The Catch: A Novel

by Taylor Stevens

  Munroe slung the pack over her shoulder and shut the armoire with finality. In the living room Natan, still on the couch with his ankle propped up, called out as she strode through. “Where are you going?” he said, and she ignored him, just as she had Leo.

  CHAPTER 2

  The two beat-up company vehicles were parked in the dirt space between the houses, which meant that everyone was accounted for and on the property. Like everything else, the cars were Leo’s, made available if Munroe wanted them for work, provided none of the other team members had need of them. She paused in front of the Land Cruiser, the easy way out with its keys beneath the front seat, and, with the evening dimming, walked out of the compound through the pedestrian gate.

  Touches of light from the recently set sun guided the way, augmented by the artificial glow that streamed out of nearby houses. She strode along the side of the road, over hard-caked dirt and sand and outcroppings of weeds, toward a larger junction several hundred meters away, where she could flag down a taxi.

  Voices and conversations rose and fell within lengthening shadows, clusters of people gathered on doorsteps or in gateways, part of the vitality that the cooling darkness brought to the sleepy daytime streets. The white of her skin marked her as a beacon and men called out as she passed, then followed with shocked laughter when she responded in their tongue. Language was what protected her, had guided and guarded her throughout the years, the ability to understand, to communicate in a way that, because of her foreignness, most assumed she couldn’t.

  Munroe reached the crossroads, a thoroughfare more heavily trafficked, where proper streetlights obscured the stars and clusters of pedestrians followed along the edges, while vehicles, some decrepit, some shiny and new, competed for right-of-way in an orchestrated dance of chaos. Occupied taxis slowed for her, shared rides that would charge a lesser fare, and she waved them on in favor of an empty car. She argued with the driver over the rate and, knowing he was under khat influence, climbed in, numb to the risk and the casual recklessness with which he drove, life-threatening and yet so commonplace in a galaxy of Third World experience.

  It took but a few minutes to reach the heart of Djibouti, where, like the thoroughfares that had brought them here, new money had paid for new roads, and the potholes were few and far between. She’d once heard the city described as a French Hong Kong on the Red Sea, but whoever had said it had clearly not been to the parts of the city she more often frequented—the parts where the roads were pitted and shacks were assembled with whatever material was to hand, and camels and goats played backdrop to the encroaching desert.

  The taxi stopped a block over from her destination, and Munroe paid and stepped out into the night and into early evening noise that had only just begun to trickle out from the nearby bar and restaurant that catered mainly to foreign military, expats, and what few tourists had discovered this stop on the far, far edge of the map.

  Off the sidewalk and under a portico, she pushed open a narrow door and headed up an equally narrow staircase, wooden, poorly constructed, and dimly lit by a loosely hung bulb. At the landing she knocked on the door. There was no answer, so she knocked again, and when still no one came, she let herself in with a key.

  The apartment was small, part of the repartitioning that went on in a city where the population increased faster than new construction. Light filtered in from the short hallway, and she turned on another so that the common room was fully lit. The area had been tidied up, bright colored floor pillows organized, though two opened cans of 7UP and scraps of khat said that she hadn’t missed the homeowners by much.

  Munroe stepped into the kitchen at her right and into the smell of burnt cooking oil, cumin, and cardamom. Passed around a double gas burner and counter space to get to the end wall, and another door, which she surveyed for disturbance of the random threads she’d left, before pulling them away and unlocking.

  The room was half the size of the one she kept at Leo’s place, probably maid quarters in its prior life, dusty and stale, the air hot and difficult to breathe. A bare mattress on a crude wood frame filled the longest wall, and beside it stood a padlocked trunk, turned so that its hinges faced out. She tugged a frayed string to turn on the light, another single bulb that put out less wattage than the one in the stairwell, and opened the window to let in oxygen. It had been a month at least since she’d last been here.

