“I don’t know him,” Jama said.
Harry turned to Idris. “You hear him? This Jama Raisuli is American. What we hear about him must be correct. He turned to Islam for the love of Allah and protection while in prison.” He said to Jama, “What prison were you in?”
The man sitting with Jama turned his head to say a few words against his shoulder. An Arab with short hair, the bones of his face showing in his skin.
“Qasim al Salah wants you to keep your mouth shut,” Harry said. “I’ll bet you prefer Jama Raisuli to being called ‘boy’ or ‘nigger.’ Isn’t that correct?” Harry waited, got no response and said, “There are others like you, still citizens of America. You can return whenever you want as a traitor and be tried in court. Tell us why you came here.”
“You’re nada to me,” Jama said, “and I tell you nada.”
Qasim put his face to his shoulder again and spoke to him.
“I turn to a true life,” Jama said.
“Good for you,” Harry said. “Tell me about your shipmate Qasim al Salah, who hasn’t said a bloody word. He’s one of you?”
“He and I are one in Allah.”
“With little room for the first officer,” Harry said and turned to the young Saudi still upright on his knees. “So we don’t need you, do we?” Harry extended the Walther and shot Duad Dahir Suliman straight off in the center of his forehead, Harry stepping back as the first officer fell toward him, the young man’s eyes still open.
The two against the wall stared at Harry without expression, Idris turning to him stunned. “You had to shoot him?”
“He’s of no use to us,” Harry said. “We inform the master of the Aphrodite his first mate disappeared. Ran off with these two and the cooch dancers in one of your Toyotas.” Harry grinned. “A jolly group. The Egyptian can believe it or not, it makes no difference.” He looked at the two sitting against the wall. “This Jama the Amriki is thinking how he can persuade me not to shoot him. Qasim al Salah has faced death many times before. He’s tired of it, so he gives himself to his fate, still refusing to speak. I’d like to know what’s in his head.”
“He doesn’t have to speak,” Idris said. “Allah put these two on the gas tanker and sent it to us.”
Harry said, “Why didn’t you take it yourself?”
“I smoke too much to board a tanker. Three packs a day—I’m going to climb on a gas ship? I chew a bit of khat so I don’t smoke so much,” Idris said. He watched Jama the black American take a cigarette from his pack of Marlboros and light it with a match, Idris saying, “Let me have one of those if you will, please.”
Harry watched Jama, not bothering to look at Idris, slip the cigarettes into his shirt pocket again, Harry smiling.
“As the Americans like to say, ‘Fuck you.’”
Idris said, “I thought Americans were generous.”
“Some are, some not,” Harry said. “They have the world’s nationalities in America, blacks from the time they were used as slaves. It should be enough to make blacks disposed to Islam if not al Qaeda.” He said to Jama, “You should go home and tell the darkies how much fun you’re having as a terrorist.”
“You have to insult us,” Jama said, “before you shoot us?”
“Shoot you,” Harry said, “where did you get that notion? Tomorrow you will be riding in a procession of cars under armed guard. Shackled and blindfolded if you give us the least trouble. Late the second day the caravan arrives in Djibouti. We phone the American embassy and speak to the person in charge of their Rewards for Justice program, a way they’ve planned to stop your atrocities.”
“They have a list of the ones,” Idris said, “known to be al Qaeda. Both of you are on the list.”
“With photographs,” Harry said. “We hand you over to the American State Department’s Bureau of Diplomatic Security”—Harry had to grin—“and guess what they give us for you naughty boys. Six million U.S. dollars. Five for Qasim and one for Jama.”
“You didn’t spread enough terror,” Idris said to Jama, “to get your numbers up.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THEY WERE AT WORK again in Dara’s hotel suite, looking at the rough cut on her seventeen-inch screen, a bottle of red on the table. They watched:
Xavier coming out to the Buster in a pirate skiff, a young Somali at the tiller. “Sixteen years old,” Xavier said, “dyin to hijack some ships. I told the boy it wasn’t for my age I’d be a dedicated pirate myself. They give us all these stores, stalk of green bananas, liter bottles of water wrapped in plastic, the meat—”
“I smelled it,” Dara said, “and threw it over the side.”
