Foreign Hostage

by Aiden L Bailey

  “I have to come. Ariana… She needs me.” The young woman was almost in tears again.

  “I’m sorry. Your father paid DevWorld to get her back. But our number one condition is not negotiable: we do things the way we see best. You need to stay here.”

  “I thought you were also here to protect me?”

  “Not taking you on board with me is the best way to do that.”

  She crossed her arms fuming. “This isn’t fair.”

  “I know,” he conceded. “But you have to trust me on this.”

  He considered the situation, and what the coming hours would bring for him. Seven against one were terrible odds. He needed a plan, one that worked with the random jumble of tools he had gained — a Zodiac dinghy with a powerful engine, an assortment of lethal weapons, a satellite phone, snorkeling gear, a spear-gun, and two corpses.

  Simon looked at his waterproof wristwatch, noting it was just after ten in the morning. He couldn’t afford to wait for the cover of darkness, even though that would make it easier to sneak on board, because they might leave before nightfall. So he needed another plan, something more reckless perhaps, but one to increase his own chances of survival and Ariana’s.

  Simon dragged the bodies to the dinghy, propping them up as best he could into sitting positions. He gave one the AK-47, the other the knife. But first he removed the firing pins and bullets from the assault rifle. No point giving additional arms to the enemy.

  He placed the Uzi, the 9mm pistol and the spear-gun in a bag, and then placed the snorkel and face mask on his forehead. He would slip the flippers on when he was ready to dive.

  A curious Meinke watched while he prepared. He didn’t give details, knowing that it would only scare her to know what he was planning.

  When Simon was as ready as he could be, he said to her, “I need to make one call, and then I’m going. I’ll leave the sat phone and the Glock with you. If I’m not back by sunset, leave and get away as fast as you can.” There was a cheap rundown hotel within easy walking distance, the one they had both walked here from this morning. “As soon as you’re safe at the hotel, call Roger Gridley-Brooks, and he will assist you from there.”

  “This is insane.”

  “No Meinke, this is a good plan. Now let me call my boss to cover some last-minute details.”

  He walked down the beach, away from Meinke’s hearing. He watched her to ensure she didn’t follow, all the while keeping a close eye on the jungle to ensure no one rushed her in another surprise attack.

  Simon dialed Roger, who answered. Bringing his boss up to date on everything that had happened since the last call, Simon then explained what he had planned next.

  “That’s a risky plan! Now that you’ve gained good intel that Ariana is there, I can get a support team to you, with paramilitary experience.”

  “Not enough time, Roger, not all the way from Johannesburg. If I don’t act now, I can almost guarantee that when the three thugs I killed don’t join the rest of the crew tonight, the boat will vanish. We might lose Ariana forever if we wait.”

  “Simon, I can’t ask you to do this. It’s a suicide mission — it has to be your choice.”

  Simon swallowed. He knew he was putting his life at risk, but he couldn’t see any other way. His only comfort was that should he die, he had sufficient life insurance to set his daughters up for a prosperous future. In this line of work, life insurance was cheaper than the astronomical health cover he carried in case he should suffer a serious or crippling wound.

  “It’s okay, I’ll do it.” He’d killed two people today, and would kill many more, so he would make the killing mean something. He had to save a worthwhile life for any of this to be justifiable. “Have you learned anything that will help me?”

  “I have.” There was an unsteady tone in Gridley-Brook’s words. “Remember that Chinese businessman Tristan Venter is working for? I dug into his background and discovered a thing or two.”

  “Yeah? Where is Venter at the moment?”

  “Drunk half a bottle of Scotch. He’s slumped unconscious in his office chair.”

  “You still in his office?”

  “How do you think I got access to the Chinese files, and Venter’s emails?”

  Simon felt both impressed and horrified. He wondered whether Gridley-Brooks had gotten Venter inebriated so he could snoop on their client more easily. “What did you learn?”

