“And there’s been a huge increase in traffic out of Eyl as well as Garacad and Hobyo, all main pirate ports,” said Ward’s voice from the speaker. “It’s beginning to look like some sort of major pirate offensive, and it’s very unusual for them to be coordinated to this degree.”
“What does that have to do with anything, Ward?” Hanley asked.
Ward’s exasperated sigh was audible through the speaker. “I don’t know, Hanley,” he said. “It may have an impact, so I think we need to stay on top of it.”
“Maybe this ‘offensive’ is what the Luther Hurd snatch is all about,” Dugan suggested, ignoring Hanley. “To draw Western naval presence to a high-profile target and clear the field for more hijackings.”
“Except that al-Shabaab and your regular pirates don’t get along,” Ward said. “Make no mistake, it’s the terrorist angle that’s drawing all the official attention. If Luther Hurd had been hijacked by garden-variety pirates, I’m sure the US Navy would be there alone.” He paused. “No, al-Shabaab is doing this for their own reasons. The others may be taking advantage of it, but that’s just a sideshow.”
Hanley interjected himself back in the conversation. “Well, whatever’s causing it, having the damn pirates out in force will help our operation.”
“Ah … I don’t think I want to hear about that,” Ward said.
Anna smiled and reached across the table to the speaker phone. “Goodbye, Jesse. And thank you,” she said, and disconnected.
Dugan looked down the table at Ray Hanley. “I think you need to tone down the attitude, Hanley. Ward is helping us, after all.”
Hanley took the unlit cigar from his mouth and smiled. “He works for the government, and that makes him a bureaucrat in my book. And I have a standing policy of never cutting a bureaucrat any slack. They shovel BS on a daily basis, and you have to question everything that comes out of their mouths.”
Anna stiffened.
“Present company excepted, of course,” Hanley added. “Besides, Ward brought it on himself. He wasn’t telling me a damn thing about what was happening on Luther Hurd until I forced his hand by putting out feelers for Somali interpreters and intel on airstrips and whatnot.”
“That was a ruse?” Alex asked.
Hanley snorted. “Of course it was a ruse.” He looked around the table. “Y’all think I’m a dumbass? I know I can’t mount a rescue operation on my own. And those murdering al-Shabaab bastards don’t want a ransom, and the government wouldn’t let me pay it if they did, so the navy’s the only option. I just wanted Ward to let me in on the plan, which he did.” Hanley smiled. “He even told me about your little party.”
Dugan looked puzzled. “If you got what you were after, why join us?”
“Plan B,” Hanley said. “I didn’t have one. I figure if the navy boys screw the pooch and there’s anyone left alive on Luther Hurd, y’all’s plan is my only shot at getting them home. Besides, we need to do something about these damned pirates.”
There was a lull in the conversation, broken by Dugan.
“Right. Where were we when Ward called? Oh yeah,” he said, looking at Alex. “Where do we stand with the Liberians?”
“They’re set to expedite the flag change on Mr. Hanley’s Marie Floyd, and to issue letters of marque for both Marie Floyd and our own Pacific Endurance.” He smiled. “There was a bit of delay, since no one in the Liberian Ministry of Transport had ever seen letters of marque and reprisal. I had to get our solicitors to dig out the history books and cobble one together. However, they assure me everything is quite legal.” He smiled again. “All according to recently enacted statutes.”
Dugan nodded and turned to Hanley. “How about your end?”
“Marie Floyd is eastbound, in the Arabian Sea. I got word to her this morning to divert to Muscat, and I reckon she’ll be there inside of two days.” Hanley shrugged. “It’s not too tough to change from US to Liberian flag. It’s going the other way that would be a problem. Besides, between y’all greasing things on the Liberian side and my Washington contacts pushing on my side, there won’t be any trouble. Of course, everyone sort of figures I’ve got a screw loose, paying to reflag a ship that was already on her way to scrap.”
“We’re happy to have her,” Alex said. “Odds are much better with two ships.”
“I’ve still got doubts if we can do it, even with two ships,” said Hanley.
