In Cold Blood (3 page)

She hadn’t noticed Beatrix yet, so she watched the girl for a moment. They had been apart for eight years and she had cherished every moment of the year that they had spent together since their reunion. Isabella had been just three years old when she had been taken. The picture that Beatrix carried in the locket around her neck showed her as she was then, small and chubby, with long curls of blonde hair. She had grown up into a beautiful girl. She was slender and tall for her age, with skin so porcelain white that she had to be careful in the sun and hair that had straightened and lightened, long enough to reach down beyond her shoulders.

Beatrix felt pride and regret when she looked at her: pride because Isabella had turned into a fine young woman and regret because she had missed the incremental changes of that transformation. There had been a series of foster homes and institutions before John Milton had arranged for her to be returned to her grandparents, and then to her mother. She knew very little about those years apart save that they had not been happy ones.

She stepped up from the stairs and made her way across the roof.

“What are you reading?”

“Mummy!” Isabella said, her face breaking into the most guileless smile.

Beatrix stooped and picked up the book that her daughter had laid across her lap. It was a book on Arabic.

“How are you getting on?”

“Good, I think,” she said.

“Let’s hear it, then.”

“
Hello, how are you? My name is Isabella Rose
.” She said it haltingly, her accent still a little rough.

“Not bad,” Beatrix replied. “You’re getting better.”

The eight years that they had been apart had been a challenge for them both to bridge. Isabella had been passed through a number of institutions and foster parents and, when she was in the mood to talk about it with her mother, it was clear that it not been an enjoyable time. She had not been mistreated, at least as far as Beatrix could divine, but it was a childhood bereft of real love and affection. The girl had retreated into herself and was introspective and insular as a result. It had taken her a little while to be comfortable in Beatrix’s presence. She was self-reliant and confident and that was good. Those were traits that would be very useful.

Beatrix poured two glasses of orange juice and gave one to Isabella. The girl drank hers quickly.

“I have something for you,” Beatrix said.

She handed her the wrapped present and sat on the edge of one of the loungers as Isabella tore the paper away. She pulled out the four thin metal tubes and held them up for inspection with a delighted grin.

“Suppressors?”

“That’s right.”

“Why are they different?”

“They each fit different guns.”

“I didn’t realise they’d be so simple.”

“It’s a simple idea. It just muffles the sound the expanding gas makes when you fire the gun. Like a balloon. If you pop it, it’s loud, right? But if you untie the end and let the air out…”

“It’s quiet.”

“Exactly. Quieter, but not silent. They still make a noise.”

“I love them.”

She smiled as she watched her daughter turning the suppressors between her fingers. “Happy birthday, baby doll. Thirteen today.”

“Can I try them?”

“Of course.”

THEY WENT down the stairs to the courtyard. The north wall was given over to a long, thin room that might once have been used to stable horses. It was dark and a little cold after the heat on the roof. Beatrix took a shawl and wrapped it around her daughter’s shoulders. The room was twenty feet from wall to wall and, at the opposite end was a target that had been affixed to a container filled with sand.

She took a 9mm Glock from its hook and carefully screwed the Osprey onto the threaded barrel.

“Okay,” she said. “Take me through the drill.”

“Do I have to?” the girl protested.

“You do.”

“You know I can do it. I just want to shoot.”

“Handling the gun safely is just as important,” she chided. “You always need to know when it’s loaded and when it’s empty. And what would you do if it jammed?”

“Okay,” she said, giving up the argument.

“What would happen?”

“I’d be in trouble.”

“No, you’d be dead.” She waved a hand. “Go on then. Do it.”

The girl took the gun and, with her finger outside the trigger guard and the gun aimed away from them both, pushed the release button and pulled out the magazine. She racked the slide three times to make sure there were no rounds in the chamber. She pulled the slide back again and used the slide lock to hold it in place and checked again that the chamber was clear.

It took her less than five seconds.

“Weapon is clear.”

“Good,” she said. “Now load it.”