“That’s what happen to it. I wondered how those sharks got diarrhea. The boy was no help to me till he picked up the bunch of khat I promoted for us.” Watching the screen, Xavier said, “Good, you got me relievin him of the bouquets. The boy startin to chew on a bunch.”
“This was Friday,” Dara said, “the natives still friendly. They’ve got the captain of the Alabama in a lifeboat and want two million for his release. Sunday, the SEALs took out the pirates and the standoff was over.”
“And all hell broke loose,” Xavier said. “You ever use that expression?”
“It broke loose shooting Katrina but I restrained myself.”
“You ask me did I see Idris and Harry Baker that morning. I found out from the khat-chewer runs the coffee stand, they left at six A.M. in five Toyota SUVs, armed, gun barrels stickin out the windows. Want people to see they mean business. I ask the khat-chewer where they headed, to Djibouti? He say, ‘Where else?’ They have water and gasoline strapped on top the vehicles.”
Dara said, “Idris and Harry and two guys in handcuffs with hoods over their heads.”
“In separate SUVs,” Xavier said, “in the middle of the parade, one with Idris, one with Harry Baker.”
“Did we know at that time who they were?”
“We knew they had to be the two guys off the gas tanker, one Saudi, one American. That got us wonderin about the ship, full of liquid natural gas. You not thinkin and light a cigarette, the port where you sittin could go up in flames. But these two and another one from the ship, the first mate, were at Idris’s cookout. We don’t know what happened to the mate. Where did he go?”
“And the Egyptian captain,” Dara said.
“I told you I served under him one time?” Xavier said. “Captain Wassef. That trip, the captain picked me out to be a helmsman and we’d talk some when he was on the bridge. He was the only captain I ever served under was friendly.”
“That’s right,” Dara said, “you ran into him.”
“Still ashore the mornin after the party. Upset,” Xavier said, “chain-smokin Turkish cigarettes and drinkin coffee. It’s when he tells me his first officer’s missin and two from the crew.”
“The two with hoods over their heads,” Dara said, “put in the SUVs.”
“See, Captain Wassef didn’t know nothin about them,” Xavier said. “The Aphrodite stopped at Balhaf in Yemen, the LNG terminal there, took on their load of liquid gas and was escorted out of the port by the local Coast Guard. Then out a ways—they in international waters now—another gunboat, he believes from Yemen, stops the ship to inspect the load. This is when the two al Qaeda guys come aboard.”
“The captain told you that?”
“He don’t know they al Qaeda. We find it out later on.”
Dara said, “This is when the explosives were planted.”
“Must’ve been,” Xavier said. “Steel-cuttin shape charges planted round the containers of frozen gas. Captain Wassef don’t know nothin about it and we don’t either at the time. But the captain’s suspicious. He phones Emirates Transport in Dubai wantin to know what’s goin on. Who are these desert-lookin boys he don’t know joinin his crew? The transport company tells him to calm down, stay on course and keep his mouth shut. Captain Wassef thinks okay, now he’s goin to Lake Charles, Lou’siana, no more trouble. Only the next day out of Yemen
the ship’s hijacked by pirates and Aphrodite ends up in Eyl.”
“Where the two al Qaedas who joined the crew,” Dara said, “are shanghaied by Idris and Harry and taken to Djibouti.”
“We don’t know what’s goin on at the time,” Xavier said. “But the pirates must’ve found out al Qaeda wants the ship. Emirates Transport offers the pirates a half mil for a thousand-foot tanker worth a quarter of a billion dollars, not even countin the payload, and they accept it right away. Like they can’t wait for the ship to leave Eyl. Want to get it out of their hands fast.”
“You didn’t seem worried,” Dara said.
“I don’t make decisions. You see a movie in it, you tell me what we gonna do.”
“You went swimming,” Dara said, “bare-ass.”
“That evenin, yeah. I remember you waitin to see me pull myself aboard.”
“You looked young,” Dara said. “I could see you years ago attracting curious girls with your slim body, the girls wondering what a man six and a half feet tall looks like naked.”
