Rip Tide

by Stella Rimington

  Guthrie hesitated, and the Arab pointed the AK-47 straight at him. ‘Go or I’ll kill you both.’ His English was excellent and only lightly accented; Dave guessed he had lived in the States.

  They ran then, ran as fast as they could, with the Arab right behind them. Dave couldn’t understand what this man was up to. The French must already be on board at the stern. What on earth was he hoping for?

  As they reached the bow, the figure of another man appeared out of the mist, standing by the rail. He also held an AK-47, upright in his hands like a barrier, forcing Dave and the Captain to stop. Beyond him Dave could see the sea, still shrouded by a low mist. He could just make out a skiff far below, nestled near the port side of the bow of the Aristides. In it sat a single armed pirate; it was secured by the long rope that Dave had seen fired from the harpoon gun just minutes before. The tall Arab came up behind them, and the guard with the AK-47 asked him, ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘They’re coming,’ he said curtly. But just then a crackle of automatic weapons fire came from the stern of the ship. The French had boarded, thought Dave.

  The tall Arab cursed. ‘We must go.’ He turned to Dave. ‘Down!’ he ordered, gesturing at the rope.

  ‘What?’ asked Dave incredulously.

  ‘Down the rope.’ He waved his gun menacingly. ‘Hurry.’

  Dave hated heights; he couldn’t climb down all that way on that little rope; he’d fall off into the sea. He gulped as he moved to the rail and looked down. He turned back, but the pirate was threatening him with the gun. There was no choice. Gritting his teeth, he threw one leg over the rail, then the other, and slowly crouched down, grabbing on to the rope just below its thickly knotted end. He closed his eyes and began to lower himself down along the rope as Guthrie watched from above, waiting his turn.

  Dave descended slowly, trying to keep control of his speed, his hands burning on the coarse thick hemp. What the tall Arab had done was clever. The French would have sent a boarding party in dinghies to the stern of the Aristides, knowing that the crew had locked themselves in the lower floors of the accommodation block. The corvette would be anchored a hundred yards away, and in this mist the French would never see the skiff at the other end of the ship. They’d free the crew, capture some of the Arab hijackers and, crucially, the four Pakistanis, but they wouldn’t have the slightest inkling that others were getting away. By the time the rest of the crew told them that the Captain and Dave were missing, it would be too late.

  And two hours later, as a French sailor was showing his commanding officer a rope hanging from the bow rail of the Aristides, Dave Armstrong and Captain Guthrie were being led across a beach at gunpoint ten miles south of Mogadishu.

  Chapter 49

  Liz was fast asleep in her flat when the phone rang at 5 a.m. ‘Cabinet Office duty officer here,’ said a voice, in reply to her drowsy greeting. The caller told Liz that pirates had stormed the Aristides. ‘A French corvette, part of the International Protection Force, intervened,’ the voice went on, ‘and the ship and most of its crew are safe. Unfortunately some of the pirates escaped, taking with them Captain Guthrie and your colleague Dave Armstrong.’ COBRA was being opened, she was told, and she was required to attend as soon as possible.

  When Liz arrived in the Cabinet Office Briefing Room, known as COBRA, deep underneath the Cabinet Office in Whitehall, things were buzzing. Peggy was there with some others from Thames House, sitting at computer screens, alongside colleagues from MI6 and GCHQ. The SAS’s area was manned up; Bokus was already in evidence, with a small team from Grosvenor Square with their own communications, and, in a corner, sat a team from the French Embassy.

  Geoffrey Fane came into the room just behind her, looking as smart as ever in a three-piece suit and silk tie and handkerchief, as though he had never been to bed. ‘Good morning, Elizabeth,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Bit of a pickle your chap’s got himself into.’

  Liz started to say something cutting, along the lines of ‘Whose idea was it to put him on board?’, but thought better of it. With Dave in serious danger, this was no time to be sparring with Geoffrey Fane, so she merely replied, ‘Good morning, Geoffrey. You’re looking very dapper.’

