by Wilbur Smith
Uncle Kamal came to embrace him as soon as he entered. ‘May Allah hold you to his bosom. You have done God’s work this day, Adam.’ He made a gesture to indicate the row of other prisoners squatting on the deck with their hands pinioned behind their backs. ‘Are these all of them? Is anyone missing?’
Rogier counted the heads of the squatting crew members swiftly. ‘Yes, they are all here. The captain, the first officer, the cook and the radio operator are in the cruel clutches of Iblis, the Devil, where they belong. The other missing crewman is the helmsman who is under guard on the bridge.’ He pointed out Georgie Porgie, the purser. ‘Keep that one here,’ he ordered, ‘I will deal with him later.’ Then he singled out the two junior officers and the chief engineer. ‘Those are officers. Take them to the stern and shoot them. Throw the bodies overboard.’ He was speaking in Arabic so his victims were unaware of their fate as they were hoisted to their feet and led away.
Rogier waited for the sound of gunfire before he went on. ‘That accounts for every infidel aboard except the girl. She will still be asleep in her cabin.’ He smiled bleakly as he recalled the exhausted state in which he had left Cayla, utterly worn out by his copulatory expertise. ‘I will go down and fetch her now. Meanwhile, Uncle Kamal, you must go up to the bridge and get the ship under way again.’
Cayla was not certain what had awakened her. She thought she must have heard something. She sat up sleepily on the rumpled bed and listened with her head on one side. The sound was not repeated but something else had changed. Sleep slowed her mind so it took another few seconds for her to realize that the ship’s engines had stopped, and she was rolling ponderously to the scend of the sea.
‘That’s strange.’ She was unconcerned. ‘We cannot possibly have reached port yet.’ Then she realized that her bladder was uncomfortably full. She threw her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. She braced herself to the unusual motion of the yacht and then staggered to the bathroom. She perched on the toilet and sighed with relief as she emptied her bladder. She stood up and started back towards the bed. Moonlight was pouring in through the porthole that looked out over the owner’s private deck and swimming pool. She was awake now and she paused at the porthole to look out at the starry sky and the dark sea. There was no wake pouring back behind the stern and she realized that her first impression was correct. The Dolphin had stopped. She thought that she would telephone the bridge and find out from the officer of the watch what was happening, but at that moment a shadow passed the porthole, and she realized that there was somebody out there on the private deck. Immediately she was angry. That area was strictly out of bounds to the crew. She and her mother used it for nude sunbathing and swimming. Now she would certainly call the bridge and have the trespasser castigated. But before she turned away another figure came into her line of sight. He was dressed in dark clothing and had a black Arab shawl wound around his head to cover his face, leaving only his eyes showing. They glinted as he turned towards her. He paused in front of the porthole and peered in. She shrank back in alarm. The man put his face against the glass and raised one hand to shade his eyes, and she realized that the moonlight was insufficient to enable him to see into the darkened cabin. His demeanour was furtive but at the same time menacing. She held her breath and stood frozen with terror. He seemed to be staring into her eyes, but after a few seconds he stepped back from the porthole. With another pang of fear she saw that he had an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder. He vanished from her view but immediately three more dark figures filed swiftly and silently past the porthole. All of them carried automatic weapons.
Now she realized that it must have been the sound of rifle fire that had woken her. She had to get help. She was terrified and shaking. She ran back into her cabin and snatched the satellite telephone from the bedside table. Frantically she dialled the bridge. There was no reply but she let it ring while she tried to think what to do next. There was only one other person she could appeal to. She dialled her mother’s private line. Hazel’s recorded voice instructed her to leave a message. She rang off and immediately dialled again with the same result.
‘Oh, Mummy! Mummy! Please help me.’ She whimpered and began to compose a text message on her mobile phone, her thumbs flying over the keys as she typed.
Terrible things happening. Strange men with guns . . .