“You mean they curious how a man that tall is hung,” Xavier said. “I was good-lookin too.”
It was a bottle of ’Neuf du Pape on the hotel table now. Dara filled their glasses halfway thinking of him yesterday evening on the Buster, the hijacked ships a mile off, their solemn lights showing, the ships waiting for their release. She said, “I wanted to shoot the ransom drop, remember? Do it from aboard the gas tanker.”
“Shoot the money comin down,” Xavier said, “watch it don’t hit you on the head.”
“But there was no ransom drop that time.”
“We don’t know they were ever paid the half mil.”
“We waited too long,” Dara said. “We should’ve left the morning after the party.”
“Wouldn’t matter,” Xavier said. “Come Sunday, anywhere in the gulf, we the game. Hear the Yamahas gettin louder, pretty soon we see the pirates skiffin out toward us.”
BILLY HAD PEGASO OUT among the hijacked ships spread over a mile, Billy with his high-powered glasses on the LNG tanker, waiting for it to, goddamn it, move out.
“Man, that’s an ugly ship. Round shape of five steel pods showing topside, the other half below, the superstructure hanging off the fantail. She rides low, easy to board. But who’d want to?”
“Not me,” Helene said. She lounged topless in the cockpit holding Billy’s bottle of champagne. He’d said a while before, hell, why didn’t she take her panties off too? She told him it would fuck up her tan lines. “You get a real even tan, the white parts of you look sexier.” She said, “How long have we been out, hon?”
“Thirty-four days.”
“How much longer will we be…aboard?”
“A hundred and twenty days, give or take.”
“But that’s”—she paused to get her tone under control—“four more months. Didn’t you say it was about a four-month cruise from Marseilles?”
“I don’t count doing surveillance or going to parties as sailing. It isn’t my fault we have to sit and wait on the gas ship.”
“So it’s going to take longer than four months, huh? Starting from right now.”
“It could take longer we run into pirates in the Malacca Straits we ever get there. I’m told they got it under control, so I’m not gonna worry about it. I doubt I would even if they weren’t.”
“What?”
“Under control.”
Jesus Christ, Helene was thinking, we haven’t even started yet. “We’re at the party,” Billy said, “you meet the captain of that gas ship?”
“The Egyptian? For a minute. I told him I love the pyramids. We did a layout on top the Aswan Dam one time for Bazaar. You know there aren’t any regular bathrooms in that entire fucking country? There’s a hole in the floor you have to hit. Go in a souk crowded with Egyptians, there’s no place to have a whiz.”
“What’d you do?”
“Wet my pants.”
For two days they sailed among the hijacked ships keeping an eye on Aphrodite. Sunday CNN announced the rescue of Captain Phillips from the lifeboat, the three pirates killed by Navy SEALs. Billy listened to the news grinning. “Bing bing bing, a shot apiece and the captain’s free.” He said, “Well, the wogs had to learn the hard way.”
“Don’t fuck with Americans,” Helene said. “Right?”
Monday morning she heard Pegaso’s engine start up, loud, Jesus, almost underneath her. She came topside in a sweatshirt to see Billy taking in the sails. Helene said, “What’s up, Skipper?” Now he was in the cockpit steering toward a little white boat a mile or so off.
“Why, isn’t that Buster?” Helene said, being cool. “We gonna visit?”
“Look toward the beach,” Billy said. “There’s the one coming to visit, with AKs and a grenade launcher.”
She could hear the high whine now of the pirate skiff, streaking dead ahead toward the Buster.
Billy raised his glasses to see the pirates unroll a bedsheet and hold it taut, bow to stern, Arabic words painted on it in black. Billy picked up his satellite phone and dialed a number. He said, “Mustaf? This is Mr. Wynn,” and read him the words on the banner. “Al Mout Li Amrikas. What’s it mean?” He listened and said, “You shittin me? We were all good friends the other day.” He listened and said, “No, I’ll take care of it,” and turned off the phone.
Helene said, “Well…?”
“It means ‘Death to Americans,’” Billy said, putting on his shooting vest.
XAVIER SAID TO DARA, “You can look it up in the book”—watching the skiff cut its motors to leave a hundred feet between them—“but I know it don’t mean ‘Welcome to Somalia.’”