She took a box of 9mm full metal jackets and pressed ten of them, one after the other, into the magazine. She shoved it into the magazine well with the heel of her palm and showed it to her mother.

Six seconds.

“Good. Now fire it.”

She pushed the slide release button, popping a round into the chamber. She settled into her stance, wrapping her fingers around the handle with her thumbs pressed together on the left hand side of the gun. The gun looked oversized in her small hands.

She fired ten times, her shoulders absorbing the recoil and the suppressor dulling the sound of the report. When she was finished, she removed the magazine and looked into the breech to make sure that it was empty. She handed the gun to her mother and walked quickly down the range to look at the target.

Beatrix was pleased, but not surprised: all ten bullets had found the two innermost quadrants. “Well done,” she said. “Very good.”

“It’s much quieter.”

“Much,” Beatrix said. She was pleased. The noise of the unsuppressed firearms was too loud for her to be comfortable firing them on the range. Even in a noisy city like this, it would only have been a while before someone had started to ask questions. Now, though, Isabella would be able to practice as much as she wanted.

“Can I go again?”

“Yes,” Beatrix said.

She took the gun again as Beatrix noticed Mohammed standing at the open doorway.

“Too loud?” she asked.

“Not at all. Very quiet, in fact.”

“What is it?”

“There’s someone here to see you.”

“Who?”

“His name is Michael Pope. He says you’ll know who he is.”

Pope?

“Where is he?”

“Waiting outside. Shall I tell him you’re not in?”

“No,” she said. “Show him in. Show him up to the roof, please. I’ll be right there.”

Beatrix felt nervous.

“Who is it, mother?”

“Someone I’ve wanted to see for weeks.”

“Is it about them?”

“I hope so. Go to your room, please, Bella. I’ll tell you what he says when we’ve finished.”

Isabella ejected the magazine, racked open the slide to remove the chambered round, then put the gun and the ammunition away in the cabinet.

Beatrix felt excited, too.

It was starting.

THE TELEPHONE woke Joe Thomas up. It seemed as if he had only just closed his eyes, but as he fumbled for his glasses he saw that it was five-thirty in the morning. He looked at the porthole window and saw that dawn had broken.

“What is it?”

“You better come up here, Captain.”

His first thought was of pirates. It was the right time for it. Just after dawn and just before dusk were the haziest times of day in the Gulf of Aden and visibility dropped down to around three or four miles. They were the best times for a skiff to make an approach. They could be almost right on top of you before you knew anything about it.

Joe got out of bed, jogged down the central corridor and then climbed the chimney, ascending the ladder to get to the bridge. It was a wide space, with large windows that ran from the ceiling to waist height, letting in plenty of light and allowing excellent visibility in every direction.

Vasquez, his chief mate, Harry Torres, the second mate, and another able-bodied seaman called Mike were keeping watch.

Joe went over to the conning station, a console filled with navigation aids. To port was a chart table where Torres concentrated on gathering all the information that they needed to run the ship safely. He had access to the Global Maritime Distress and Safety System, furnishing them with weather updates, and a small electronic station from where he could send and receive radio messages.

“What is it, Ray?”

“We’ve got something,” Vasquez reported.

Joe looked at the radar. It was a small screen, like a television or a computer monitor, with objects appearing as small blips. Additional data was provided alongside the main image, including the speed of any of vessels and the estimated time when their courses would intersect.

He saw two small white dots. They were four miles behind to their starboard quarter and coming at them quickly.

“How fast are they?” he said, more to himself than to the rest of the men on the bridge.

“Fast,” Vasquez replied.

“Radar estimates twenty knots,” said Torres.

“Do the security boys know?”

“They say they’re getting ready.”

“Weather report?”

Torres shook his head. “Like this all day.”

It was calm and serene. Bad weather would have helped them, but they weren’t going to strike lucky today.

Joe took up his glasses and scanned the sea until he saw a bow wave, the wake one of the boats was kicking up as it chopped through the water.

Another blip appeared on the radar. This one was behind the first two, and it was larger.