“We’ll have to,” Dugan said. “We can sacrifice two old, tired ships, but remember it’s a long shot as to whether the insurers are going to make us whole. We have to survive this financially, come what may.”
Hanley nodded as Dugan continued. “What about the riding crew? You sure these guys are up to it? Maybe I should get some of my—”
“Dammit, Dugan! Give it a rest,” Hanley said. “I been using Woody and his boys for twenty years. They can do everything we need done, and they’re bringing all the electronic gear with them. Besides, I left ‘em my plane so they could fly straight into Muscat.” He looked at his watch. “They’re already on the way.” He looked back up at Dugan. “You let me worry about my boys, you just worry about these friggin’ Russians of yours.”
“Look, Hanley—”
“Gentlemen,” Anna said, “and I use the term loosely. Do you think you two could stop comparing penises long enough to allow us to finish our discussion?”
Dugan and Hanley looked indignant. Alex suppressed a smile and changed the subject. “Speaking of planes, Thomas, when are you leaving for Muscat?”
“Tomorrow morning,” Dugan said. “I’ll use the time before the ships arrive to start rounding up material. I don’t want to stay in port any longer than necessary.”
Chapter Eight
M/T Luther Hurd
At anchor
Harardheere, Somalia
Mukhtar and Diriyi stood on the main deck and gazed down at the boat bobbing at the foot of the accommodation ladder.
“Remember,” Mukhtar said, “drag things out as long as possible. Take a hard line in negotiations, but do nothing to provoke the Americans into a premature strike. They’ll expect us to kill more hostages, so do the unexpected. If absolutely necessary, release one or two of the lowly crewmen, but make sure that before they go they see the others with the collars around their necks. They’ll report that to the Americans, and perhaps it’ll reinforce their indecision. Then—”
“I know, my brother, I know,” Diriyi said. “We’ve discussed this many times. Don’t worry. I’ll buy you your time, Inshallah.”
Mukhtar smiled. “Forgive me, my friend. I know you will.” He changed the subject. “I should be in Eyl in two days. The rest of the men are already there, and the boats are ready.”
Diriyi nodded, and embraced Mukhtar. “May Allah protect you.”
“And you as well, my brother,” Mukhtar said, returning the embrace before moving down the sloping accommodation ladder to the boat.
Diriyi stood on deck watching the boat move toward shore. He gave one last look and smiled, as he turned to walk back toward the deckhouse. He’d do all that he’d promised and more, but first he had a score to settle and wagging tongues to still. He could hardly maintain control of this rabble when they whispered behind his back, calling him the Toothless One or He Who Was Beaten by a Woman. No, he must put things right, and quickly.
He entered the deckhouse and moved down the passageway to the crew lounge. Men sat squabbling over the dregs of the previous day’s khat, a few wilted leaves of diminished potency, as they awaited the arrival of a fresh supply. He spotted the American at a table near the door, and nodded.
Arnett drifted in and out of consciousness. The darkness of the windowless storeroom was complete, and she’d lost all sense of time. The stench of stale urine was overpowering, and even now, hours or perhaps days later, her cheeks burned with shame. She remembered the muzzle of the Glock, inches from her eyes, and the abject terror. She remembered the click of the striker on the empty chamber, the terror yie
lding to confusion, and then the wonderful realization that she was alive. She remembered her soaked crotch and the shame of having wet herself, and the laughter of her captors. But most of all, she remembered the face of the bastard that pulled the trigger.
They’d dumped her in the storeroom shortly thereafter, still bound hand and foot. She’d been ignored since, without food or water, a blessing of sorts, since she had no access to a toilet. The hunger was bearable, but she was severely dehydrated, her tongue thick and swollen in her taped mouth. It was becoming increasingly difficult to tell dreams from reality, and images of Glock muzzles, Gomez, and the Luther Hurd sailing away flashed through her mind like an insane slide show.
She jumped involuntarily as the dogs on the watertight door disengaged with squeaks and thumps, and blinked in the sudden harsh glare of the overhead light.
