He was in a foul mood as he carefully folded his clothes and packed them in the suitcases. Really.
* * *
Mike Rosen was typing his last e-mail to his radio station when the captain’s announcement came over the loudspeaker. He jotted it down, quoted it in his e-mail. Passengers and crew were to be removed from the ship, held in the old fortress, two hundred million dollars ransom or else the pirates would let the captives starve. He typed it all as quickly as he could, read it while the pirate in the door watched with a bored expression. Corrected all the typos he saw. Changed a sentence around to improve the syntax.
Then he paused for thought. Decided to describe Sheikh Ragnar, big, fat and dirty, with a lot of missing teeth and a scraggly beard. He had no idea if the beard was a religious thing or if the guy was just too damn cheap and lazy to shave. Maybe he thought the scraggly chin hair gave him a unique look, gave him a leg up with the local trollops. Rosen wrote all this down, because he could and his psyche worked that way, and wondered what else he should say.
He had seen the blood and bits of flesh stuck to this and that on the bridge. He added a paragraph about that in the proper place. These pirates were homicidal-everyone ought to know it.
Added several paragraphs about the captain, who he was, how he looked. Rosen recognized the captain’s wife seated on the bridge, and he wrote about her, about what she must feel watching these pirates force her husband to do their bidding. What she must have felt as she watched them murder passengers.
He was bitter and he wrote as fast as he could pound the keys.
He was still going at it when the pirate in the door said something in Somali and gestured with his rifle. The meaning was unmistakable. Wrap it up.
Rosen did, and clicked the SEND icon. The screen blinked, and the e-mail was launched into cyberspace.
Then he signed out. Found out he had spent another $27.89 on Internet charges. His credit card would be charged.
* * *
The captain’s announcement gave Heinrich Beck a real problem. He had two kilos of cocaine stuffed in an air-circulation vent high in the wall of his stateroom, behind the metal intake screen. After the ransom was paid-Beck knew the pirates would demand one, although he didn’t know how much-would the passengers be put back aboard the ship? Or not?
Two kilos of cocaine, nearly five pounds of the damn stuff, was a serious investment for Herman Stehle. It was not to be lightly abandoned. If Beck could deliver it in Doha, Stehle would pay him a hundred thousand euros. If he didn’t get it there, well, Stehle would be a tough sell on the innocence defense. The risks were high, of course, which was why there was so much money to be made. Usually it was cops and customs inspectors who could ruin him. Or in Doha, an executioner’s sword. Now he was dealing with pirates who might rob or kill him.
And if for any reason he didn’t deliver the stuff, there was good ol’ Herman Stehle, a friend of all mankind.
Optimism was not one of Beck’s virtues. He knew in his bones that if he left the cocaine hidden in the vent, he would never see the ship again. If he took both packages with him, with all the risk that entailed, he would wind up right back in this stateroom in a week or so.
He decided to hedge his bet. Take one package with him and leave one in the vent. He removed a small piece of metal from the heel of his shoe and used it as a screwdriver on the two screws that held the vent screen in place. Pulled out one package, laid it on the bed and replaced the vent screen.
The backpack, he decided. Nearly two and a half pounds of coke was too much for his pocket, and he certainly didn’t have the materials to break it down into smaller packages.
The pirates weren’t in the business of enforcing drug laws. If they caught him with this stuff, he wasn’t going to be prosecuted-they would merely take the coke and laugh in his face. Cocaine was valuable in Africa, too, although the folks in these climes rarely had the money to buy the stuff. They would happily snort it up their noses, though, if he wasn’t very careful.
His decision made, Heinrich Beck packed his backpack. Several sets of underwear, one shirt, toilet articles, his blood pressure pills and his cash. Some socks and one sweater. His toothbrush. All the toilet paper in the bathroom.
That was it. The rest of his stuff he left right where it was. If fate allowed him to return to this room, the coke would still be in the vent. He didn’t care a whit about the extra clothes or shoes or dinner jacket. He pocketed his wallet and passport, opened the door and went out, making sure it locked behind him. A few other people were already in the passageway.
