Star of Africa (Ben Hope, Book 13)

by Scott Mariani

  ‘Oh, so you’re the big expert now,’ Jeff said, without taking his eyes off it.

  ‘People are liable to start massacring each other over a lot of things,’ Ben said. ‘But a lump of cut glass isn’t one of them.’ He handed it back to Jude.

  ‘What would it be worth?’ Jude asked.

  Jeff whistled. ‘If you have to ask, mate, you can’t afford it. Millions? Tens of millions?’

  ‘Hundreds of millions,’ Ben said. ‘Question is, where did it come from?’

  ‘I think Pender stole it,’ Jude said. ‘Who from, I have no idea. Someone in Oman, I thought. That would explain why he was on the ship, why he bribed his way on board incognito. He needed to get out of the country unnoticed.’

  ‘To Dar es Salaam?’ Jeff said. ‘Or Mombasa, maybe?’

  ‘Except he had no intention of going that far,’ Jude said. ‘He could have disembarked at Djibouti just as easily, but he didn’t. He wanted to disappear into thin air with the diamond. That’s why he set up the attack, to intercept us midway.’

  ‘A staged pirate attack,’ Ben said. It made an awful lot of sense. But it also raised more questions, and he could see from Jude’s expression that he had already figured that much out for himself.

  ‘Question is, why he’d need to get away in the middle of the Indian Ocean,’ Jude went on, frowning. ‘Why not just wait until we hit port? It doesn’t add up. Unless maybe he was scared that the police were on to him and would be lying in wait to grab him at the docks.’

  Ben could see another possibility. ‘Or unless there was a third party involved. If we can suppose that Pender was the active partner in the robbery, the one who did the crime and took the biggest risk, it would make sense that maybe someone employed him to snatch it and deliver it to them, either at Mombasa or Dar es Salaam.’

  ‘A sleeping partner,’ Jeff said, cottoning on to the idea. ‘Mister Big. The head honcho.’

  ‘Who at this point may not even realise that Pender was planning to cut him out and do a runner,’ Ben said. ‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.’

  Gerber took a noisy slurp of coffee. ‘Here’s another question for you, folks. If this Khosa character and his boys aren’t Somali pirates, then who and what in hell’s name are they?’

  ‘Not Somalis, for a start,’ Ben said. ‘They speak Swahili among themselves.’

  ‘You speak it?’ Gerber said, surprised.

  ‘Some,’ Ben said.

  ‘So they’re from Kenya?’ Jude asked.

  ‘Possibly. Or Tanzania, Uganda, Rwanda, Burundi, Mozambique, the Congo; pretty much anywhere in central or south-east Africa. It’s not where they’re from that concerns me. It’s what they do for a living.’

  ‘Boosting ships?’ Gerber said.

  Ben shook his head. ‘No. Jude’s right. These guys are in a whole other line of work. They’re PMCs. Private military contractors. Professional guns for hire, most or all with some kind of army or militia training, or what passes for that in Africa.’

  ‘Freakin’ mercenaries?’ Condor gasped, almost letting go of his stomach contents.

  Ben nodded. ‘That’s who you’d approach if you were planning something like this, or at least, I would. Someone who could bring the necessary firepower to the table and get the job done quickly and effectively. Or at least more quickly and effectively than a band of complete amateurs. All it really takes is a few guys who can yank a trigger, aren’t afraid of a little blood and won’t run away if anyone starts shooting back. But it seems that Pender slipped up. He obviously didn’t reckon on what his mercenaries would do to him if they got an inkling of what this was really about. I’ve come across men like this Khosa before. Pender made a big mistake with him.’

  ‘And then some,’ Condor groaned. ‘Jesus Christ. Mercenaries. I heard about these fuckers, man. They’d slit their own sisters wide open from ass to eyeball for something like this.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Gerber said, scratching his beard. ‘The world’s chock full of evil sonsofbitches who’d do anything for even just a few bucks, let alone a rock like that. I wouldn’t feel safe with it, that’s for sure.’

  Jude blanched and stared at the diamond in his hand. ‘I can’t stand hanging onto this thing any longer. It’s too much responsibility for me.’ He thrust it towards Ben. ‘You take it.’

