This time Sumner’s hearing was useless. The air around him was a cacophony of sound. The LRAD blasted, leaving a ringing in his ears and rendering him functionally deaf. The water pounded against the hull as they carved through it, and in the distance came the screams of the passengers somewhere deep inside the ship’s bowels.
“Block, shoot a flare,” he said.
Block was flattened against the deck wall behind him. He rolled up next to Sumner. “I don’t have a flare gun. I’ve got a Taser. Clutch has the flare.”
Sumner heard the pirates. Another grenade shot could be only seconds away.
“Clutch, shoot a flare, now.” Sumner snapped out the order in the general direction of where he thought Clutch was. He could hear the cigarette boat revving, first far out, then maintaining the same volume, then becoming louder. In his mind’s eye, Sumner pictured the vessel making an arc away before returning to home in on the ship. The deck stayed dark.
“Clutch, the flare, now!” Sumner shouted.
“Where the hell is he?” Block said.
Before Sumner could answer, a flare shot out into the darkness to Sumner’s left. The flaming projectile rose into the sky. While it didn’t throw a lot of illumination, it was enough to once again expose the pirates’ position. He heard them give a yell. He lay on his stomach, aimed, and fired. The flare died out before he could determine if he’d hit. To his relief, he heard the pirate ship veer away.
“Bastards are moving back again,” Block said. He turned toward the spot where the flare had fired. “Good shot, Clutch. I was just starting to wonder where you were. What the hell took you so long?”
Out of the darkness came a woman’s voice. “I am sorry, sir. My English is not so good, and it took me a moment to find the flare gun.”
Sumner and Block both turned to look. The lights on the deck sprang to life again, and there stood the German girl, holding a spent flare gun.
20
“I’M MARINA SCHULLMANN,” THE GIRL SAID.
Block stood up and put out a hand. “I’m Harry. And this here’s Sumner. What’s your first name again?” Block asked him.
Sumner stood. “Sumner’s fine. Not too many people use my first name.” He held the rifle down and slightly behind him. Marina’s white-blond hair, chopped to her chin, blew around in the breeze, flicking over her ice-blue eyes. She had a reserved, cool way about her, which he knew from watching her was alleviated somewhat when she smiled, but she wasn’t smiling now.
She pointed at the gun hanging by Sumner’s leg. “This is what caused them to leave?”
Block shot Sumner a cautious look.
Sumner nodded. “It is. But it’s illegal on a cruise ship, so I would ask that you not broadcast that I have it.”
Marina looked surprised. “I am happy you have it. Who is Clutch?”
“The head of security. He had the flare gun. Did you see him over there?”
Marina shook her head. “I found the flare gun on the deck floor. No one was near me.”
Sumner made a mental note to throw Clutch against a wall and explain the rules of engagement to him. The first being this: Never run and leave your comrades to go it alone during a firefight.
“How long before they return?” Marina said, getting right to the point.
Sumner was about to tell her that it could be anywhere from a few hours to a matter of minutes when Block broke in.
“They turned tail and ran. We may never see them again.”
Sumner frowned. He wouldn’t have lied to the girl. She struck him as no fool. He watched her take in the information and shake her head.
“That is not true, Herr Block.”
Block shifted. “Now, don’t you worry, miss. Sumner and me here got the situation as far under control as it can be, considering the circumstances. You should go back to your cabin and lock the door.”
Marina raised an eyebrow. “I think the situation was better controlled when I shot the flare gun.”
Sumner suppressed a smile.
“And we thank you,” Block said, clearing his throat. But you still should go back to your room. Didn’t I see you with your parents?”
A cloud passed over her face. “My mother is frightened for me, that’s true. But I wanted to know what was happening. The ship’s captain is not informing us. He only says that he has sent a distress signal and an American aircraft carrier in the region is coming to our aid. But this I don’t believe.”
Block gave Sumner a worried look.
“Why not?” Sumner said.
“The Frenchmen in cabin 216 said that Americans will not come to the aid in Somali waters.”