One of them smiled bravely at Beck, who wasn’t the smiling type. He bared his teeth anyway in what he hoped was a friendly manner and settled the backpack on his shoulders.
CHAPTER NINE
The helicopter from Langley flew under low clouds, through a cold, rainy, miserable day, across New Jersey and New York Harbor. It settled to the tarmac at a New York heliport, where Mario Tomazic, director of the CIA, and Jake Grafton got out after thanking the crew. The Justice Department had a black Lincoln Town Car waiting. After creeping for a while over glistening wet Manhattan streets, through the usual heavy traffic, the car deposited the two men at the secure entrance to One St. Andrews Plaza, a building adjacent to Foley Square in lower Manhattan, the building that housed the U.S. attorney’s office for the Southern District of New York.
An escort was waiting, a handsome young lawyer in a tailored suit. He took them via elevator to a conference room high in the building, where they were met by an assistant U.S. attorney in his fifties. His suit wasn’t tailored and his tie was crooked. He was at least three weeks past his haircut due date.
After the introductions and handshaking, he got right to it. “The attorney for Omar Ali has requested a plea bargain.”
Grafton and Tomazic both remembered Ali, the computer geek for Sheikh Ragnar that Tommy Carmellini and his team had snatched from a building in Mogadishu, Somalia, three weeks ago.
“I thought he was going to plead not guilty and take his chances,” Tomazic said grumpily. His low opinion of the American justice system’s ability to successfully prosecute terrorists-and pirates-was well known in government circles.
Grafton, ever the pragmatist, asked, “What’s he got to bargain with?”
“His attorney says that he has knowledge of a terrorist plan to assassinate the passengers and crew of Sultan of the Seas,” the government lawyer said.
“The pirates didn’t capture the ship until yesterday. How could he know that?”
“He says Ragnar has been planning the attack on the Sultan for over a month.”
“The question remains, What could he know?” Tomazic said curtly. “The son of a bitch has been locked up in the States for three weeks.”
“He knows that the Shabab plans to murder everyone after Ragnar collects his ransom.” The Shabab was the Islamic extremist organization that had been waging civil war with the Somali government for seventeen years.
“Does he have specifics?”
“His attorney says he does.”
“Oh, poop,” Tomazic said and raised an eyebrow at Grafton. He had learned through the years of their association that Grafton was a competent, levelheaded operator who never panicked. The retired admiral was at his best in high-pressure situations that called for Solomon’s ability to weigh risks and possible outcomes. On the other hand, as Tomazic well knew, Grafton was at heart a gambler, a man willing to stake everything to win everything. In fact, he was the exact opposite of Mario Tomazic, a career army officer who had risen to the top of his profession by avoiding risk with the fervor of a devout Baptist avoiding sin.
Still, the measure of Tomazic’s leadership ability was that he allowed a man like Grafton into his inner circle and listened carefully to his counsel. Mario Tomazic believed in winning. For himself, for his agency, and for America. And Jake Grafton was a winner. He made his own luck. Sometimes, Tomazic knew, the wisest course was to give Grafton his head and let him
run while chugging Pepto-Bismol.
“We’ve passed this on to the White House,” the assistant U.S. attorney said. “It was too hot for us.”
Tomazic and Grafton traded glances. They knew precisely what the lawyer meant. If Justice discounted Ali’s tale and the Shabab did indeed attempt to murder the Sultan’s people, they would be pilloried. Yet if Omar Ali sold them a bill of goods, they would be pilloried for being too easily manipulated. In other words, a lose-lose situation.
“We would need details,” Grafton said, “all we can get, and we’ll check out his story. Keep you advised. If he’s telling the truth, we’ll let you know. If he’s peddling bullshit, we’ll let you know that, too.”
“Off the record, have you guys heard anything about a planned mass murder of the Sultan’s people?”
