My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay (36 page)

"What are you doing? What is that? Gimme that!" yelled Edward, seeing Olafemi chewing and trying to swallow the paper. He suddenly cranked Olafemi's head back further, down into the sink and rammed his hand deep into Olafemi's mouth, right into his throat.

Olafemi gagged. His body jerked, violently.

Edward's hand worked its way further down. His knuckles were clearly visible as they poked out of the skin of Olafemi's neck. Edward retracted his hand, his finger and thumb pinching the piece of paper moistened with blood and vomit as he took a step back from Olafemi, letting him drop to the kitchen floor, spewing up.

Olafemi found it incredibly difficult to breathe.

The paper was torn between Edward's fingers and he laid it flat on the worktop, piecing it together like a jigsaw, trying to read what was written. The ink had smudged considerably, but the numbers and letters were just about identifiable. The number BSQU45T226 was written down.

Edward turned and scowled at Olafemi.

"What is this? What's this number?" Edward stared at it some more. The letter 'U' stood out to him.

Olafemi sneered as he slyly opened a cupboard door and placed his hand inside. He smiled a bloody grin.

"An airplane," Olafemi said.

"No, no, it's a freight container. This is a number of a container ship. You bloody bastard."

"It's for me - and this is for you," Olafemi blurted. He dribbled blood down his chest.

Edward turned and saw Olafemi's hand inside the cupboard, about to pull something out. Edward pulled the Beretta pistol from the top of his jeans and took aim.

Olafemi suddenly coughed and choked.

Edward gripped the handgun tight with his gloved hands, aiming it at Olafemi's head, but he had choked on his own blood and slumped sideways.

Olafemi had died from his blocked airway. Dead from his wounds. Dead from who cared what? Dead.

Edward lowered the gun as he watched Olafemi's arm lower from the cupboard. Olafemi's fingers were limp as they lost the grip of a .38 revolver.

Edward looked at the number on the soggy paper and the gun in his hand. He headed out of the kitchen and into the hall. He made out of the flat and onto the balcony walkway where he suddenly threw the Beretta pistol into the middle of the dark waters of Southmere Lake.

Jason and Mr Ahmed looked up quickly as Edward clambered back inside the jeep, exhausted and out of breath.

"Dad! Did you find him? Did you find the man? Did you find Mike? Are you OK?" Jason gasped.

"Sir? Is everything all right?" asked Mr Ahmed.

"I found the man," Edward said wearily.

"And?"

"And he's dead," Edward sighed.

"Did you kill him, sir?" asked Mr Ahmed.

"No. He killed himself," Edward replied, placing the piece of paper, now wrapped in cling-film on the dashboard.

"What's that? Where's Mike?" asked Jason. He had become quite frantic.

"I think he's on a ship," Edward told him, extremely tired. He was mentally and physically exhausted.

"A ship? I used to work in shipping. It was a long time ago, sir. But how did you learn of this fact?" inquired Mr Ahmed.

Edward turned, showing him the piece of paper taken from within Olafemi's throat.

"This is the owner's code. These letters reveal the country where the ship was registered and this means it is a freight container. This is a serial number and here tells me it is an open top container vessel," informed Mr Ahmed.

He studied the piece of paper and looked up at Edward and Jason, who were both impressed by his knowledge and grateful for his assistance.

"Thank you, but it's not enough," Edward sighed, wearily.

"But it is, sir. It is. Tilbury Docks is just forty minutes away. We have time to get there. How long do you think it has been since your son was taken there? It cannot be too long ago, sir."

"That bloody car! I knew it. I knew it was dodgy! It has to be him."

"Who? Who, Dad?"

"The car. The car that left when we pulled in," spouted Edward, starting the car and speedily driving out of the estate.

The A13 was practically deserted. The occasional heavy goods vehicle rumbled along the inside or middle lane, as did the dark Vauxhall car driven by the overweight Nigerian man.

Michael trembled on the back seat. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

The car was nearing Tilbury Docks, in Essex.

Edward, shifted gears like Robo-Cop. He drove himself, Jason and Mr Ahmed along the A13 into the night.

Together, they too headed for Tilbury Docks.

Hundreds of coloured containers were stacked on one another in dimly lit rows, stretched across like a grid. They looked like Lego bricks, but were a million times bigger. These were corrugated metal freight containers. Their names ranged from Intermodel containers, ISO container and Sea-Can. Each had its own ISO reporting mark. The huge steel boxes were currently at home in Tilbury Docks. Some were being lifted by cranes onto a container ship. Some had cast sharp-edged shadows, and standing in one particular shadow was the overweight Nigerian.

He spoke Portuguese to an unshaven, tanned European man.

He was a dock worker. The Nigerian showed him the kilos of cocaine in the bag, and he nodded his head in approval. The docker was in his mid-forties and rubbed his stubbled cheeks, thinking as he glanced back at the cargo ship being loaded. He looked back to the Nigerian man and placed his hands on his hips.

"Mostre-me o homem," he said in Portuguese.

The overweight Nigerian man reached into the pitch black nothingness and pulled Michael in to where the two men stood.

The tanned docker puffed his cheeks out and exhaled a deep sigh as he looked Michael up and down.

"Dá-me dois minutos." His Portuguese continued as he told the Nigerian to give him two minutes and, with that, he rounded a container and disappeared into the darkness.

"Am I going to die now?" Michael asked in a surprisingly calm manner.

"I don't know what will happen to you," replied the overweight Nigerian.

"Why?"

"You are no longer anything to do with me," shrugged the Nigerian. He glanced up to see the tanned dock worker return with a Middle Eastern docker of similar age.

"You speak English? French?" asked the new arrival.

"English," replied the Nigerian.