“Did they say anything else?”
“Not to me. They moved away. Besides, it’s rude to listen to another’s conversation, is it not?” Marina gave Sumner a reproachful look.
Just what we need, he thought, a woman with a proper upbringing.
“And,” she continued, “I do not speak French.”
“That’s a shame,” Block said.
Marina looked a little annoyed. “Do you, Herr Block?”
Block grinned. “Hell no. I speak Texan.”
Block’s comment seemed to mollify Marina. She gave him a small smile.
“Is this your first cruise to the Seychelles?” Sumner’s question sounded mundane, given the situation.
Block snorted. “Guys, I’d love everyone to get to know each other better, but those pirates are gonna come back. Don’t you think we should be preparing for that?”
Sumner wanted to tell Block that he was preparing for it, but he couldn’t. Instead he raised his eyebrows at Marina to encourage her to answer.
“No. My father made this cruise six months ago. He liked it so much that he suggested to my mother that we go with him this time.”
Did he, now? Sumner thought.
“What does your father do?” Out of the corner of his eye, Sumner saw Block begin to protest the continued conversation. Sumner gave a sharp nod of the head to indicate that he remain quiet. Block must have understood, because he didn’t comment.
“He sells armored cars.”
Sumner thought Block would fall over with surprise.
“What kind of armored cars?” Block said.
“Kind?” Marina looked confused.
“What brand? Fords? Chevys? BMWs?”
Marina shrugged. “All kinds. They bring the car to our shop, and we take it apart and armor it.”
Sumner wondered what the odds were of an armored-car salesman taking this particular cruise to the Seychelles.
“I’d love to talk to him about how he does it,” Block said. “Bet I could sell a ton of armored cars to the guys in Mexico. That country is in the middle of a drug war.”
Sumner appreciated that Block wanted to learn about the marketing opportunities for armored cars, but he thought the more interesting question was why an armored-car salesman was taking the same cruise twice only six months apart.
“Do you know the Frenchmen’s business?” Sumner asked Marina.
She shrugged. “No. But there is a Russian with his girlfriend. He sells drugs throughout the Eastern Bloc countries.”
“Legal drugs?” Sumner said.
Marina smiled. “Yes. A heart medication.”
21
STARK AND EMMA STARED AT RODUCCI AND THE KENYAN IMMIGRATION authorities. Stark frowned.
“I can’t afford to have Price involved in any scandal. If you get detained at customs, I’d appreciate your keeping us out of it.”
“Of course,” Emma said.
Stark moved next to her to stand in the open doorway. “I’m staying here for the moment. My meeting isn’t for another two hours, and I’m going to use the plane as my office. Something tells me that you and those officials are going to be having an extended conversation. I’ll just watch the proceedings from up here. Do you mind?” He appeared to be enjoying the moment.
“Not at all.” Emma did her best to sound unconcerned. She stepped ou
t of the plane into the damp, cool air and moved down the stairs with what she hoped was a pleasant expression on her face. When she reached the bottom, Roducci held out a hand.
“So nice to meet you!” He pumped her hand with a heartiness that Emma found disconcerting. “Major Stromeyer of Darkview Enterprises asked me to meet you upon your landing and to give you your traveling papers.” He kept her palm in his grip and held her gaze a beat while he let the information sink in. He released her and produced an envelope from his back pants pocket with a flourish. “Here they are.”
Emma said nothing as she opened the flap to pull out the papers.
“The letter is from the American embassy located here in Nairobi. It confers temporary diplomatic status on you, as well as the immunity from prosecution that comes from that status.”
The papers were written in the form of a letter rogatory and suggested that Emma be allowed entrance to the country. It explained that she would be stopping only briefly in Nairobi on her way to Dubai. A Post-it note on the paper said that she was to meet her next contact near the Price private jet in one hour and warned Emma not to call until she received a second, cleared line from the contact. Emma peeled off the Post-it and placed it in her pocket.