  Considering how many people were present, there was surprisingly little noise in the room, just quiet voices and the hum of computers and TV monitors with their volume turned low. Information was streaming in and being collated and assessed by a Cabinet Office team at the back of the room, in preparation for a meeting to be chaired by the Foreign Secretary.

  At 9 a.m. he swept in, followed by a team of officials. Those who had been working at computers left their desks and came to sit in the rows of chairs facing the platform on which the Minister and his senior advisors sat, and the briefing began. The Naval Attaché from the French Embassy gave the latest information from the corvette about exactly what had happened on board and who they had in custody; Geoffrey Fane spoke about the background to the UCSO shipments and what was known about the group who had taken the hostages (not much); Liz gave a brief account of the investigation in Birmingham and their suspicions about the Pakistani crew members who had been arrested on board; a Defence intelligence officer produced satellite imagery of the coast of Somalia, pinpointing the best assessment about where the hostages were being held and a woman from the Meteorological Office described the weather conditions there.

  The Foreign Secretary refrained from asking why the MI5 officer had been on the ship – no doubt that question would be picked over to death later on. The present meeting was about rescuing him and the Captain. He listened closely to debate about the viability and logistics of a rescue operation and negotiated his way courteously through a proposal from Andy Bokus that they should go in heavy with maximum firepower, eventually coming down on the side of the Colonel from the SAS who outlined his plan for a small, quick in-and-out operation. He listened sympathetically to Liz when she argued that the rescue attempt should be mounted without delay. The pirates, she said, must have taken Dave Armstrong because they suspected that he had some special role. That being the case, his life was in hourly danger.

  The SAS Colonel was invited to speak about timing, and after consulting his team, he confirmed that they could be ready to go at 05.00 Mogadishu time the following morning, 03.00 hours London time, when the light conditions would favour the attackers. Provided of course that it could be established without doubt where the hostages were being held. The Minister called for comments or objections. Bokus remained silent and it was agreed that the SAS should go in at 05.00 local time the following day.

  The Minister withdrew with his supporting team of civil servants, asking to be kept up to date with developments, and the room returned to its working mode, while in the SAS corner the decision was relayed to operational control in Hereford.

  Liz left Peggy in charge of the Thames House team and went back to the office to brief the directors’ meeting. Peggy would keep her in touch as events developed.

  Chapter 50

  Many years before, Taban had been told a fable about twin brothers who had been raised by a violent father. Instead of uniting against this tyrant, the brothers had fallen out between themselves and become bitter enemies. They argued endlessly and often fought – and one day they fought so fiercely that one of them died from his brother’s blows.

  At first the surviving brother was happy to be rid of his detested sibling. But over time he became uncertain and afraid, and started telling everyone that the ghost of his dead brother had come back to haunt him. Asked what this ghost looked like, the surviving brother cried, It’s a shadow and it looks like fear.

  That was exactly how Taban would have described the shadow cast over his own life by the Middle Eastern men at the camp. He tried to avoid them, but his duties at the compound meant that inevitably he came across these Arab strangers almost every day, and when he did they were hostile and aggressive. The Tall One in particular seemed to enjoy frightening the boy, and had taken to pointing his
gun at him every time he saw him. The first time he’d done it, Taban had flinched in fear, and the other men in the gang had laughed. Now he’d steeled himself not to react when the gun was aimed at him, but he sensed that it was just a matter of time before the Tall One actually pulled the trigger. Taban had told Khalid about this terrifying game, but the leader of the Somali pirates had just shrugged and said that there was nothing he could do about it. It was clear that if Khalid was ever going to stand up to the Tall One, it wasn’t going to be on Taban’s behalf.

  Very early this morning, for the first time in weeks, six of the Arab men had gone out to sea, ‘borrowing’ skiffs from Khalid and the other Somalis. But Taban’s relief at their departure was short-lived; they returned before midday, though only three of them came back. They were in a hurry, too, running from the beach into the camp, pushing two Westerners towards the pen at gunpoint. The younger of the two had a massive bruise on one cheek, and when he was slow entering the pen the tall Arab pushed him so hard from behind that he hit his head on one of the timber frames.

