Bodyguard: Ransom (Book 2) (8 page)

Dust swirled in the hot dry air as a white-and-chrome Land Cruiser bumped its way down Hobyo’s unpaved street. In the furnace of mid-afternoon, the Somalian harbour town was largely deserted, except for a few scrawny children kicking a football made of plastic bags.

Sharif, a pot-bellied Somali with a thin moustache, gazed through his vehicle’s blacked-out windows at the crumbling concrete buildings beyond. Some were whitewashed, others matched the dull brown of the road. All were topped with green corrugated tin roofs that had warped under the glare of the African sun.

The driver honked his horn and a goat, bleating indignantly, trotted out of the path of the oncoming 4x4. Turning a corner, the Land Cruiser entered the central square where, unexpectedly, the town was bustling with life. A throng of people crowded outside a two-storey building with flaking yellow walls, pockmarked by bullet holes.

The Land Cruiser ground to a halt beside three other 4x4s that were haphazardly parked in the middle of the
road, their stereos blaring reggae-inspired tunes. Several young men in T-shirts and loose wrap-around
ma’awis
sarongs were slumped beneath a tree, chewing green khat leaves, AK47 machine guns cradled in their laps. They eyed the Land Cruiser with mild suspicion but made no move to investigate.

Sharif clambered out of the air-conditioned cocoon of the vehicle, his blue cotton shirt instantly sticking to him in the sapping heat as he strode over to the gathered mob.

‘
Ii warran?
’ he asked a woman wearing a black headscarf.

The young woman, her face dark and smooth as ebony, grinned at him. ‘A ransom payout!’ she replied in Somali and held up a slip of paper. ‘I’m waiting to collect my share. I invested my ex-husband’s rocket-propelled grenade in the company.’

Other fortunate investors, who’d gambled their money, weapons or belongings with the successful pirate gang, pushed and jostled their way forward to make their claims. But not everyone was jubilant. An elderly woman in a long blue
jilbaab
squatted in the dirt, her eyes red raw with tears.

‘Has … anyone news … of my son?’ she sobbed, raising her hands to the heavens.

Another woman crouched at her side, trying to offer comfort. ‘I’m sure he’s still at sea –’

Ignoring the old woman’s sorrow, Sharif shouldered his way through the crowd into the former mayor’s office that now housed the pirates’ ‘stock exchange’, a facility for raising funds for hijack operations. Six brokers were
dealing with the numerous claims of the town’s investors, as well as welcoming new investments.

Sharif approached a round-faced man wearing gold-rimmed glasses. Sitting at a rickety wooden desk, the broker welcomed him with a gap-toothed grin.

‘
Soo dhowow!
’ he said in greeting. ‘Cousin, please sit down.’ He gestured to a battered plastic chair. ‘How can I help you?’

Sharif immediately got down to business. ‘I represent a client who wishes to invest in a pirate gang.’

‘You mean “maritime company”,’ corrected the broker with a knowing wink.

‘Ah … yes, of course,’ Sharif agreed amiably, although both men knew what they were really talking about. ‘And he only wants the best, the most reliable.’

The broker didn’t even pause before replying. ‘That’ll be Oracle and his men.’

Flipping to a fresh page in his battered ledger, the broker licked the tip of his pencil, wrote the date and scored a line down one side. He glanced up at Sharif. ‘What does your client have to invest? Weapons? Supplies? Cash?’

‘Cash. And moreover he wants to be the
sole
investor in an operation.’

The broker’s eyes widened, gleaming like silver coins in his black moon-face. ‘I trust your client has deep pockets … start-up costs are a minimum of thirty thousand dollars.’

Sharif nodded and placed a blue sports bag on the table. ‘There’s fifty thousand. My client wishes to ensure the “maritime company” has the best resources for the job.’

The broker unzipped the bag and licked his lips at the sight of five large bundles of crisp $100 notes.

‘I’ll contact Oracle straight away,’ he said, re-zipping the bag. But as he went to take it Sharif grabbed his wrist and locked eyes with the broker.

‘My client
expects
results.’

The broker gave Sharif a regretful smile. ‘Of course I respect such a request, but in this business, as you well know, we can offer no guarantees. Hijacking a ship is a risky business.’