“I’ll have to talk to them,” Dara said, “explain why they were shot.”
Billy pulled up on Buster’s port side, tied on and stepped aboard with his Holland & Holland double-barrel rifle in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other.
He said, “I’ll confuse them a little first,” and held up the rifle, the one he used to destroy two of their boats, saying, “See?” and shaking his head. Touched his chest and said, “Me?” and shook his head again. “I’m not gonna fire this expensive rifle. You are,” and gave them time to talk among themselves. Now he waved them to come toward him. One of them started the motor and let the skiff rumble in closer. Billy said, “I know you’re sore at us for the way the SEALs took out your boys with only three rounds, a single shot each,” Billy sounding sincere. “Come on, I want you all to try this sporting rifle. Tie on here and listen to what I’m gonna tell you. In honor of your dead boys I’m offering this rifle as a tribute. The four of you—that boy driving isn’t old enough. You have to be eighteen. The four of you each take a shot at a target we set up.” Billy held up the bottle of champagne. “This is the target. If you’d like to have some, my lovely assistant will serve you. You each take a shot at the bottle. Whoever hits it wins the rifle.”
One of them said, “What happen we all hit it?”
“Kwame,” Billy said, “is that you? How you doin, man? Anybody hits a bottle, we put another one up. Now I want you to step aboard. You’re gonna be shooting on the Buster, ten meters bow to stern. You stand here behind the wheelhouse and take aim at the target my lovely assistant Ginger will hang on that lanyard comes down from the mast to the bow. Seven or eight meters from your rifle barrel, that’s all. Who wants to be first? Kwame?”
KWAME TOOK THE RIFLE, hefted it, aimed at the sky to the west, lowered the front sight to the bottle hanging from the lanyard, set himself, cheek against fine wood and gunmetal, squeezed the trigger and was kicked back to hit the table wedged against the curved bench, in the stern, hit the hard edge before he knew what was happening and dropped to the deck. Kwame pushed himself up saying to Billy, “You don’t give us a trial shot to know what we shooting.”
Billy said, “Let’s see how the other boys do first. Then you can take another shot if you want,” injecting another six-hundred-caliber Nitro Express round into the bre
ech.
The next Somali hefted the rifle, aimed it, lowered it, aimed, then hefted it again feeling the weight of the gun, pressed his face against the smell of oiled wood, squeezed the trigger and was kicked back to land on the table and lay there laughing. Now the others were laughing, three of them with the boy on the table. Kwame wasn’t laughing. The boy came off the table rubbing his shoulder and arm, telling the next boy how to hold this rifle. The next boy did as he was told, fired, twisted away from the kick and went over the side, the Indian Ocean swallowing him.
Billy said, “The boy know how to swim? He don’t he better learn. Somebody fish him out if you will, please. Who’s next?”
“You are,” Kwame said. “You shoot, let me see you don’t move. You show us with this gun.”
Billy slipped in a load. He stood back of the wheelhouse, aimed, fired, shattered the bottle and held on to the kick, the barrels coming up, muscled it and barely moved. He slipped another round in the breech looking at Kwame. “Want to try it again?”
Xavier, his ears ringing, filmed the scene from the off side of the wheelhouse with the Sony as Dara was telling Billy there was still another shooter. Billy handed the boy the rifle saying he hoped it didn’t tear his shoulder off, reaching to it and feeling bones.
The boy didn’t hold the rifle in a tight grip or press his cheek against it. He fired and the kick sent him back six feet against the curved bench. It stunned him, he lay there until the other boys started laughing. Billy watched the lad getting to his feet, trying to make himself laugh. Everybody but Kwame.
Billy slipped another round into the throat of his double-barrel beast, asking Kwame, “You want to try again? Help yourself,” and offered the rifle.
Dara watched Kwame reach to take it, but then let his hand drop.
“Who won this game?”
“I told you, the one hits the bottle,” Billy said. “I’m the only one did, so I keep the rifle.” He said, “Tough luck, my friend,” put his hand on Kwame’s shoulder and said, “I’m sorry,” when Kwame winced.
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