  Munroe knelt at the trunk and turned it toward her. Unlocked and lifted the lid. Not counting the Ducati she’d left behind with a friend in Dallas and the few possessions she stored along with the bike, everything she owned was in this room, and still, these were emergency necessities more than possessions.

  She didn’t need things, or want them, trappings to hold her hostage, clutter that had to be fussed and worried over and protected from theft and rot and ruin. Even these items were a ball and chain, but the tactician in her had refused to let them go, and in the moment that seemed wise enough.

  Munroe shuffled through clothes for the brick of bills buried among them, and when she found it, broke off a wad of dollars and euros to create a dozen small rolls that she stuffed into pockets and shoes and undergarments. She dropped the last half of the money into the backpack, pulled a tactical vest from the trunk, studied it for a moment, and with a long inhale, reached into a pocket and drew out one of the knives. Palmed the weight and felt the heft. Waited for a reaction, for the cravings and the urges to come, and when they didn’t, she let out the air.

  Munroe shoved the knife back into the vest, wasn’t about to unsheathe it to find out how far her newfound calm had taken her, dropped the entire thing into the backpack, and followed with a single box of ammo and a handgun she’d brought with her from Europe.

  She preferred the knives, silent extensions of her body, but considering the territory she was about to wade into—attempted hijacking or not, Leo wouldn’t weep if she had an accident—the gun was a necessary evil.

  She pulled a small fireproof safe from the bottom of the trunk, and balanced it on her knees to unlock it. Inside were the rest of her documents, and photos stored in ziplock bags, the only mementos she allowed herself, personal touches of her former life that she would never bring onto Leo’s property as an invitation for someone to dig through her stuff and try to find answers to the questions left open to speculation.

  She added the documents and a few pieces of clothing to the growing collection in her pack, tossed in a roll of duct tape, weapon and tool of choice, the one thing she never allowed herself to forget, replaced the items she would leave behind, and then paused at the photographs. Slipped one out of its protective covering and glimpsed the faces she hadn’t dared look at these past months, smiles she’d once felt, peace she’d briefly had. With the picture came the sense of loss, and the pain, a knife slice against her torso that she blocked out, stomped down, and buried.

  She turned the image facedown, caressed the back of it with her thumb, and then pushed the picture in with the others and dropped them into her pack. Shut and relocked the trunk. This was as close as she ever got to good-bye, and if she never returned, her hosts would eventually figure she was gone for good, would commandeer what she’d left and rent the room out to someone else; if she never returned, she had with her what she couldn’t afford to lose.

  Munroe opened the door and nearly bumped into the teenage sister working in the kitchen. The girl lowered her eyes and stepped aside to allow Munroe to pass.

  “Where is your brother?” Munroe said, and the girl motioned toward the front door. Munroe put one of the small rolls of bills on the counter. “Tell him I came. Tell him to keep my room for another month.”

  The girl nodded, and Munroe, not wanting to make her more uncomfortable than she was already, standing alone in the presence of someone she believed was a young man, left the house, shut the door, and headed down the stairs checking her watch.

  In spite of her recommendation to delay the embarkation until tomorrow’s khat hour, Leo would procee
d with his own plan to board early in the morning dark. She had time. Not a lot, but enough that she could make the return across town on foot, and so she walked, long strides in the dark, mind churning, running what she knew about this contract against everything Leo hadn’t said.

  She reached the compound with forty minutes to spare and waited out the time on the street, where she could watch the gate and catch glimpses of the activity that went on beyond it. Waited until the cars were loaded and the men were inside, and Leo, hand to the roof of the Mitsubishi, Amber in its passenger seat, paused to scan the area. He looked for her, waited for her, was so convinced of her attachment to Amber Marie that even in light of what Natan had surely told him about her leaving the property, he couldn’t imagine that she would have simply taken the other half of his offer and walked away.

  Munroe strode for the gate and stepped into the path of the security lighting. When Leo saw her, his head ticked up in acknowledgment. “You’re late,” he said.