  “The guy Venter is dealing with, he’s one of Beijing’s new entrepreneur class. Cheng Xuesen, sole owner of the Xuesen Development Corporation — the man controls more than a billion U.S. dollars in property investments across the globe.”

  Simon tried to recall if he had heard of this man before, but the name wasn’t familiar. “What’s Venter’s involvement? Aren’t they in the same line of work? Competitors?”

  “Xuesen is looking to invest in South Africa, so I guess he needs a partner who knows Johannesburg, Durban and Cape Town.”

  Simon was still trying to figure out the connection between a wealthy Chinese businessman and Yemenis kidnappers with terrorist affiliations. He couldn’t work out where Roger was going with this. Whatever the connection, he knew it couldn’t be good. “Makes sense, I guess.”

  “It will make more sense, Simon, when I tell you the next bit.”

  “Which is?”

  “Xuesen is your typical eccentric billionaire. His eccentricity shows through his personal properties across the globe. In Beijing, he has a house done up like a Roman villa, in New York a penthouse styled as an Aztec temple, in Hong Kong an apartment resembling the abode of an Egyptian Pharaoh.”

  “Weird. Not even related to the region the property is in! How did you find that out?”

  “Forbes magazine. All I did was Google him. Found an article on eccentric billionaires.”

  “So, Venter is outfitting a luxury apartment for Xuesen? You think in Cape Town?”

  “Bingo. Xuesen’s gone for a Babylonian theme this time.”

  Simon shook his head. Some people had way too much money, wasting it on useless crap when they could have donated it to a worthwhile cause, such as medical research, scholarships for the under-privileged or aid programs in developing countries. No, people like Xuesen were narcissists, who had to prove to the world how important they were by shrouding themselves in the very best that money could buy. Possessions normal people could never imagine ever owning. It made them feel elite, worthy of something other than just making money. Or at least, that was how Simon imagined they justified their privileged lives, by the ‘things’ they owned.

  “I still don’t get why the guy doesn’t have soul enough to give Venter a break until he finds his daughter?”

  He heard Gridley-Brooks chuckling down the line. “Neither do I. I’ll keep looking into it though and see what turns up.”

  “Please do. My gut says there has to be a terrorist connection here. Or, at the very optimistic end of the spectrum, some dodgy international business deal is going down.”

  “Yeah, I’m thinking so too.”

  “Thanks Roger.”

  “You’re sure you want to do this alone?”

  “No, but what choice do I have?”

  Gridley-Brooks paused before he said, “You’re right. I can’t see any other way around it. Good luck Simon. You will need it.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Simon left Meinke standing dejected and alone on the beach as he powered up the Zodiac and pushed through the breaking waves. The two seated corpses were as comical as they were creepy, in their roles as ‘living’ passengers. Simon smiled at them, as if he knew a preposterous joke they didn’t understand.

  In no time he drew closer to the trawler. Seen through the binoculars the vessel appeared to sit low in the water, suggesting it carried far more cargo than its design limits. Three men were up on deck. Two had AK-47s slung over their shoulders, the other had a holstered revolver. Two looked African, while the man with the pistol appeared Arabic, wearing a headscarf wrapped lik
e a turban, a white thobe garment and futa skirt. A clear indicator he was Yemenis was the ceremonial dagger prominent on his belt, a Jambiya. In a country renowned for its violence and instability, the curved blade would have spilled the blood of many men in its past, making it a valued family heirloom.

  Drawing closer Simon could read the name of the boat, the Spinecutter, scrawled both in English and Arabic.

  Simon shuddered, certain this was not the trawler’s original name.

  Spinecutter.

  The name said it all.

  He guessed pirates had stolen the trawler, no doubt from respectable owners were now long dead and food for the fishes. It was too pristine and too Western to have come from Yemen.