She stopped in mid-sentence. There was somebody at the door of her cabin. Somebody was opening the lock with a pass key. She punched the send button on her mobile phone and threw the device into the drawer of her beside table and slammed it shut. In almost the same movement she sprang from the bed. She rushed to the door and threw her weight against it as it began to open.
‘Go away. Get away from me, whoever you are,’ she screamed hysterically. ‘Leave me alone!’
‘Cayla! It’s me, Rogier. Let me in, Cayla. It’s all right. Everything is going to be all right.’
‘Rogier! Oh, thank the sweet Lord. Is it really you?’ She jerked the door open and for a moment stared at him in disbelief, pale-faced and wide-eyed, and then she sobbed with relief. ‘Rogier! Oh, Rogier.’ She flung herself against his chest and clung to him with desperate strength. He held her with one arm and stroked her hair with the other hand.
‘Don’t be afraid. It’s all going to be just fine.’
She shook her head wildly and blurted, ‘No! You don’t understand. There were men here. One of them looked into the cabin. There were others with him! Men! Horrible men. They all had guns. And I heard shooting . . .’
‘Listen to me, my darling. It’s all going to be all right. I will explain to you later. But nobody is going to hurt you. You must be brave. I want you to get dressed. We have to leave here. Dress warmly, Cayla. Wear your waterproof coat. It will be cold outside.’ He reached over her shoulder and switched on the main cabin lights. ‘You must hurry, Cayla.’
‘Where are we going, Rogier?’ She pulled back and stared into his face. Then her eyes went down to his chest. ‘You are bleeding, Rogier. There is blood all over you.’
‘Just do as I tell you, damn it. We haven’t got much time. Get dressed.’ He took her arm and led her forcibly towards her spacious walk-in cupboard. He shoved her through the door. The shelves on both sides were crammed with clothing, and more dresses and trousers were strewn carelessly over the couches and chairs and even the deck in untidy profusion. On her makeup table stood dozens of pots and jars and bottles of creams and unguents and perfumes, many of them without their tops screwed back.
‘You’re hurting me,’ she protested. ‘Let go of my arm.’ He ignored the plea, picking up a pair of strawberry-pink corduroy jeans from a chair and thrusting them at her.
‘Here, put those on. Hurry!’ But she stood frozen and staring at the pistol in the holster at his side.
‘That’s a gun! Where did you get it from, Rogier? I don’t understand. You’re all splashed with blood, but it’s not yours, is it? And you have got a gun.’ She started to back away from him. ‘Who are you? What are you, tell me that.’
‘I do not want to hurt you, Cayla, but you must do exactly as I tell you.’
She shook her head wildly. ‘No! Leave me alone. You can’t do this to me.’
He caught her wrist and twisted her arm up behind her back. Then he began to lift her slowly by the wrist alone. Her cries of defiance became squeals of agony, but he kept on lifting her until she was standing on the tips of her toes. Her squeals became louder and sharper, until she capitulated.
‘Stop, please stop, Rogier,’ she blubbered. ‘I will do anything you want, only don’t hurt me any more.’ He was pleased with how little it took to break her resolve. There had been others who had died still resisting him. This way he was spared so much time and effort. She dressed herself without looking at his face again, her head hanging and an occasional sob bursting past her lips. When she had finished he took her by the elbow and led her into the bedroom.
‘Where is your mobile phone, Cayla?’ he demanded. She sh
ook her head sullenly, but could not prevent herself glancing at the drawer of the bedside table.
‘Thank you.’
He yanked the drawer open and took out the phone. He opened the ‘Sent Messages’ list and read aloud the words she had sent to her mother only minutes before: ‘“Terrible things happening. Strange men with guns” . . . I wish you had not done that, Cayla. You have only made it more difficult for yourself,’ he said in a mild tone, and then struck her another vicious open-handed blow across the face that snapped her head to one side and sent her sprawling to the deck. ‘No more tricks like that, please. I don’t enjoy punishing you, but I will if you force me to it.’