  ‘What makes you think I want it?’ Ben said.

  ‘It’d be safer with you.’

  ‘Safest place for it would be at the bottom of the sea,’ Ben said. ‘That’s the only way you can guarantee it won’t do any more harm.’

  Jeff interrupted. ‘Gents, I hate to break in on this sociological, philosophical or whatever-the-fuck-it-is discussion, but we need to talk about what we’re going to do with the prisoners. If we’re right and it now looks like we’re dealing with a bunch of hardcore warriors led by some nutjob who’s pretty highly bloody motivated to slaughter every single one of us on board to get his mitts on a bobby dazzler the size of Manchester, we need to be taking every possible precaution. That storage locker they’re in isn’t secure enough and I don’t feel good about having two inexperienced sailors down there on guard duty. No offence.’

  ‘None taken,’ Gerber said. ‘I was in the Corps myself, back in the day, final rank of staff sergeant. Most of these boys couldn’t guard a Quakers’ convention.’

  ‘Jeff’s right,’ Ben said. ‘Ideas?’

  Jeff shrugged. ‘What about all these containers up on deck? Those things are built like tanks. Empty one out, dump whatever cargo’s inside and bung the bastards in there in its place.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ Ben said.

  ‘In this weather?’ Jude objected. ‘What if it breaks free and goes overboard? That can happen. We almost ran into a forty-footer floating adrift just after we left Djibouti. They’d drown inside.’

  ‘Then let them,’ Ben said.

  ‘And even if it doesn’t, once the storm’s over, they’ll bake in there.’

  ‘Then let them,’ Ben repeated.

  ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘Don’t I?’

  ‘You’re not that cruel, surely.’

  ‘There are quicker ways,’ Ben said. ‘If you’re concerned about inflicting cruelty on your fellow man.’

  ‘Meaning what?’ Jude said.

  Ben just shrugged.

  ‘I can’t believe you would even contemplate that,’ Jude said. ‘What, you want to line them up on the deck, make them kneel, bullet in the back of the head and dump them in the ocean? Execute them in cold blood?’

  Ben said nothing.

  ‘No. Absolutely not. That’s not who we are,’ Jude said.

  ‘Compassion is great, Jude. But if these men had half a chance to get free, do you think they’d show you an ounce of quarter? Have you forgotten what they did to your friends, and almost did to you?’

  Jude was silent for a second. ‘Fine. I agree that’s a risk we can’t afford. But I can’t accept that we stick them in a container, and we’re certainly not going to murder these people. So we find another way.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as, we don’t keep them on the ship. We let them go.’

  ‘I see. Drop them off at the nearest port, nice and easy, wave bye bye and put it all behind us?’

  ‘Or something,’ Jude said.

  Ben looked at him. ‘Think about who you’re dealing with, Jude. Khosa won’t give up easily. He’s seen what’s at stake here. He’s had the diamond in his hands once already. And you can be sure he’s got the contacts to put together as many men and as much hardware as he’s going to need to reclaim it. If you let him go, he’ll be back again before you know it, and I don’t think he’ll be any more interested in negotiating than he was first time around.’

  ‘They’re murderers. I know.’

  ‘No, Jude. You don’t know.’

  ‘But we’re better than that. At least, I thought we were. What happened to you?’

  Too much, Ben thought. ‘T
hat’s just the way it is.’

  ‘Here’s what we’ll do,’ Jude said. ‘We’ll put them in the lifeboat and cut them loose.’

  ‘Aren’t you listening to a word I say?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Apart from anything else, it’s getting awful heavy out there,’ Jeff said.

  ‘No shit,’ Condor said miserably.

  ‘That thing’s pretty much unsinkable. They’ll have a chance,’ Jude replied. ‘You know, they’re still human beings. We owe them a chance, don’t we? Or what does it say about us?’

  ‘And you want to make a go of it in Special Forces,’ Ben said, looking straight at him.

  Jude flinched. ‘Who told you?’

  Ben pointed at Jeff. ‘He did. Apparently that’s what you’re gunning for, to get into the SBS. Starting with the navy interview in February. Tell me I’m wrong. I’d love to be.’

  Jude said nothing. Jeff was frowning.