  She paused and made direct eye contact, something she’d never done before. Gave a sly half grin that should jar his perception, then continued for the Land Cruiser where Natan, with his boo-boo hurt ankle, was behind the wheel eyeing her now-fuller backpack.

  She grinned at him too, all the way to the back of the vehicle, where she dumped her pack on top of the other bags that filled the storage area, and then climbed into the backseat beside Victor, who nodded: a gesture that said welcome and also provided notice that now he, and probably every other member on the team, knew the unspoken reason she’d been ordered to come along.

  She nodded back.

  Victor, levelheaded and older than the others, was perhaps the only one who saw beyond her façade of youth and inexperience, and because the rest of the team treated her as an outcast, a necessary evil that they used but didn’t trust, Victor had set about to mentor and protect her. She allowed him that. Even in her indifference she appreciated the kindness and, under the circumstances, expected that he’d be the only one who wouldn’t let chest-thumping war-bonding and loyalty to his boss completely overwhelm reason.

  Munroe slammed the door, and Leo, who’d been watching her all this time, turned, and got behind the wheel of the lead car.

  CHAPTER 3

  They headed out in convoy, dark streets to better-lit thoroughfares, then on to the northernmost shore of the city and the older of the port facilities, where, unlike the newer construction across the bay with its gantry cranes stretched out like giant manacles over massive container ships, the more humble mixture of local dhows and ancient breakbulk freighters berthed to load and unload the piles of boxes and bales lining the dock.

  At the guard post, Leo handed over documents that would allow them entry, documents that had required effort for Munroe to procure, that would guarantee no one looked at what they carried into the port, the type of work for which clients in her past had paid a premium—done here for minimum wage and taken for granted because Leo had no idea of the skill it took to do what she did. In his eyes, all she was and all she’d ever be was a flunky, an expendable underling, unlike the big boys who carried the guns, and that was fine by her.

  The guard waved them through and the lead car navigated along de facto streets formed by shipping containers stacked four and five high, toward the breakbulk wharf and finally to the freighter for which they’d been conscripted.

  Four ships filled the wharf, and a few men still milled around, remnant stevedores sweeping the docks from a ship recently loaded or unloaded. Mostly the port was quiet, all the agents long gone, which had been Leo’s reasoning for boarding at this hour.

  In the world of shipping, nothing happened for a crew or a vessel at port without the ship’s local agent. The agent, eyes and ears and hands of the ship’s owner or charterer, should have been the one to secure the port clearance. Going behind his back as they did tonight meant going behind the back of whoever controlled the ship. And because they were avoiding the agent, they were sneaking armaments into the port for no legitimate reason.

  Unlike many countries, Djibouti permitted the transport of weapons—even had systems in place to facilitate maritime security teams who needed to transfer from airport to seaport. This was one of the reasons Leo had chosen to base his team out of Djibouti—the law of the land spared him the logistical headache and expense of maintaining a mini arsenal in international waters and meeting client ships at sea. There were fees, there was paperwork, there was time and expense, yet none of that had been an issue before, and still tonight Leo made every effort possible to avoid legalities. Which raised the question: If the person who owned the ship and the one responsible for the freight weren’t paying for this armed escort, then who and why? Because Leo and his team, although less expensive than some of the larger, better-known maritime security companies, still didn’t come cheap.

  The lead vehicle continued to the end of the wharf, pulled to a stop near the center of the last ship, and Natan, following close behind, stopped the Land Cruiser alongside. The freighter was larger than Munroe had expected, Liberian flagged, maybe six or seven thousand tons, about 150 meters long, with three hatches and two deck cranes. She sat low in the water with a freeboard that couldn’t have been more than five meters, and by initial assessment was either an old ship or not well cared for.