He opened the back cover of the device and took the Sim card from its slot, slipped it into the side pocket of his windcheater and zipped it closed. Then he tossed the phone aside. He stooped and grabbed her elbow again and hauled her to her feet. Gripping her arm he marched her out of the cabin and down the companionway to the main salon. She gasped with shock and pulled back against Rogier’s grip when she saw the crew squatting on the deck with bound arms and the masked men standing over them with levelled rifles.
He shook her arm roughly. ‘No more of that nonsense now!’ He led her to the far end of the salon and forced her to sit. Then he beckoned one of the masked men to come to him. Cayla looked up in astonishment when he spoke to the man in Arabic.
‘I do not want any harm to come to this woman. She is more valuable than your own miserable life. Do you understand what I am saying to you?’
‘I understand, Lord.’ The man touched his own breast in a gesture of respect.
‘Why are you speaking in that language, Rogier? Who are you? Who are these people? Where is Captain Franklin? I want to speak to him,’ Cayla pleaded.
‘That will be difficult to arrange. The captain has two bullets in his brain.’ He tapped the pistol at his side. ‘That is enough questions from you. You just wait there quietly. I will return later. I think you are beginning to learn that I must have your complete obedience.’
When Rogier entered the bridge he found his uncle had the helm. Kamal was a skilled seaman who had spent his life on the oceans on everything from tiny dhows to giant oil tankers. Rogier glanced at the compass heading and saw that the Dolphin was on the reciprocal course to the one that Franklin had set. They were heading back the way they had come. He went to the wing of the bridge and looked back. The three attack boats were being towed along in their wake, which explained the reduced speed. Kamal was being careful not to swamp them with the Dolphin’s wake. Rogier went to stand beside his uncle.
‘Have you made contact with the dhow yet?’
Kamal slitted his eyes against the smoke from the hand-rolled Turkish tobacco cigarette between his lips as it spiralled upwards.
‘Not yet, but soon!’ he said.
‘The girl managed to send a message to her mother. The entire American navy and airforce will be searching for us as soon as it is light. The girl’s mother is very powerful.’
‘Everything will be taken care of before sunrise,’ Kamal assured him, and then he smiled and pointed over the bows. On the horizon dead ahead a red distress flare burst suddenly into flame, its ruddy reflection dancing along the crests of the swells. ‘There she is,’ he said with satisfaction.
The two ships came together swiftly, and when they were only a few hundred metres apart Kamal throttled back and laid the Dolphin across the wind and the sea, forming a breakwater for the dhow. The ancient vessel came alongside in the Dolphin’s lee and mooring ropes were thrown down to the men on the deck. Once she was moored securely the prisoners were transferred into her, and hustled down into the forward hold. Only Cayla was dragged struggling and weeping to Kamal’s quarters in the dhow’s deckhouse and locked in with a guard at the door.
Working swiftly a party of Arab seamen knocked open the hatch on the dhow’s stern hold. From the hold they winched up to the Dolphin’s deck five cargo pallets. Once they were on board the yacht the heavy canvas covers were pulled back to reveal a stack of a dozen large packages on each pallet. These were wrapped in bright yellow plastic sheeting and painted with black Chinese characters. It took three men to manhandle each crate below decks. The handlers worked gingerly, treating them with elaborate respect. The contents of each crate were thirty kilograms of Semtex H plastic explosive.
‘Hurry it up there!’ Rogier bellowed at them. ‘The detonators have not been primed. It’s quite safe to handle.’ He and Kamal followed the working party below deck, down to the Dolphin’s bilges, and supervised the yellow crates being packed along the length of the keel under the engine room. Rogier left Kamal to set the charges and arm the delay device, and went up to the purser’s office. Georgie Porgie was sitting on the deck with the guard standing over him.
‘Untie him!’ Rogier ordered the guard, who obediently forced the point of the bayonet on his rifle between Georgie’s wrists and cut away the nylon cable tie. The blade nicked his chubby arm.