  ‘Trust me, Jude, you don’t want to be a part of that,’ Ben said. ‘You couldn’t be. Because it’s shit, and it makes stone-cold killers out of people, and you just proved to me that you’re better than that.’

  ‘Hey, thanks,’ Jeff said. ‘Speak for yourself.’

  Ben went on, ‘And you also proved to me that you wouldn’t survive in that environment. This is not your world, Jude. It’s my world and I know what makes it go round and round. So listen to me.’

  ‘We’re going to put them in the lifeboat,’ Jude insisted. ‘It’s the only way that we can get rid of them without losing our humanity. We’ll make sure they have enough fuel and supplies to make it back to the Somali coast.’

  ‘So they can reorganise themselves and come right back after us with double the forces?’ Ben said. ‘It’s a mistake.’

  ‘It’s my decision,’ Jude said. ‘It’s the right thing to do. Everyone agreed?’

  ‘I’m getting too old for this shit,’ Gerber said, shaking his head resignedly. ‘I’ve seen enough blood for one day. Let’s do what the young fella says and get shot of ’em, and be done with it.’

  ‘Whatever, man,’ Condor said. ‘I ain’t up for no killin’.’

  ‘Not in cold blood, anyway,’ Tuesday said. ‘Seems like this is the best option.’

  ‘Don’t look at me, boys,’ Jeff said. ‘I’m just a dyed-in-the-wool heartless killing machine.’

  Ben held back from saying more. He’d said too much already.

  ‘Then it’s agreed,’ Jude said. ‘The lifeboat it is.’

  It had been many, many years since shipwrecked crews had been forced to take their chances at sea in open rowing boats. The Andromeda was equipped with a modern MOB, or Man Overboard rescue vessel, a bright orange fibreglass craft some eighteen feet long, with an outboard engine and basic bench seating inside for a whole crew, as well as internal storage space for spare fuel and supplies. Jude had always thought it looked like the submersible Thunderbird 4 from the old TV series. The MOB hung forty feet above the sea from external mountings on A Deck. To release it from its cradle it had to be winched up a few feet, then swung out clear of the ship’s side and lowered down on cables using the davit, a small crane used for hoisting materials up and down from the water.

  Which was a straightforward enough operation in still and clement conditions. In the middle of a howling tropical storm, it was anything but. The wind was blasting them so ferociously that it was hard to stand up on deck without clinging onto something solid for support. A murky midday had become an even more cloud-laden afternoon, with visibility reduced to almost zero by the time Ben and Jeff had finished loading up the extra water, provisions and fuel that Khosa and his men would need to make it back to the coast.

  Next, the prisoners were marched laboriously up from the hold and lined up on the bucking, rolling deck, drenched with rain and spray and closely watched at gunpoint by Tuesday while Ben and Jeff ushered them one at a time into the bright orange craft. One of the men was selected as its pilot and Ben, communicating with him in Swahili, talked him through the basic controls. Jude stood a few feet away, watching.

  Khosa was the last to board the lifeboat. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Jude the entire time, and they were filled with a crazy fire that made the back of Jude’s neck tingle. The African’s horribly scarred face twisted into a leer of hatred mixed with triumph. His cheek and brow were swollen and crusted with dried blood. One or two extra scars to add to his collection.

  ‘You will see me again soon, White Meat,’ he told Jude as Ben grabbed his arm and shoved him into the boat.

  ‘Not if we see you first, sunshine,’ Jeff said.

  Ben slammed the hatch and activated the winding gear to crank the MOB off its cradle. The winch took up the slack in the cables. They released the catches holding the craft to its moorings. Then the davit swung the lifeboat outwards from the deck. It dangled, rocking in the gale, before the pulleys began to turn and the swaying craft descended to the water. Once it was floating on the surface, Ben yanked the lever to detach the MOB at the other end, and set the winch into reverse to spool the empty cable back up the ship’s side.

  In the name of human compassion, the ship was now minus its only lifeboat.