Tomazic’s bureaucratic instincts took over. “That’s something we would have to talk to the White House about. Not here.”
The prosecutor examined their faces. “No, you haven’t. I thought not.”
“So how does this work?” Jake Grafton asked. “We want everything this guy can tell us, and if it turns out to be true, you can do any deal you like. A light sentence, kiss his ass and send him home, or give him asylum and a job sweeping around here at night. Your call. But we can’t evaluate his story until we’ve heard it and asked questions.”
Tomazic nodded his concurrence.
“The White House told us to give you everything we can get.”
“Let’s get at it, then,” Tomazic said and rose from his chair. What he hadn’t told the Justice Department lawyers was that he had already had extensive conversations that morning with the president’s national security adviser and chief of staff. The credibility of Omar Ali’s story would determine whether the United States was going to pay the ransom Ragnar demanded or mount a military mission to rescue the Sultan’s passengers and crew. Tomazic was not about to share those conversations with the lawyers at Foley Square, who didn’t need to know.
* * *
Two hours later, when Tomazic and Grafton got into the limo for the ride back to the heliport, they didn’t know a lot more than the prosecutors or the White House had told them. Ali said that he had told a high official in the Shabab about Ragnar’s plans to hijack the cruise ship. The terrorist had wanted to know everything Ali knew, and had a bunch of questions that Ali didn’t have the answers to. All these questions, about where the passengers and crew would be held, how many pirates would be guarding them, when the ransom exchange would take place, led Ali to believe that the Shabab was interested in a lot more than stealing the money from Ragnar. Or sharing a goodly portion of it. Ali thought the Shabab leadership would try for a terror event that would break the shaky truce between the terrorists and pirates, and reignite holy war in Somalia.
Tomazic was in a foul mood. “He doesn’t actually know anything,” he muttered.
Grafton held his tongue.
“There was not one single fact capable of being checked,” Tomazic added. “We don’t even know if he really met this Shabab dude, Feiz al-Darraji, or if he’s making it all up.”
It was still raining. Grafton sat looking out the window at people holding newspapers and umbrellas over their heads, trying to hail taxis.
“So what do you think?” Tomazic asked at last.
“I think Ali really believes what he is saying,” Jake said slowly. “At least, he thinks it is highly probable. He knows we’ll check it out. There is undoubtedly a guy named Feiz al-Darraji. We sure won’t get any answers out of him, if we can find him. If events turn out the way Ali tells us they will, he’ll get a plea deal. If they don’t, he’ll get a long stretch in a federal pen, which is precisely what he’s looking at anyway.”
“He’s just buying a lottery ticket,” Tomazic countered.
“Ali’s not the most sophisticated man I’ve met lately.”
Tomazic mulled it over for several blocks. “The White House meddled in Task Force 151’s efforts,” he said. “Arguably Admiral Tarkington could have forced the pirates to surrender and we’d have all the hostages back if the White House savants had kept their mouths shut and let Tarkington do his job. When the dust settles, Congress is going to have a field day investigating.”
“There’s that,” Grafton said dryly. “So far, the White House staffers haven’t covered themselves with glory.”
Tomazic grunted.
“Ali’s tale will force their hand,” Grafton continued. “They can’t pay the ransom and hope for the best. Shooting Ragnar isn’t going to solve their problem. They are going to have to send in the marines.”
“So what should I tell them?”
“Tell them they have run out of choices. No more hand-wringing and fretting about what the Europeans will think. No more sitting around worrying about all the things that could go wrong. It’s time to suck it up and fight.”
* * *
Captain Arch Penney watched from the bridge as a small armada of fishing boats and skiffs was overloaded with people and sent scurrying across the brown water toward the crumbling piers under the old fortress. Several times the boats were so overloaded that they shipped water over the gunwales, but he didn’t see any sink or overturn. A minor miracle, he thought.