  Hostages, thought Taban. But this didn’t look like the usual situation. Why were there only two men and not a whole crew? And where were the other Arabs and the ship? And why did the Middle Eastern men seem so jumpy and nervous? Normally when hostages were taken there was celebration and feasting while the pirates waited happily for the first phone calls to come through, signalling the beginning of negotiations for the release of the ship and the hostages. But the Middle Eastern men were on edge, talking together loudly and looking out to sea and up at the sky. None of them had put down their weapons, and the Tall One had ordered several of the ones who had stayed behind to guard the perimeter of the camp. He himself was standing in the centre of the compound, holding an AK-47 and constantly looking around.

  The noise made by the men must have wakened Khalid, who usually slept until early afternoon, after staying up late watching Western movies on the big screen in his house. He came out and asked the Tall One what was going on. Taban could only hear snatches of what the Tall One said, but it was clear that the hijacking attempt had gone wrong – the Arabs had brought back hostages without a ship. Khalid was visibly alarmed and, for the first time, he seemed to be standing up to the Tall One. Taban edged closer so he could listen.

  ‘What is the point of holding these two men if you don’t have their ship?’ Khalid demanded.

  The Tall One glared at him furiously. ‘Listen, you snivelling piece of dog! Three of my comrades have been captured by foreigners along with four new fighters from Pakistan who were supposed to join us here. They may be dead for all I know. So I have no time for your moaning.’ He pointed to the pen. ‘I have to deal with this scum here – the Pakistani leader told me on board that the younger one is a British spy. And the other man is Captain of the vessel. He will be valuable to its owners.’

  ‘Bah!’ said Khalid derisorily. ‘He is nothing to the owners. It’s the ships and the cargoes they want.’

  ‘This British spy is a different story.’

  ‘He certainly is, and it is a dangerous one. Can’t you see? They will come after him.’

  The Tall One said, ‘Let them come. They will find more than they bargained for.’

  ‘Are you mad?’ Khalid’s voice was rising. Taban knew that the last thing he would want was a confrontation in his own camp. ‘They will kill us all.’

  ‘Not before we kill many of them,’ said the Tall One. He spoke with an eerie calm. ‘I can think of no finer way to die. No real warrior is frightened of death.’

  Khalid ignored this. ‘I can’t have them coming here. It would destroy our entire operation.’

  ‘Operation? You mean making money. That should not be the priority for any true Muslim.’

  But Khalid wouldn’t yield. ‘I cannot have them coming here,’ he repeated. ‘You will have to go. And take the hostages with you.’ Taban could tell that Khalid was scared of the Tall One, but he could see that he was even more scared of an attack by Western forces.

  ‘Say that again,’ said the Tall One coldly.

  ‘You will have to go,’ repeated Khalid. The Tall One’s eyes widened at Khalid’s unprecedented boldness. He stood back for a moment, scratching his chin thoughtfully. Then the Tall One’s face hardened, his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed. He suddenly swung up the AK-47 he was holding and fired a burst straight at Khalid.

  Khalid fell backwards on to the ground, blood pouring from what was left of his head. Taban stared, too stunned to move. He didn’t dare look at the Tall One but waited, expecting to be next and wondering what it would feel like to die.

  Suddenly a man shouted from nearby. The Tall One looked round, distracted by the sound, and Taban dared to turn his head too. The younger hostage had his face pressed up against the wire of the pen. ‘Water! My friend needs water!’

  The Tall One strode over to the pen and unlocked the door, all the while pointing his rifle. He trained the gun on the younger man; the older hostage was lying down in the rear of the pen, and looked ill.

  ‘On your knees,’ ordered the Tall One.

  The younger one obeyed, slowly getting down on all fours. The Tall One stepped forward, swinging his rifle slowly round until its barrel end touched the forehead of the hostage. ‘I am told you are an agent of the West.’

  The man said nothing, and the Tall One moved the barrel away, then suddenly swung it back fast across the man’s face. He winced in agony, and Taban saw blood flowing in a swelling line from the bridge of the hostage’s nose.