  Speeding ever closer, Simon tied a rope around the dinghy’s motor, holding it in a position to force the small boat to collide with the trawler. He gathered his bag containing the weapons, securing it over one shoulder and across his chest, then donned his flippers, face mask and snorkel. With a separate length of rope tied to the back of the Zodiac, he jumped into the ocean and hid underwater, bringing his head above the surface only when he needed to gauge how close the boat had moved to his target. The snorkel ensured he could breathe underwater while submerged.

  When the dinghy was within thirty meters of the Spinecutter he was certain it would cause confusion for the men onboard. The two dead thugs would look odd from a distance, and the dinghy wasn’t slowing. He released the rope and dived.

  The water was clear and pristine, a soft aqua blue, often associated with tropical, beach vacation destinations. His flippers gave him speed and his mask, a clear view underwater. The sandy bottom was about thirty meters beneath him, home for many fish, sponges and seaweed. He saw the hull of the Spinecutter, a short swim away. He came to the surface, long enough to suck in a lung full of air, before diving again.

  Simon swam as deep as he could, knowing that in clear waters the kidnappers would see him from the surface. Kicking fast, he propelled himself to the anchor chain. Before his breath gave out, he tied the bag containing the spear-gun to the chain, then swam towards the surface with the Uzi in his hand, the 9mm pistol in his belt and the knife on his leg sheath.

  He’d been under for two full minutes now, and could feel himself pushing hard against his body’s limits.

  He kicked fast to the opposite side of the trawler, away from where he expected the Zodiac to have impacted. Surfacing, Simon almost choked, trying to breathe. He’d been under far too long. One, two and three deep breaths and his panic began to subside. Swimming was not his strongest skill.

  A minute passed. With his blood oxygenated once again, he gazed towards the deck to see if anyone on this side of the trawler was looking down at the water, searching for him. Something he should have done when he first surfaced. No heads peered over. So far luck was on his side.

  He dived again ready to swim to the aft of the trawler, only to see a large, gray shape loom out of the ocean depths, on a direct collision course with him.

  At first he thought it was a man, maybe one of the crew had jumped in to find him.

  But the shape was too fluid in its motions, too fast to be human.

  As it drew close, Simon realized he was staring into the cold, emotionless, inky black eyes of a three meter long bull shark.

  Instinct tugged at him to swim fast and get away. His logical mind screamed that to flee would only attract the shark, showing the creature that Simon was easy prey. He remained in place, making slow motions with his limbs, hoping that he could convince the shark he was a predator too. One that was not afraid of it, holding out as long as he could before he needed to surface for another breath.

  As the gray shark circled, Simon kept turning, making sure he always faced toward it. Up close it looked huge, maybe two hundred kilograms, twice Simon’s weight — all of it lethal.

  The shark turned and swam away. Simon ducked up to the surface, engulfing another lungful of life-giving air. Then he ducked down again.

  The shark was nowhere in sight.

  Simon turned in circles, searching, all the while trying to appear calm.

  He spotted it, approaching again, this time swimming straight at him.

  If he had the spear-gun, he would have fired it now. He might not kill it, but a spear would wound it to send it on its way.

  Simon had the Uzi submachine gun and the pistol, but he knew from basic military training that bullets fired underwater didn’t travel very far. He would have to wait until the shark was almost upon him, only a meter or two, leaving no room for errors.

  Simon braced himself.

  The shark swam toward Simon at a speed he could never hope to achieve, darting and twisting in various directions working to confuse and disorient Simon.

  Desperate for breath again, Simon’s lungs burned, knowing that now was the wrong moment to surface.

  Ten meters. Eight. Six.

  Unexpectedly, it turned, swimming away, darting deeper into the ocean.

  A trail of blood followed it, and Simon could see there was a puncture wound halfway down its back.

  He saw bullets, dropping through the water. At least a dozen metal slugs.

  Someone on the surface had shot at the bull shark. At least one bullet had hit. Possibly more.

  Lungs screaming, Simon kicked upwards, reaching the surface to take a desperate breath.

  Then he dived again.