Julie went below, presumably to pack a few things. Mustafa stood beside Penney watching and issuing orders on a small handheld radio. Actually, he seemed to have this evolution organized fairly well, because it came off without a lot of aimless milling around.
The key part of the operation was getting enough food ashore to sustain nine hundred people. The food and cooking utensils were being off-loaded onto skiffs through the port pilot’s landing. The chief steward was in charge of that operation and would undoubtedly do his best.
Penney knew damn well it took a lot of food to keep everyone eating for any length of time. Once food was removed from refrigeration, it wouldn’t last. Mustafa’s remark that Ragnar would sell them food had left him a little queasy. Nine hundred Western stomachs couldn’t make it on roasted goat.
Well, he thought, a little belt-tightening wouldn’t do anyone any harm. As long as they had adequate clean water.
There was little he could do about any of it except argue with Mustafa, and he suspected that would not get him far. Still, even Ragnar and Mustafa al-Said must be smart enough to realize that ransoming dead people was not a viable business.
Finally Mustafa herded Arch below to the captain’s cabin. He and Julie didn’t have any time alone. He was ordered to carry their stuff and prodded off for the pilot’s port where everyone was embarking.
* * *
It was only after everyone was off the ship that Ragnar and Mustafa sat down with the passports and began trying to evaluate who they had and how much their lives might be worth. Normally Omar Ali would use his computer wired to the Internet to get this information.
Since Ali was now firmly grasped in the bosom of the Americans, they made do with what they had, which was Mike Rosen.
Ensconced in the e-communications lounge, which Rosen swept clean of broken glass and spent brass while the brain trust noodled over the passports, they looked a little befuddled. Mustafa spoke some English but read little of it. Ragnar, Rosen soon decided, was essentially illiterate. He liked looking at the photos in the passports and studying the stamps to see where the owner had been. He quickly tired of it, though, and let Mustafa do the heavy lifting.
Mustafa soon turned to Rosen.
“We use computer,” he said and gestured to the desk unit in the little office.
Rosen logged on. Went to his e-mail account and found he had over a hundred new messages. He opened the first one, but Mustafa had other ideas.
“No, no, no. We search.” He shoved a passport at Mike. “This man. Type in his name. Find out who he is.”
Rosen didn’t hit the Google search key quickly enough, and Mustafa rapped his knuckles with his pistol barrel.
“You do as I say, and when I say, or I don’t
need you anymore.”
Mustafa put the barrel of the weapon flush against Rosen’s left temple and pressed lightly.
“You think you only man use computer?”
Well, he had Rosen there. Probably 90 percent of the passengers and crew were computer literate. Mike made an instant decision to do precisely as Mustafa asked. He had no choice and he knew it.
As he typed names into the Google search engine and printed out search results for Mustafa to study, Mike realized that there was a book in his future. He was going to make a real bundle writing a book. Probably as much as Mustafa al-Said would earn in a lifetime of pirating. Maybe more.
Life isn’t fair.
* * *
The old fortress was a ruin, Captain Penney found, but the walls and ceilings were remarkably intact. Crumbling in places, but still habitable. If the roof didn’t fall in.
The old cannons that had once stood in the casements were long gone, if they had ever been installed. The people were herded into these rooms, each of which held thirty or so people.
Unfortunately the place was filthy with the trash of prior tenants-apparently the pirates had used the place as a jail for years-and human waste. There were no restrooms, merely rooms with holes in the floor. From the smell, the cisterns under the holes were not empty.
Penney’s officers had taken charge and were getting the place cleaned, using every able-bodied person. A gunpowder storage room near the center of the structure had had a hole hacked in the overhead at some time in the historic past, so they built a fire under the hole and set up a makeshift kitchen.
The chief steward had even remembered to bring battery-operated emergency lanterns, so they would have a little light at night, as long as the batteries lasted. Just now he handed Julie Penney a cup of tea, then gave one to the captain.
A grateful Arch Penney greedily sipped the sweet hot liquid.
Pirate Alley Page 13