Diriyi looked up as Gaal stepped into the room, the woman over his shoulder. He ordered Gaal to dump her on a table at the far end of the room. The men all looked up, interest on their faces, in anticipation of a break from their boring routine. Diriyi walked to the table and glared down at the woman. She lay on her back, her bound hands beneath her. She was totally helpless, but there was hatred in her eyes as she returned his glare. We’ll soon have that out of you, Diriyi thought. He turned to his men, who had begun to gather around.
“This, if you can believe it, is what the Americans call a ship’s captain,” he said in Somali, and nodded at the laughter that followed. “This shameless whore, who doesn’t even cover herself properly, would think to order men about. And what’s most fantastic, these Americans follow those orders like small boys.” He paused to let his words sink in, gratified at the sounds of disgust coming from scattered voices.
“But what’s to be expected of infidels who keep unclean and dangerous animals like dogs as pets? And like a dog, even a woman can be treacherous to the unprepared.” Diriyi smiled, displaying his missing teeth. “And I’ll admit that I was unprepared when the bitch decided to bite.” All of the men were laughing now, won over by Diriyi’s admission.
“Like an infidel dog, this whore must learn her master, so I’m going to take her now in front of you. And when I’m finished, I’ll take her to my cabin and have her many more times every day, until I grow tired of her. After that, you may have her. There are many of you and but one of her, so I suppose you’ll have to use your imaginations to arrive at the most efficient combinations.” He gave them a gap-toothed smile. “But I’m sure you’ll think of something. Do try to make sure the bitch’s heart is still beating when we sell her back to the Americans.”
Diriyi finished his monologue to cheers, as the mob pressed close to watch. He ripped open the woman’s shirt, popping buttons and shredding cloth to expose bare skin and a bra. He reached in his pocket for a switchblade, and the woman’s eyes went wide as he slid the blade beneath the center of the bra. It yielded, exposing small but well-formed breasts. Diriyi was moving to slice the plastic tie on her ankles when a voice spoke behind him.
“But like the infidel dog, Diriyi, this woman’s unclean,” said Gaal in Somali. “She reeks of piss and sweat, and is unworthy of your dick. Better to wash the whore and take her slowly, rather than take her like this and pollute your manhood.”
Diriyi glared at Gaal. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked in English.
Gaal smiled for the benefit of the mob, and answered in the same language.
“Stopping you from making a mistake,” Gaal replied, his bantering tone in contrast to his words. “There are over forty men here, with only khat to pass the time. There are no women but her, and now you’ve promised her to them. Do you think you’re going to be able to control them if you take her in front of them? Their blood’s up, and she won’t survive. And then what’ll you do when the Americans demand proof that everyone’s unharmed?” Gaal ended with a raucous laugh, as if he’d just told Diriyi a great joke.
The men grew quiet, their confusion palpable, and Diriyi smiled and stepped back, his nose wrinkled in mock disgust. “It seems our friend Gaal is right,” he said in Somali. “The whore is filthy! Let’s be thankful he didn’t spend so much time among the Americans that he lost his good sense.” Diriyi turned to Gaal. “Take the whore to my cabin and wash her. I’ll be along shortly.”
Gaal moved to the table, but the others made no move to return to their previous activities. Diriyi had worked them into a mob, and tension lingered, an ill-defined and unspoken threat. Then came the bellow of a hand-held air horn, announcing the arrival of the khat boat. The muttering morphed into shouts of joy as the men rushed out to bring the drug aboard.
Arnett lay on the table as the men rushed out. She was bare to the waist, and felt not shame but white-hot rage. She’d been biding her time, waiting to kick Toothless in the face the moment he cut her ankles free. Then she heard the voice. An American voice. Coming out of the other one, the one that tried to shoot her. A traitor! And he was discussing her like she was a piece of meat.
Traitor bent over the table to pick her up, and she jackknifed at the waist, sitting up and using her neck muscles to deliver a head-butt. The pain of teeth biting into her forehead was dulled by the pure joy of striking back, and she tried to swivel on her butt to sink her bound feet into his gut.
But Traitor was too fast and delivered a vicious openhanded slap, driving her once again onto her back, as he cursed her. Blood leaked into Arnett’s eyes from her cut forehead, but not before she saw him step back, blood streaming from his mouth.