  With the men on the trawler distracted by the shark, Simon swam to the rear of the vessel. Head pounding from oxygen deprivation, he broke the surface, blessing the air he could breathe again, and peered up over the transom. No one was looking towards either him or the aft of the trawler, so he climbed up, removing his face mask, snorkel and flippers. He stood with his knife poised and ready.

  He identified six men, half of them African, the other half Arabian, all dressed in various styles of the typical Muslim garb and all peering into the water, focused on where he had last seen the shark. Two of the thugs swung long, hooked poles, attempting to drag the dinghy closer to the boat which pressed up against the Spinecutter, engine still churning. Another two men were throwing grappling hooks into the water, perhaps hoping to snare and kill the shark.

  With the men distracted, Simon slipped his knife back into its sheaf and switched to the Uzi, keeping it raised and aimed in their direction, in case they looked up in his direction.

  Moving with speed he descended below deck, heading in the direction he hoped the captain’s stateroom would be.

  Finding the door, it surprised him to find it unlocked. Ready with the submachine gun, he opened it and was unsurprised to find Ariana inside, lying naked, bruised and bloody on the bed.

  She shuddered when she saw him, whimpering and curling into a tight ball. He noted the manacle that aggravated the raw skin around her right ankle, connecting her, by a chain, to a bolt in the wall.

  Ariana was similar in build to Meinke, slender with pale, freckled skin and thick red hair, but she was in a far worse state than her sibling. Her eyes peered dark and raw at him, making her look like a hunted animal. Her flesh was a map of bruises and cuts from the many beatings she’d suffered. Welts on her back were oozing dark red blood — they had whipped her often.

  Simon felt sick. Having seen this kind of brutality before, he knew she would not recover from this ordeal soon, if ever. His only opportunity now was to secure her away from the sadistic crew, alive and without further injury, and hope that in time she would recover well enough to live a semi-normal life.

  Understanding that he was not there to harm her, she whispered, “You shouldn’t be here,” looking around the cabin as if terrified that the very walls might betray her. “He’ll kill you if he finds you.”

  “Who?”

  “The Spinecutter.”

  Simon shut the door behind him, lowering his weapon and making a gentle approach. “Ariana,” he said, “I’m with your sister, Meinke. I’m here to rescue you.”

  She stared straight through hi
m, just as Meinke had after her assault on the beach. She wrapped her arms around her legs, pulling them up close to her body.

  “Who are you? I haven’t seen you before.”

  “My name is Simon.”

  “Simon?”

  “I assure you I’m not one of them. I will not hurt you.”

  She rocked back and forth, mumbling.

  Simon realized that this rescue would be far more difficult than he had hoped for. Ariana was in shock, terrified of her captors, but even more terrified that any insurrection on her behalf would only bring a more severe punishment than she had already experienced so far.

  “Do you hear what I’m saying, Ariana? I will get you to safety.”

  She lay down again, curling into a tighter ball.

  Assessing the situation in more detail, Simon could see there was no easy means by which to remove the manacle. At the very least he’d need a crowbar to pry it from the wall. And it looked heavy enough that, in such a weakened and traumatized state, she wouldn’t be able to swim with the manacle attached to her ankle. He was sure she’d drop straight to the bottom of the sea.

  He made the only decision he could — first he would have to incapacitate every man on this boat, and then he would come back for her.

  “Ariana, get dressed. I’ll be back for you soon once I’ve dealt with your kidnappers.”

  “I can’t,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have no clothes. No will. I have nothing.”

  Simon’s mind escalated from calm determination to absolute fury. To hell with his moral convictions about killing other men, every man on this vessel would pay for the tortures they had inflicted on this poor woman, and they would pay for it with their lives. He would take them all out, one by one.

  He forced himself to sound calm, “Okay, Ariana, I promise you, I will be back for you soon. Stay here until then.”

  She nodded, crawling back onto the bed, curling her knees up under her. “If you are here to save me, then know he’ll come for me, soon…” She choked on the fear rising in her throat. “It’s the same, every day…”