"OK. How many pounds of cocaine do you have?" asked the Middle Eastern man.

"I have six kilos in total," said the Nigerian.

"Six kilos? Six kilos multiplied by two point two is thirteen point two pounds," stated the man, quickly and impressively.

"And him?" asked the Nigerian.

"Wait. For the cocaine I can give you twenty AK47 assault rifles with ammunition."

"AK?"

"AK47. Standard Chinese model 47. The standard folding butt model comes in at one dollar shy of six hundred dollars. I will also give you one hundred thousand dollars in cash," said the Middle Eastern man.

"One hundred thousand? In dollar? It is not enough," scoffed the Nigerian man.

"You wanted guns and you wanted money."

"Yes."

"You also want me to take this man off your hands."

"Yes."

"So it is a deal. Take it or leave it."

"This man can help your cause. You know that he is worth more than the deal you are offering me," declared the Nigerian man.

"OK. OK. Two hundred thousand dollars. Final offer."

"Deal." The Nigerian extended his right hand for the man to shake.

"Deal. OK. Hold on," the Middle Eastern man shook his hand then disappeared around the container.

Michael shook with absolute fear, too frightened to speak let alone shout out for help, but who would have heard him? The noise of the engines and cranes and clanging of metal hooks against corrugated steel containers would have certainly overpowered any other sound, especially that of a scared yell. Michael knew this. Shouting wasn't an option.

"Bring your car up more," instructed the tanned, original dock worker. He grabbed Michael tight as the Middle Eastern man returned.

The Middle Eastern dock worker cranked open the end doors of the container next to him and slung the sports bag into it. He then gave a brief look at Michael, spun him around and, in one swift motion, he slit the plastic binds that tied his hands together and shoved him inside the container. He slammed the door and bolted it tight. The sound of steel hitting steel echoed like rolling thunder.

The lid to a wooden crate that contained ten standard Chinese AK47 assault rifles was fixed tight. The box was pushed across the folded back seat of the Vauxhall, which joined a second crate already housed inside. A grey blanket was draped over the crates and the boot then closed.

The dock worker handed the overweight Nigerian man two hundred thousand dollars in cash before he worked his bulk back into his car.

The number BSQU45T226 was peeled off the top of the door to the steel container just before it rose into the night. A crane lifted the container up and across the docks and loaded it onto a ship.

Edward, Mr Ahmed and Jason stood by an Indian security guard at the checkpoint barrier to the docks.

The guard looked at the clipboard and occasionally glanced Mr Ahmed up and down, puzzled at seeing him in his pyjamas.

"I have just begun my shift and the other guard left fifteen or so minutes ago."

"We have an ISO 6346 number," stated Mr Ahmed.

"Just a moment," the guard took the number from Mr Ahmed and entered his booth.

Edward peered through the booth to see the guard flip through sheets of paper on another clipboard. He watched him run his forefinger down a list and then watched him step back outside.

"That particular crate was loaded over three weeks ago."

"I don't understand. It has to be here," said Edward, desperately.

"The ship that the crate was loaded on, what was its destination please?" asked Mr Ahmed.

The man looked at the clipboard again.

"It says the destination is to be confirmed," said the guard.

"No destination? That's bloody ridiculous," blurted Edward.

"It is quite common," replied the guard.

"Call the Coast Guard," ordered Edward.

"Pardon me?" The security guard was confused.

"Get the Coast Guard on the phone. I want to report a kidnapping."

"A kidnapping? I have contact details for the Maritime and Coastguard Agency for a minor injuries unit. They're five miles away,"

"Minor injuries? Are you nuts?" yelled Edward.

"Dad? We have a number that isn't here."

"Then why not? Listen, do you have any ships bound for Nigeria?" Edward sighed, clutching at any thought he could.

"Nigeria? Erm," the security guard pondered and shook his head. He ran his finger down his list again and flipped the pages on the clipboard and looked up to Edward and his desperate expression. He was confused by his inexplicable situation, yet felt his frustration completely. He shook his head again.

"Are any ships heading for Africa?" Edward asked softly.

"No, sir. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I cannot help."

Edward's face tightened. He turned around, pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes and he suddenly began to cry. His shoulders jerked twice as the tears flowed and he leaned his body against the wing of his jeep.

Jason shared his father's pain. He couldn't bear to see the rock of his family crack like that. If his father hadn't any other clue then what on Earth could he do? He looked at Mr Ahmed then back at the security guard, who helplessly shrugged.

"Sir, can you tell me when the last ship left the dock and its destination port please?" asked Mr Ahmed.

"The last ship left here around twenty minutes ago. The destination was the port of Genoa, Italy," replied the man.

Jason glanced at his father who stared into the night. Tears welled up in his eyes.

Edward's mobile rang which broke his trance.

"Geoff? Geoffrey? What's up? Any news?"

"Just calling to ask the same thing, Ed. Where are you at?" Geoff asked.

"We're um... we're at Tilbury."

"What you doing there?"

"There was a possible lead. I've got another plate to run."

"Go on," urged Geoff as Edward told him the registration number he'd got a glimpse of when the overweight Nigerian had driven past him.

Geoff told Edward he would get back to him as soon as he could, and ordered Edward to go home and get some rest.

Edward dialed up his friend, Carolyn. Fortunately for him she was still working in her office at Thames House, between Millbank and Horseferry Road in London, otherwise known as MI-5.

Carolyn was an attractive blonde in her late fifties. She wore a grey suit and clutched a telephone receiver in one hand and a mug of hot chocolate in the other. She told Edward that the line was a secure one as he informed her of what he knew about Michael's disappearance. She understood his anguish. She had also known Michael since he was a baby and naturally felt the need to help as much as she could, but also, like Geoff, ordered Edward to return home and get some rest.