‘The brute has cut me,’ Georgie whimpered. ‘Look! I am bleeding!’
‘Open the safe!’ Rogier ignored his complaints, and Georgie Porgie began to protest more vehemently. Rogier drew the pistol from its holster, and shot him in the leg. The bullet shattered his knee cap. The purser squealed shrilly. ‘Open the safe,’ Rogier repeated, and pointed the Tokarev at his other leg.
‘Don’t shoot me again,’ Georgie whined and dragged himself to the steel safe set into the bulkhead behind the desk. His wounded leg dragged behind him, leaving a trail of wet blood across the planking. Moaning with the pain, Georgie fiddled with the combination lock, spinning the dial back and forth. There was a click and he turned the locking handle. The safe door swung open.
‘Thank you!’ said Rogier and shot him in the head. Georgie Porgie was knocked forward onto his face and his good leg drummed spasmodically on the deck. At Rogier’s nod the guard grabbed the leg before it stopped kicking and dragged Georgie Porgie’s corpse aside. Rogier knelt in front of the open safe and sifted swiftly through the contents.
He discarded the ship’s working documents, amongst them her bills of lading and Grand Cayman registration certificate. But he selected the thick wad of the crew’s passports. His grandfather would have good use for the genuine green US and maroon EU booklets. Under the desk there was a canvas briefcase which he had noted every time he had previously been in the purser’s office. Rogier stuffed the passports into this. There were also about fifty thousand US dollars in bills of various denominations; without counting them he placed them with the passports. On the steel shelf below the cash were five blue jewellery boxes. The lid of the first one he picked up was lettered in gold: ‘Graff. London’. He snapped open the lid. The diamonds that made up the heavy necklace nestling on the white satin lining were as big as quail’s eggs and bright as sunlight on a mountain stream. Rogier knew they had once belonged to the American heiress to the Wool-worths fortune. These were what had really interested him.
‘Thank you, Mrs Hazel Bannock,’ he said with a smile. ‘However, I doubt that the Flowers of Islam will see fit to send you a formal receipt.’ He knew what the other jewellery boxes contained, so he did not waste time opening them but dropped them all into the briefcase. He nodded to the Arab guard and they went up the companionway to the main deck at a run. His uncle Kamal was waiting for him by the rail. Rogier handed him the briefcase. ‘Take good care of this, my honoured uncle.’
‘Where are you going?’ Kamal demanded as he turned back to the companionway.
‘There is one more thing I have to do before we leave.’
‘You have very little time. The delay on the fuses has only an hour and forty-five minutes to run,’ Kamal warned him.
‘Time enough,’ Rogier replied. He leaned over the rail and whistled shrilly. Three of his men whom he had delegated to the duty looked up at him. Each of them carried a specially constructed packing case which Rogier had asked his grandfather to send to him. He beckoned to the men and t
hey came up the side of the Dolphin with the cases. Rogier led them down to Cayla’s deserted suite. He moved quickly into the main cabin and stood in front of the large Gauguin oil painting. As always he found the bright colours pleasing but the depiction of a naked female body offended his pious sensibilities. Nonetheless he lifted the painting down from its hooks and laid it face down on the bed. He had brought a folding knife with him expressly for this purpose and he used the blade to lever loose the ornate gold-leaf frame. He discarded the frame and left the painting lying face upwards on the bed. He hurried through into the owner’s private dining room, took Monet’s water lilies painting down from the facing bulkhead, and laid it on the dining table to remove the frame. As he worked he mulled over the fact that the previous year a similar picture had sold at auction for £98.5 million sterling. Then he went to Van Gogh’s The River at Arles that hung on the side bulkhead. He took it down and then laid it beside the Monet. He prised off the frame, and wasted a few moments admiring these two marvellous works. His grandfather was no connoisseur of the arts, but when Rogier told him the value of these three pieces he would be flabbergasted and delighted by this unexpected addition to his war chest. All this time the men with the packing cases had been watching him with expressions of complete mystification.