On the other side of her, Toothless erupted in laughter.
“She likes to take teeth, this one,” Toothless said in English. “How do you like the bitch’s sting, American? Did you too sacrifice teeth to the jihad?”
Traitor spit out blood and probed his upper teeth with a finger. “Just a split lip,” he said, and spit more blood on the deck.
Arnett watched Toothless, still chuckling, move toward the door. “See if you can get her to my cabin and cleaned up without suffering any more injuries. I must go supervise the distribution of khat before these fools end up shooting one another.”
Gaal trudged up the central stairwell with the woman over his shoulder, his arms clamped around her knees. She’d struggled at first, trying to raise herself off his shoulder. Her struggles had ceased when he’d rushed through the doorway into the stairwell, purposely clipping the back of her head on the metal door frame. All in all, she was being a pain in the ass.
Gaal exited the stairwell on D-deck and entered the captain’s cabin, which Diriyi had claimed before Mukhtar even left the ship. He moved through the combination office�sitting room into the bedroom to dump the woman on the bed. He collected the wastebasket from the corner and searched the bedroom and bathroom, scanning for anything that might be used as a weapon. Finding nothing, he moved back into the office and searched her desk and credenza, dumping a pair of scissors, a letter opener, and a heavy paperweight into the wastebasket. He moved to the door and set the wastebasket down in the passageway, and returned to the bedroom.
“I’m going to roll you onto your stomach and cut your hands free,” he said to the woman. “If you so much as twitch, I’ll shoot you. I’ve no doubt you’ll get your legs free in short order. Clean yourself and tend to your wounds as best you can.”
She glared up at him.
“If you don’t like that arrangement, I’ll leave you bound, cut your clothes off, and wash you myself. Now, will you cooperate?”
There was hatred in the woman’s eyes, but she nodded.
“Good,” Gaal said, as he rolled her onto her stomach. “I’ll be back later with food. I saw a bottle of water in the bedside table. I’ll bring more when I come back.”
Gaal pulled out a knife and sliced the plastic tie binding the woman’s wrists, and backed out the bedroom door, through the office, and into the passageway beyond. He closed the office door, and wrapped one end of a plastic tie around the doorknob before pulling the tie tight and se
curing the other end to the bulkhead storm rail. He moved down the passageway and repeated the process on the door from the captain’s bedroom into the passageway. He moved back toward the central stairwell, collecting the wastebasket along the way, and descended to look for Diriyi.
Arnett’s hunger and thirst had been niggling concerns during her near rape, blotted out by fear and rage. But the mere mention of food and water brought suppressed needs to the fore, and Arnett clawed her way across the bed to the bedside table. Lying on her stomach, she ripped the duct tape from her mouth and fished the water bottle from the drawer to drink in long, greedy gulps. Water leaked out the cracked corners of her mouth as she sucked the bottle dry.
It was soon gone, and she dropped the bottle and twisted on the bed to get her bound feet to the deck. Suddenly conscious of her nakedness, she pulled the shredded remains of her shirt together and stuffed shirttails into her waistband. She felt her rage rising again, and suppressed it. Food was the priority now, and who the hell knew if Traitor would be back with any, no matter what he said.
She pushed herself up and attempted to hop toward her office door, but dehydration and the rapid change in posture did her in. Head spinning, she crashed to the deck, to rise onto her hands and knees and move through the door to her desk like an inchworm, stretching forward and supporting her weight on her hands before dragging her knees up under her. Head still reeling, she hardly noticed when her shirttails pulled free and her tattered shirt fell open again.
She reached her objective and, still on the deck, pulled open a bottom desk drawer to reveal two boxes of protein bars. Ripping open wrapper after wrapper, she leaned back against the credenza and stuffed bars into her mouth, swallowing almost without chewing, as crumbs fell from her chin onto bare breasts. She finished and pulled herself to her knees, and rummaged in another drawer for a small pair of nail clippers to nibble at the thick plastic tie that bound her ankles. Soon she was free.
Deadly Coast (A Tom Dugan Novel) Page 7