‘Then this should reduce the risk,’ said Sharif, handing the broker a large brown envelope.

The broker went to open it.

‘No,’ said Sharif. ‘For Oracle’s eyes only.’

The broker held up his hand in apology. ‘I only wished to note its contents. The return on a successful hijack-and-ransom is usually ten times the amount invested.’ Placing the unopened envelope in the bag, he then carefully wrote down the items in his ledger. ‘Who shall I name as the official investor? Yourself, Sharif?’

‘No, I’m merely the middleman. No name. Just date it,’ instructed Sharif.

The broker raised an eyebrow at this, but nonetheless did as instructed. He glanced up as he wrote. ‘Is your client trustworthy?’

Sharif shrugged. ‘He’s rich. And pays cash in advance.’

‘Then who needs trust?’ laughed the broker. He tore a strip of paper from the bottom of his ledger. ‘Your receipt.’

Sharif took the scrap of paper. ‘Thank you, cousin.
Nabadeey
,’ he said, bidding his farewell.

Leaving the bustling ‘stock exchange’, Sharif crossed the dusty square and clambered back into the Land Cruiser.

‘It’s done,’ he said in English, handing his client the receipt.

The man in the back pocketed the paper slip without a word.

‘
Mayday, Mayday, Mayday! This is motor yacht
Athena, Athena, Athena
. Mayday
Athena
. My position is South 3° 52
'
23
",
East 55° 34
'
42
"
, approximately five miles south-west of Denis Island. We have hit submerged object and are sinking. I have four persons on board. We require immediate assistance. Abandoning to life raft. Over.
’

The VHF radio crackled loudly with static.

No one responded to the distress call. Nor was a response expected.

Ling, who’d sent the message, sat safe and sound in Alpha team’s classroom at Buddyguard Headquarters, miles from any sinking ship. She turned to Bugsy, radio mic in hand. ‘Why does everything have to be repeated three times?’

Their surveillance and communications tutor, a bald-headed man with the stocky build of a wrestler, held up two stubby fingers. ‘First, to ensure that the message is heard accurately. And, second, to distinguish it from other radio chatter.’

He lowered the radio’s volume and faced the rest of the team.

‘Knowing how to make a Mayday call is a vital skill for any crew member aboard a boat. It can mean the difference between life and death at sea.’ His sharp beady eyes flicked across to Connor. ‘Summarize the Mayday procedure for me.’

Connor glanced at his notes.

‘Turn on VHF radio, check power, press and hold the red Distress button for five seconds –’

‘Good. Now, Amir, what does this action do?’ interjected Bugsy.

Amir was quick to respond. ‘It broadcasts a digital alert to all DSC-equipped craft as well as the local coastguard. This will include your MMSI – the unique number identifying your craft – along with your position and the time.’

Bugsy gave his student a big thumbs up and Amir beamed. ‘Jason, what if there’s no response within fifteen seconds?’

‘Err … repeat the distress call.’

‘That’s right. But this time by voice, just as Ling did.’ Bugsy turned to Richie, who was gazing out of the window with a blank expression. ‘Richie, what VHF channel should you transmit on?’

Richie fumbled for an answer. ‘Umm … ten?’

‘No, Channel Sixteen!’ snapped Bugsy, tapping the dial on the radio that clearly indicated this. ‘Pay attention. Just because you’re not going on this mission, Richie, doesn’t mean you won’t need this knowledge in the future. All distress, urgency and safety signals are transmitted by international agreement on VHF Channel Sixteen. Make a note of this.’

With a begrudging effort, Richie opened his laptop and typed the information down.

Bugsy tutted at his student then resumed his questioning. ‘So, Marc, what must you check before sending a verbal Mayday?’

Marc rubbed at his temple, trying to jog his memory. Then he clicked his fingers as he remembered. ‘That the radio is switched to
high power
to transmit.’

Bugsy nodded. ‘Connor, what is the official format of the Mayday call?’

Connor didn’t need to check his notes this time. ‘Repeat Mayday and the name of the vessel three times, then give your position, nature of the emergency, the number of people on board, what assistance you need, and finish by saying “over”.’