  ‘Do your people know where this camp is?’ the Tall One demanded. This time he didn’t swing the gun away, but pushed it straight against the man’s forehead. The man closed his eyes, and Taban knew he thought he was about to die.

  Taban had to do something; any moment now, the Tall One would pull the trigger. So he shouted, a loud inarticulate cry designed purely to attract attention. Momentarily the Tall One looked behind him, startled, then snapped, ‘Shut up,’ at Taban and turned back to the hostage.

  ‘They’re coming!’ Taban shouted again.

  ‘What?’ This time when he turned the Tall One kept his gaze on the boy.

  ‘Over there!’ Taban was pointing frantically towards the nearby dunes. ‘They’re landing – the enemy!’

  And without thinking how the boy could know this, standing just twenty feet away from him, the Tall One came out of the cage quickly, stopping only to close the padlock. Then he ran across the compound towards the dunes.

  Taban breathed out; his heart was beating like a drum. He walked over to the pen, where the younger man was now sitting on the floor, all colour drained out of his battered face. The hostage said, to Taban’s surprise, ‘A man was here once called Richard Luckhurst. Do you remember?’

  Of course he did. Captain Richard had been his friend. He nodded vigorously. The hostage added, ‘You are Taban, right?’

  Taban nodded again and smiled. ‘I help you,’ he said eagerly.

  ‘No. You need to get out of here . . . fast.’ When the boy looked puzzled, the man made gestures as if shooting a gun.

  ‘Go,’ he said. ‘Quick. Vamoose. He was going to shoot you. If you stay here any longer, he will do it.’

  ‘But I—’

  The Western man interrupted, shaking his head. ‘You must go. Run and get help. Or they will kill you.’ And he drew his finger across this throat. ‘Now!’ he said urgently.

  Taban hesitated no longer. He struck out at once, not towards the dunes, where men were already positioned with guns, but north, over a section of low wall. Once out of sight of the compound, he started to run. He ran straight on without looking back, then he turned towards the coast. He was heading for the sanctuary of his past – the village, less than two miles away, where he had grown up with his father and brother; the village from which he had gone out to sea each day to fish; the village where he had seen his father murdered. He wondered who would still be there; the last he had heard, some other pirates were
using the dilapidated huts as shelter, in between their hijacking runs.

  He ran as quickly as he could. He was young and fit, but the soft sand slowed him down. At last, as he climbed up to the top of the dunes, he could see the huts and the splintered wooden landing stage beside his former home. It was beginning to get dark now and he ran faster, fuelled by the adrenalin of fear, sprinting down the last few yards of sulphur-coloured sand to the hamlet nestled on the shore. As he reached the straw-roofed huts he could see that none was inhabited – they had been stripped bare by raiders, who had taken everything from chairs to cooking pots. There was nowhere to hide: not a bed to crouch under, no cupboard to conceal him, just sand floors and bare board walls and open squares for windows. Soon it would be pitch black, so propping himself up against the back wall of one of the huts, he sat down to wait till dawn.

  Taban opened his eyes suddenly to grey daylight and the low throbbing of an engine. Peering round the wall of the hut, he could just make out, far in the distance, near the compound, a jeep moving along the beach in his direction. Men had been sent to bring him back. No, not to bring him back; they would have been sent to kill him.

  The noise of the jeep was growing louder; he could hear the harsh cough of its carburettor, but didn’t dare wait to watch his pursuers draw closer. He looked desperately about for some way to escape. Then he spotted a single skiff moored at the end of the landing stage. But was it still seaworthy or had it been holed? He ran out along the splintered boards to where the little boat floated at the far end, tethered by a fraying piece of rope. It had no engine, and its mast was badly split – too broken to support a sail.

  Taban jumped in regardless; to stay on land would mean certain death. The bottom of the boat was fairly dry, and tucked under one gunwale was a pair of oars. He undid the rope, pushed off as hard as he could from the wooden platform and quickly slotted the oars into the rowlocks. He heard the jeep roar into the hamlet and heard its engine cut out. They were here.