find those black and deep desires, thought Jack, we’ll know the answer to the ultimate question: who is this man? What drives him? Who is Alistair Macbeth? He also sensed he was about to face a dangerous showdown of epic proportions that could easily cost him his life.
78
Carlotta knocked on Jack’s cabin door and entered. ‘Mr Macbeth would like to see you now. Please follow me,’ she said.
‘A little underdressed for the occasion, don’t you think?’ said Jack. He pointed to his cargo shorts and tee-shirt with the Blackburn logo on the front and smiled. The clothes were much too big. Carlotta raised an eyebrow, but didn’t reply. Tough broad, this one. No sense of humour, thought Jack, and followed Carlotta out of the room.
Macbeth sat in his wheelchair by the open door. He had spent the past hour outside on his private deck, planning his approach. He would see his guests separately first, and then decide which way to proceed. The material in Jack’s notebook had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. The past was closing in from all directions and the man he was about to meet was its messenger. Why now? he thought. And why this man? Macbeth always felt uneasy when he didn’t have all the answers. However, he usually knew exactly where to look and how to find them.
‘Our paths have crossed before, Mr Rogan, albeit indirectly,’ said Macbeth, after Carlotta had left his stateroom. He was carefully watching the man in the ill-fitting clothes standing quietly by the door.
‘You are obviously referring to Dr Delacroix’s abduction and her detention on this very ship not long ago,’ said Jack. ‘Not a good start. She was a guest of mine in Sydney at the time …’
‘That’s a little harsh, Mr Rogan,’ said Macbeth, enjoying the exchange. He liked nothing more than a worthy opponent and Jack appeared to be promising material, just as he had expected. ‘She too was my guest and we had a little chat. Just as you and I are doing right now.’ Macbeth pointed to a chair. ‘Please, take a seat.’
‘Ah, is that what you call it?’ said Jack, playing along. It wasn’t easy to spar with a man who held your fate in his hands and could make you disappear with the flick of his fingers. Jack had dealt with dangerous men before, but sensed that the man in the wheelchair was in a class quite of his own. Jack saw his notebook, iPad, passport and phone on the table in front of Macbeth. He realised then that this would be a contest of wits and that his future depended on how well he played the game. But there were no rules as such, and certainly no referee. The stakes were high, especially for him, and the material in his notebook represented the cards he had to use to s
tay in the game. And staying in the game was essential if he wanted to stay alive.
‘Dr Delacroix – a very clever and sensible lady – and I came to an arrangement,’ continued Macbeth undeterred. ‘I only hope that we can do the same.’
‘An arrangement, you say? How very interesting …’
‘We recruit scientists like her all over the world.’
Jack smiled. ‘Recruit?’ he said, the sarcasm in his voice obvious. Blackmail and intimidation wrapped in buckets of money more likely, he thought, but held his tongue.
This guy is good, thought Macbeth, enjoying himself. He wheeled his chair closer to his desk and pointed to Jack’s notebook. ‘Fascinating reading,’ said Macbeth. ‘I’m intrigued. Why is a man like you interested in my affairs, my life and my past? I cannot work it out, and that bothers me.’
Jack knew instinctively that trying to deceive Macbeth could be fatal. It was impossible to guess how much he knew and where the line was he couldn’t afford to cross. Therefore, telling the truth, or parts of it, was the safest way forward.
‘That’s quite simple,’ said Jack, leaning back in his chair. ‘I was given an assignment.’
‘An assignment? How fascinating. Would you care to elaborate?’
Jack wanted to appear as relaxed and detached as possible. However, his mind was racing as he tried to work out the best way to approach the question and deal with the man posing it. Whichever way he looked at it, this was a huge gamble and what was needed here was a good poker face, and nerves of steel.
‘As you obviously know, I’m a storyteller,’ began Jack, crossing his long legs. ‘So, I’ll tell you a story, but this story has several big holes in it at the moment. Much is still missing. However, I’m sure you could easily fill in the gaps and I would invite you to do just that. How does that sound?’
Momentarily taken aback, Macbeth looked at Jack. He was trying to work out if the relaxed man sitting opposite was joking, had lost his mind or was in fact, serious.
‘You are imposing conditions?’ snapped Macbeth at last, unable to hide his incredulity and annoyance, both of which were clearly reflected in his voice.
‘I wouldn’t call it conditions … Curiosity. I really want to know, that’s all.’
‘I don’t have to remind you of your position …’
‘No, you don’t. So, what shall it be?’
This guy is either mad, or extremely good, thought Macbeth. He opted for extremely good. For a while, Macbeth played with the little steel balls in the palm of his hand, the sharp clicking noise the only sound in the room.
‘All right, but there are rules,’ said Macbeth. ‘The price of deception and lies is very high on this ship. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly. This works both ways?’ said Jack, watching Macbeth carefully.
Courageous and impertinent, thought Macbeth, not bad. ‘It does,’ he said. ‘I have no time for games.’
‘Good. It would appear, neither do I.’
‘Then fire away, Mr Rogan. Let’s see how good a storyteller you really are.’
79
Sharif’s men had followed the HAU launch all the way to the Calypso and watched Jack and Dr Rosen being taking on board. The notorious HAU flagship was a frequent visitor to Somali waters and well-known in Mogadishu. Most of the crew were recruited from fishing villages along the coast and Mogadishu served as a home port. Calypso usually took on fuel and supplies there and rotated the crew.