“The mother ship. Vectors say he’s trailing us.”

The radio crackled.

“Somali pirate to freighter. Somali pirate to freighter. Respond.”

“They tried to call us five minutes ago.”

“Did you answer?”

“No.”

Joe looked at the radio. The Somalis were broadcasting on the international hail and distress channel.

“Somali pirate to American freighter. We have you. We are coming to board.”

Vasquez’s voice was taut with tension. “Why are they telling us? Don’t they want to surprise us?”

Joe took up the glasses again and swivelled through three hundred and sixty degrees, scanning all four quadrants. He saw another bow wave to the north and then, as he turned to the south, he saw another.

“It’s a trick. Misdirection. They’ve got four skiffs and a mothership. They’re coming at us in three different directions.”

The skiff to port was the closest and therefore the most immediate threat. He focused the glasses on it: it was painted red, ten metres long, with a big outboard engine. The wake stretched out behind it, a frothing trail through the green-blue waters. Too far away to make out its crew yet. He checked the radar: it was three miles away, closing quickly, and would intercept them in five minutes.

“Seaman,” Joe said, “go and see where security is set up. They need to know we’ve got multiple targets coming in three different directions: port, starboard and astern. Make sure the cages are shut, double check them, then distribute the flares.”

“Aye.” The Able Seaman, an Aussie called Ryan, left the bridge.

“Increase revs to one hundred and fifteen.”

Torres was in control of the Engine Order Telegraph. “One hundred and fifteen revs,” he called out in confirmation.

“Call UKMTO and tell them we’re about to be attacked.”

UKMTO was the United Kingdom Maritime Trade Operations. They handled security in the Persian Gulf and Indian Ocean. Vasquez made the call and gave them their coordinates, together with the threat they believed they were facing, the number of boats and the answers to the other questions they had.

“Change course to one hundred and ninety degrees.”

“One ninety,” the helmsman said. The quartermaster repeated the order and swung the wheel.

The ship began to turn.

“UKMTO says the nearest warship is a day away,” Vasquez said. “We’re on our own, captain.”

AS SOON as he had finished his tactical assessment, Joshua Joyce knew that they were looking at a difficult morning. They had plenty of firepower: American M-14s chambered for .308 rounds and British SA-80s provided most of the arsenal and he was equipped with a Barrett M107CQ sniper rifle. The problem was manpower. There were only four of them and that meant that he was going to have to place one man on the stern, one to port and one to starboard, leaving himself on the flying bridge to coordinate. That offered them precious little flexibility. With attacks coming in from three directions, all it would take would be for the pirates to fluke a lucky shot or for a weapon to jam and a whole flank of this enormous ship would be vulnerable. He would be able to stand in and fill any gaps that developed, but there was no flexibility for them at all. He had thought about involving the crew, but they didn’t look all that handy and he didn’t want to risk it, unless it was absolutely necessary.

One of the seaman, an Aussie, approached him with a portable radio clutched in his hand. “It’s the captain,” he said. “Wants to talk to you.”

He took the radio. “Captain?”

“You know the situation? Four skiffs coming in, a mothership staying out of range behind them?”

He put plenty of confidence into his reply. “Yes. We’ve got it under control.”

“I’m going to change course a couple of times and see if I can’t make the wake a little choppier for them. That’ll make things more difficult for the boats astern, but the two to port and starboard are too far ahead to be affected. They’re coming in, whatever we do. I’ve got men on the hoses. We’ll start pumping them when they get into range, but it’s touch and go whether they’ll have much effect. I wouldn’t bank on it.”

“You don’t need to,” Joyce said as he started to assemble his sniper rifle. “How far out are they?”

“The nearest is two miles out. Closing fast.”

“I’ve got a fifty-cal sniper rifle up here,” he said. “Anything within five hundred metres might as well be right next door. Have you seen what a big bullet like that does to a man’s head? It’s not pretty. I plug a couple of them, they’ll lose their lunches. They’ll turn around quick.”