The second paper looked exactly the same, except it was translated into a foreign language. Emma flicked a glance at the two immigration officers. The one closest to her held out a hand. She offered him her passport and the letter rogatory. He said nothing as he read them.
“Allow me to explain,” Roducci said. “Normally you would require a visa. This is no real problem, a mere fifty dollars in the terminal and even less for a transit visa to another location. However, Major Stromeyer indicated that she did not wish for you to be registered in such a fashion. The officers have informed me that you must stay here, in the airport, for the time needed to obtain another flight to Somalia, which they understand is your final destination. You are not allowed to leave the airport.” Roducci looked at Stark, who still stood in the open doorway at the top of the jet’s stairs. “I am required to ask if the Price company intends to ensure that Ms. Caldridge does not venture outside of the terminal for any reason.”
Stark shook his head. “The Price company will ensure no such thing.”
Roducci looked taken aback. “You won’t?”
“I won’t.” Stark nodded to the immigration authorities. “If you will excuse me, I need to make some calls before I disembark.” He disappeared back into the airplane.
One of the officers raised an eyebrow and made a “huh” sound as he watched Stark leave. Roducci looked flabbergasted. He moved the Kenyans away from Emma and engaged in a spirited discussion with them. After a moment they nodded their agreement to something, Emma didn’t know what, and headed for the terminal entrance. Roducci waited until they were out of earshot before filling her in.
“I have offered to ensure your compliance.” Roducci looked less than pleased at the turn of events. “But I need your agreement that you will stay in the terminal. Normally I would assume such compliance in the face of a direct demand from the immigration authorities, but Major Stromeyer indicated to me that you are a woman with her own ideas about things.”
Emma wasn’t about to promise Roducci anything until she met with her contact and learned the next step. She smiled a reassuring smile. “I promise to inform you if my plans change.”
Roducci looked stern. “I don’t have the power to help you if you break the law. My relationship with African police is one of mutual distrust. So far they have not attempted to incarcerate me, but the threat is always in the air.”
“I understand. And I hope that nothing untoward happens,” Emma said. She wondered at Roducci’s business but decided that the subject was best left alone. “Is there a first-class fliers’ lounge? I’d love a shower.”
Roducci looked hesitant. “Yes, but it will cost you twenty dollars, and shortly thereafter you will enter hell. Best to save your money. Perhaps you may gain access to the one maintained by the international airlines.” He walked along with her to the terminal. “The man in the dark slacks. Is he always so disagreeable?”
Emma saw no reason to lie. “Yes.”
Roducci gave an expressive shrug. “Life is far too brief to be so upset.”
They made it to a lounge maintained by a consortium of international airlines, paid a fee, and entered. The room was a narrow rectangle. Ancient armchairs upholstered in an orange industrial fabric, tattered and stained, lined one wall, and laptop power stations lined another. After the plush accommodations on Stark’s private jet, the spartan room felt depressing.
Travelers occupied most of the chairs and all of the power stations. Some read, while the vast majority talked on their cell phones. A group of Arabs sat in a far corner, the men wearing business suits, the women head scarves and black, cloak-type dresses. To Emma’s right, a long counter held a Coca-Cola fountain and an industrial coffee-maker. Plastic-wrapped sandwiches sat on a battered tray. At the far end of the coffee counter was a hallway that led to the washrooms.
“I’m going there.” Emma pointed to the sign.
“I will await you here. I understand that your second contact is due to meet you in the next hour.” Roducci snatched a newspaper from a nearby rack and settled into a free chair.
The bathrooms matched the outer area, in both age and cleanliness. Fluorescent lights cast a bluish gray glow onto the tiled walls. The far end contained three shower stalls. Yellowed vinyl curtains hung from a horizontal metal pole spanning each entrance. Emma moved one aside. White ceramic tile with gray specks and grout colored black with mold encased the interior. With a sigh, she headed to a sink. She dropped her duffel on the floor beneath it. The soap dispenser of the first was empty. She pushed the second, also empty, as was the third. At the third she depressed the handles of the cold and hot water faucets. A weak stream of tepid water poured out. It stopped after twenty seconds. She washed up as well as she could, repeatedly hitting the handles while splashing water on her face and cleaning her hands.