  Munroe stepped from the car and, together with the others, collected the gear. The captain came down the gangway while several of the ship’s crew looked on from the deck. He was short and stocky with a healthy midsection. Under the glare of the port lights his weathered face and thinning hair pegged him as in his sixties, but his posture, physique, and more, the way he carried himself, said early fifties on the outside, and Munroe would have guessed there was military buried somewhere in his background.

  Leo moved to greet the man and the two shook hands, exchanging words with imperfect English as the common language between them. Munroe knelt to tighten the straps of her backpack, keeping far enough away to avoid drawing attention, close enough to listen in as the captain bantered good ol’ boy to good ol’ boy with a level of camaraderie that came off with far too much exuberance to be genuine. And then, after a moment or two, as if exhausted from the effort, the captain swung his arm in a wide motion toward the gangway and said, “We hurry. Please. Put your men quickly so we go on the way.”

  Leo turned toward Victor and nodded him toward the ship. The Spaniard picked up his gear, started upward, and the other three followed. Munroe let them pass, hoping to catch the last of what was said between Leo and the captain, but they didn’t speak as the men trudged up, and when her delay turned awkward she stood and grudgingly followed, leaving the boss men to whatever they had to discuss.

  On deck, the ship rumbled beneath her feet, the main engine’s oil pumps already running, which explained the crew loitering about: waiting to cast off lines as soon as they were given the order. The men acknowledged her when she boarded but didn’t move to shake hands or speak to her, didn’t have the faux friendliness of their captain, though from the curiosity written on their faces it would seem that Leo’s men were the first armed escort to have boarded with this crew, if not the ship.

  Munroe paused beside the gangway, let her bag slide off her shoulder, and set it by her feet. Victor and the others continued aft, toward the working and living quarters, which rose five levels above a deck long and wide enough that it could be used to lash down additional freight, if needed, but at the moment was empty. The ship’s cargo was limited to the holds below—bags of rice, according to Leo, humanitarian aid for South Sudan by way of Mombasa, Kenya—and scanning the deck for the nearest access hatches, Munroe could only wonder if he was really that stupid or simply believed that she was.

  The captain reboarded while Leo, arms around Amber, lingered on the dock. Unlike the crew, who kept to themselves, the captain approached Munroe and offered a hand, and when she took it, he gripped hers and pumped it in a move of dominance.

  “English is your language?�
� he said.

  She nodded.

  “Good. Very good,” he said, and welcomed her aboard with more of that same too-genuine-to-be-true friendliness: A minute or two of chitchat, just as he’d done with Leo, and then, duty finished, he turned and called out an order to one of his men. He continued on toward the door that the rest of the team had passed through, and Munroe turned back to the docks, searching out anyone who showed undue interest in the security team’s arrival and departure.

  The lighting and distance worked against her, and finding nothing, she leaned forward to stare at Leo and overtly watch the last of his good-bye. It was childish to needle him like this, but given the circumstances, the immaturity of it only made her want to do it more. He caught her eye, gave his wife a final kiss, and Amber turned from him and climbed behind the wheel of the Mitsubishi.

  Munroe couldn’t see her face but, having been through this with her eight times now, knew that as soon as Amber was alone inside that car, the veneer would crack, and the pain and neediness she’d held back on the dock would seep out and the tears would flow.

  The vehicles circled around, and by the time Leo reached the deck Amber was already out of sight. He paused when he got to Munroe and flashed a grin, his way of showing that her behavior hadn’t bothered him. She picked up her bag to follow him.

  “Have you been on a ship before?” he said.

  “It’s not my first voyage.”

  He frowned, almost as if he’d been counting on her falling sea sick on their first night out and was disappointed that it might not be so, then headed up the ladder—stairs in land-based terminology—for the bridge, and she in turn passed through the same door that the rest of the crew had.

  The bosun pointed her up one level to where the helmsmen and mechanics bunked. Her berth was farthest down the passageway, accommodations for one that would be shared by two because Leo’s guards would rotate watch.