Bugsy fired more questions around the room, allowing
no one
the opportunity to switch off from his lesson again. Once satisfied that Alpha team knew the protocol inside out, he announced, ‘One important proviso about VHF radios – they have a limited “line-of-sight” range. In real terms, that’s about forty miles from a coastal station, but only ten miles between two yachts. So, considering the size of the oceans, this is by no means a foolproof distress system.’

‘How about using a mobile phone instead?’ Amir suggested.

Ling laughed. ‘You’re at sea, stupid! Where will you get a signal?’

‘In actual fact, mobiles can be used for requesting help,’
said Bugsy. ‘In areas of little or seemingly no signal, a text might still stand a good chance of getting through.’

Amir gave Ling a triumphant look and waved his mobile in her face. ‘See! It would work.’

‘Teacher’s pet,’ she muttered, her eyes narrowing.

‘Loser,’ shot back Amir.

Ling made a grab for his mobile. ‘Watch it or I’ll stick that phone where there’s
definitely
no signal!’

‘Settle down, you two,’ said Bugsy, wagging a finger at their childish squabbling. ‘Ling’s got a point, though. The signal range is limited to the coastal areas. Also, only one person hears your call and a mobile can’t be homed in on as easily as a VHF transmission.’

Ling stuck her tongue out at Amir in smug victory.

Bugsy frowned at her behaviour but continued with his lecture. ‘That’s why most boats are equipped with satellite systems featuring voice, data, fax and GMDSS capabilities.’

‘What’s GMDSS?’ asked Jason, struggling to make notes fast enough.

‘Global Maritime Distress and Safety System. It’s a highly sophisticated worldwide distress system that delivers emergency, safety and other communications, such as weather warnings and search-and-rescue messages –’

The class bell rang for lunch and, like all schoolkids, Alpha team began to pack away with impatient urgency.

‘Just one more thing,’ said Bugsy, holding up a bright yellow plastic cylinder with a light and short aerial at one end. ‘This is an emergency position-indicating radio beacon. It transmits a distress signal to satellites and relays
the information to a rescue coordination centre. EPIRBs are pretty cool gadgets, since they automatically activate upon immersion in water and have a float-free bracket if the vessel sinks.’

Bugsy placed the EPIRB on the desk for the class to examine. Then he stowed away his laptop, popped a piece of chewing gum into his mouth and headed out of the door.

Alpha team gathered their belongings and filed past the EPIRB, giving it the once-over.

Jason picked it up and regarded Connor. ‘Let’s pray there aren’t any Maydays on your mission.’

‘I’m with you there,’ said Connor. Then he caught the odd expression on Jason’s face. ‘Hey, what do you mean by that?’

‘Well, you got shot last time, didn’t you?’

Nettled by the implied criticism, Connor held his rival’s gaze. ‘And I heard on your Caribbean assignment you got second-degree sunburn!’

A moment of tension hung between them. Then Jason’s mouth broke into a wide grin.

‘Fair point,’ he chuckled, putting down the EPIRB and clapping a meaty arm round Connor’s shoulders. ‘That was rather stupid of me, wasn’t it?’ He glanced in Ling’s direction as she left the classroom with Amir, the two of them now laughing together. ‘Look, just watch Ling’s back for me. That’s all I’m asking.’

‘I think she can look after herself,’ replied Connor, indicating the faded shadow of his black eye from the previous week.

‘Sure, she can,’ agreed Jason, ‘but if something goes wrong … you’ve only got each other to depend on.’ His earth-brown eyes searched Connor’s face as if looking for a chink in his armour. Then, with a final encouraging squeeze of his arm, he let go and shouldered his bag. ‘I hear you and Ling are flying out to Oz to meet the girls before the holiday?’

Connor nodded. ‘Yes, by request of Mr Sterling.’

‘Well, enjoy my home turf,’ he said with genuine warmth, heading for lunch. He paused a moment in the doorway as if remembering something. ‘But watch out for dropbears.’

‘Dropbears?’ queried Connor.

‘Yeah, vicious little creatures. Like koalas, only with teeth. My uncle was savaged by one last summer,’ Jason explained. ‘They hang in treetops and attack their prey by dropping on to their heads from above. Just be careful is all I’m saying.’

‘Thanks for the heads up,’ said Connor.

‘No worries,’ replied Jason, smiling.