  They leaned over the rail and watched as the MOB tossed and bobbed like a rubber duck on the waves. Its outboard motor burbled and churned foam. In minutes, the ship was cleaving away and leaving it behind as it struggled away in the opposite direction, just a tiny orange blob in the midst of the vast, dark, boiling ocean. Ben thought he saw a wild-eyed monstrous face staring up at them from one of the lifeboat’s little porthole windows. He might have imagined it, but it was an image that he wasn’t able to shake from his mind for a long time afterwards.

  ‘Well, that’s that,’ Jeff yelled over the wind as they headed indoors to dry off.

  And that could have been that. But it wasn’t.

  Chapter 29

  As the afternoon wore on, the storm kept worsening steadily. Waves that before had been as tall as houses now loomed vertically like mountains of water, peaking high above the deck of the Svalgaard Andromeda and smashing thousands of tons of water over her bows with a violence that made the ship quiver from stem to stern and every man aboard catch his breath with fearful anticipation. The news from the bridge was grim: the latest weather update from the GMDSS reported that the severe tropical storm that had been lashing the Somali coast was now being upgraded to a full-blown cyclone. And from the readings, it looked as if the Andromeda was heading right into it.

  Assuming the role of captain, Trent ordered the engine room to crack on under full power while he deviated course to try to outflank the storm. But it was moving so fast and erratically that it was impossible to anticipate where the cyclone might hit.

  Sometime after 4 p.m., Jeff Dekker and Tuesday climbed up to the bridge to relieve the exhausted Trent and Lang. Ben had last been seen heading out onto the main deck to check on the fixings holding the fore and aft cargo cranes in place, lest they be torn loose by the incredible wind and start swinging destructively about.

  In the galley, plates and cutlery were crashing all over the floor with the wild motion of the ship, and Murphy was squawking and flapping about in a panic. Jude helped Hercules clear up the mess and stow everything safely in place. As he worked, he was feeling unsettled and restless, and not just because of the storm. He couldn’t get Pender out of his head. Who was he? Jude wanted to know more. It suddenly occurred to him that, with all that had been happening, nobody had thought to search the cabin where the three mystery passengers had been accommodated.

  Jude told Hercules he was going to the head, which was what they called the ship’s toilets. Instead, he crept unnoticed up the ladder way to E Deck and made his way to the cabin down the hall from O’Keefe’s quarters.

  That was where Jude made his discovery.

  Pender had apparently been in such a tearing rush to get off the ship with his prize that he’d left a number of items behind. On the bed lay an abandoned holdall containing some clothes a
nd toiletries. There was a yellowed old Wilbur Smith paperback lying propped open on the floor. And a phone.

  He found it under a bunk, where it had either been kicked by accident or had slid across the floor with the motion of the ship. Jude fished it out and examined it with a thumping heart. It looked like a normal Motorola cellphone, except for its unusually chunky size and the thick antenna attached to the casing. Jude quickly realised what it was. A satellite phone.

  Jude turned it on and the logo IRIDIUM flashed up on its screen. It took him only a few moments to find a menu listing all the recent calls that had been made from it. There had been only two – and both to the same number, with the international prefix code for the USA. Jude redialled the number and pressed the phone to his ear. He wasn’t sure if the phone could work in such weather conditions, but he had to try. After a hissing pause, he heard a variety of electronic and static noises as the signal was bounced off the satellite.

  His heart jumped as the connection was made. The dial tone was faint, and he had to clamp his hand over his other ear to hear it above the howl of the wind outside and the rain that crackled like fire against the cabin window. After five rings, there was an answer. It was a recorded answerphone message. A man’s voice, speaking with an American accent.

  ‘This is Eugene Svalgaard’s phone. I’m not here right now, so do the thing and I’ll get back to you.’

  Jude cancelled the call, thinking, Svalgaard, as in Svalgaard Line? Confused, he racked his brain to recall the reading he’d done about the company before heading out to Oman. Its founder, Aksel Svalgaard, a young Danish émigré to New York in the early twentieth century, had ruthlessly built his empire from tiny beginnings in the 1920s. Having grown to become the fifth-largest shipping line in America, it was currently run and owned by his grandson, Eugene Svalgaard. The name had stuck in Jude’s mind. He was certain of it.

  And Eugene Svalgaard was in communication with Pender? How could that be possible? Jude was thinking he must be getting it wrong. Maybe the lines had got crossed somehow.