When she stepped into the main room, Roducci was gone. She headed to the counter, grabbed a shrink-wrapped muffin and a carton of yogurt. A display held individual servings of cereal. She chose a box of granola, ripped the top off the carton of yogurt, and poured the granola into it, then wolfed down the mix. When she was done, she took another quick look around for Roducci. She had twenty minutes before the second contact was to meet her at the rendezvous, so waiting for him to reappear was out of the question. She’d have just enough time to hustle back to the landing field.
On the tarmac once more, she received another bad turn of luck. The Price jet was gone. She walked a little farther out to check the names on the long row of private planes currently resting in Nairobi. None matched the Price jet’s configuration. At the tenth jet, she reached the very end of the airport. A chain-link fence rimmed the runway. Beyond that was a frontage road. Cars whizzed by. She stood for a moment, perplexed, when she felt a touch on her arm. A man in a bright yellow reflective vest frowned back at her. He waved toward the aluminum door.
“I was just looking for my jet,” Emma said. The man asked her something. She didn’t know what he was saying, but she took a stab in the dark. “It’s the Price Pharmaceuticals jet.”
He walked her to a small booth situated next to the aluminum door. A stool, a counter, a telephone, and a clipboard filled the tiny area, barely leaving enough room for the man once he stepped inside. His foot kicked a wastebasket on the floor. He muttered and shoved it up against the wall with the toe of his boot. He consulted the clipboard before picking it up and showing it to her. At the top was the name, registration number, and time of embarkation for the Price jet.
“It wasn’t supposed to fly anywhere. This was its destination,” Emma said. The man shrugged, either not understanding her or not caring.
The aluminum door behind her slammed. She jerked around to see Roducci. He, too, glanced around as if searching for
the jet.
“No Price jet and no contact. I’ve been stood up,” Emma said.
Roducci’s eyebrows hit his hairline. “The contact did not appear and the disagreeable man left? I don’t believe it!”
Emma didn’t either. She looked at her watch. “Let’s give it some time.” She moved to lean against the terminal building to wait.
Thirty minutes later she decided that the contact wasn’t going to show. Roducci sat on the ground next to her, his head against the wall. She tapped him on the shoulder.
“Do you have a secure contact number for Major Stromeyer?”
Roducci shook his head. “She calls me on mine. She purchases prepaid phones for temporary use and gives me the latest number. Currently I can only contact her through the Darkview offices’ line.” He frowned. “Not a good idea, as it will immediately reveal our location to anyone listening.”
So calling Stromeyer was out. “Any idea who the contact may be?”
Roducci shrugged. “There are four Darkview personnel in Nairobi. Perhaps five. I know two.”
“Can you call them?”
“Of course.” Roducci dialed his phone and waited. Hung up. Dialed again and waited. Hung up. “No answer at either.”
Emma looked at the jets all around her. “I’m standing in an airport. Seems to me I should be able to get my own flight to Hargeisa, or at least closer to it, don’t you think?” she said.
Roducci’s eyes lit up. “I have just the thing. A good friend of mine is a member of a fine, upstanding family. They have their own jet that is parked here. I will contact them to determine what it will cost for you to charter it.” Roducci whipped out his BlackBerry and began thumbing it furiously.
Emma started back to the terminal.
“Where are you going?” Roducci jogged next to her as he held the phone to his ear.
“To check the monitors. There may be a commercial jet leaving soon.”
“Please, please, not necessary, not to mention not likely. Who goes to Hargeisa anyway? Just let me discuss this with my friend. I urge you to settle down. All will be well.” He followed her into the terminal, chattering into his phone in a language Emma didn’t understand. She headed to a customer-service desk manned by two agents. Above the desk hung several screens that contained scrolling flight information. She stood in front of the monitors, watching the green letters advance across the display. Roducci continued with an animated conversation. He lowered the phone.
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