The ‘mother ship’, as Sharif liked to refer to his modified Indian fishing trawler, had dropped anchor among a cluster of local fishing boats within easy striking distance of the Calypso. From the outside, AK-47, as the trawler was called, looked like any other working vessel with nets and fishing gear scattered all over the deck. However, this was only a cover; below deck, it was a different story. Named after the most successful assault rifle ever made, AK-47 was a floating arsenal. The experienced crew consisted mainly of disenchanted, battle-hardened veterans of the civil war that had raged for decades and decimated much of Somalia.
Sharif stood in the wheelhouse of AK-47 and watched the Calypso through his binoculars. Everything appeared quiet on board. An open tender stacked high with all kinds of supplies in boxes, barrels and crates had pulled up alongside the ship and the crew was beginning to unload the cargo.
Sharif turned to Kobo standing next to him. ‘I could get you on board,’ he said. ‘We know most of the men making the deliveries and a couple of crew members on board as well. Mainly girls doing the cleaning and working in the kitchen. If you could slip on board and make contact with them, we could find out what’s happening. What do you think?’
‘Good idea,’ said Kobo. ‘It’s our best chance.’ Kobo realised he was the obvious choice. He knew Jack and Dr Rosen, spoke fluent English and as a local African, would blend in well without arousing suspicion. The delivery of supplies was often chaotic and required a lot of manual labour. Restocking the ship took hours and involved a number of different suppliers and boats with their own crews.
‘Could be dangerous,’ said Sharif.
Kobo slapped his friend on the back. ‘What else is new?’ he said. ‘Let’s do it.’
Sharif turned to the captain and gave an order. Moments later, the powerful engines of the trawler throbbed into life.
Tristan had befriended Baashi, one of the young African deckhands, who had proudly taken him on a tour below to show him the weapons carried on board.
‘We mainly use AK-47s,’ said the young man, handing Tristan a gun. ‘It’s a little heavy, but very reliable. It fires every time. That’s why our boat is named after it. Did you know that the AK-47 is on the Hezbollah flag?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ said Tristan, handing the gun back. ‘What are these?’
‘RPGs – rocket propelled grenades. Maximum range five hundred metres, but you can easily take out a Humvee with these little beauties, or blow a very big hole into the side of a ship … very effective.’
‘And what’s this?’ asked Tristan.
‘Mortars. Russian, 82mm. They have a range of four thousand one hundred metres and a casualty radius of thirty metres in the open, and eighteen metres for troops on the ground. You could wipe out the whole bridge of the Calypso from right here.’
‘Wow!’ said Tristan, impressed. ‘Have you been in any fighting yourself?’
Baashi grinned. ‘I have,’ he said proudly, and pointed to a long scar on his left arm.
Lola stepped into the wheelhouse. ‘What’s going on? Why are we returning to the harbour?’
‘Because we have a plan,’ said Kobo, smiling.
‘What plan?’
Kobo pointed to the Calypso. ‘I am going on board …’
‘The Calypso?’
‘Yes. Sharif believes we have to act quickly. Calypso never stays in the port for long. Once she returns to sea, we’ll lose her.’
‘How will you get on board?’ asked Lola.
‘Easy. I will deliver some groceries to the ship. Trust me; it’ll work. We know all the right people.’
Lola looked sceptical. Kobo took her aside. ‘Are you sure you’re up to this?’ he asked, lowering his voice.
‘What do you mean?’
‘This could escalate very quickly …’
‘In what way?’
‘Sharif has a score to settle with HAU and the Calypso … He’s a determined man and so are all the men around him. They are used to taking huge risks. And this boat is armed to the teeth. It could easily take out the Calypso …’
‘Come on …’ Lola shook her head.
‘I’m deadly serious.’
‘But Jack and Dr Rosen are on the ship.’
‘I understand that, and so does Sharif; don’t worry. You know what was going on at the camp I visited with Jack and Dr Rosen?’
‘Yes, of course; Jack told me.’
‘That’s only part of the story.’
‘Oh?’
‘There are two more camps just li
ke it along the coast. From time to time, patients from each of the camps were taken to the Calypso.’
‘What for?’
‘Further experiments. All of them were very ill and close to death. None has ever returned. The bodies were dumped at sea.’
‘How awful.’
‘Sharif’s father was one of them. He died on the Calypso and his body was fed to the sharks. It was Dr Gaal who found out about this and told Sharif. Sharif took Gaal’s death very badly and vowed to avenge him and his father. As you can see, this is a dangerous game and Sharif has his own agenda and score to settle. Rescuing Jack and Dr Rosen may be part of it, but I wanted you to see the bigger picture.’
‘Understood. But what’s the alternative?’
‘Right now, I can’t see any.’
‘Then, what are we waiting for?’
‘I was hoping you’d say that.’
80
Jack knew what every good storyteller knows: he had to capture his audience from the very first moment and then keep them hanging on his every word, interested and engaged. With only one daunting listener – Macbeth – as his audience, Jack knew this wouldn’t be easy. There were also critical strategic considerations to think of, which made everything infinitely more complicated. Jack also knew his life could depend on how he told the story and how he ‘traded’ certain information to keep the man guessing, and give himself a chance to buy some time. This was going to be like running through a minefield, blindfolded.
‘I was approached by a very famous rock star – Isis; The Time Machine – I’m sure you’ve heard of her?’ said Jack. Macbeth nodded. ‘She had a curious request. Isis wanted me to investigate a heinous crime …’ Jack paused and watched Macbeth watching him. His face gave nothing away. Jack couldn’t read any reaction or even a hint of emotion on the expressionless face staring back at him. Is this the man behind the murders? thought Jack. I wonder. Is this Lord Elms’ Detego Man?
‘Isis’ parents, Lord and Lady Elms, had been brutally attacked in their London home. Both died as a result of their injuries—’
The Hidden Genes of Professor K: A Medical Mystery Thriller (Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 3) Page 39
