Pirate Alley: A Novel (21 page)

The north was actually doing worse in the rainfall department, but the people hereabouts didn’t live on agriculture. Also, the north, Puntland, was infested with pirates, which meant money, weapons, imported food. Prosperity. Here were the resources to sustain a revolutionary movement.

The man responsible for most of the prosperity, Ragnar the Pirate, watched from his penthouse balcony as Yousef el-Din got out of his technical. His bodyguard coalesced around him. Yousef’s truck had been the third in a five-truck convoy. Each truck had contained three or four men, all armed. This ragtag band of heroes swarmed like a hive of bees around their queen, Ragnar thought as he watched from his perch high above.

Ragnar saw Yousef look left and right, watched him spend a moment looking over
Sultan of the Seas
riding at anchor, then walk toward the entrance to Ragnar’s building.

Ragnar toyed with the butt of the pistol sticking out of its holster on his belt. He had an uneasy relationship with Yousef el-Din, as he had with his predecessor, Feiz al-Darraji. Last week Ragnar had al-Darraji killed. Quietly. His corpse and those of his two bodyguards were now fish food, at least two hundred miles out. The three were captured by two of Ragnar’s sons and Mustafa al-Said, his number two, as they left a whorehouse. They were put aboard a boat and given a long ride east. Then they were thrown into the sea. Not being fishermen, they couldn’t swim, so didn’t last long. Since they were devout Muslims, their souls were probably in Paradise now, Ragnar thought. Or maybe not. He had a healthy skepticism about all that holy bullshit.

The women could be relied upon to remain silent, Ragnar believed. They really knew nothing, and they had better remember that if asked. If they didn’t …

His sons Nouri and Muqtada were in the anteroom, waiting at the top of the stairs. Both were armed. Yousef would be alone. His men would have to wait in the lobby downstairs.

He could hear Yousef’s footsteps in the stairwell. The elevator hadn’t worked in years; it was actually stuck between the fourth and fifth floors, its door permanently open.

Ragnar poured himself a cup of tea and sat down in his favorite chair on the balcony, with the harbor at his feet, and waited. He could feel the breeze coming in off the sea, gentle, cool, salty sea air.

Yousef came out onto the balcony, with Nouri and Muqtada behind him. Ragnar gestured toward a chair, and Nouri went to get the guest a cup of tea.

After the social preliminaries, doubly important because Ragnar wanted a hint about Yousef’s state of mind, the men fell silent and sipped their tea.

Yousef el-Din’s face was a mask, Ragnar saw. He had only seen the man on three or four occasions before al-Darraji’s untimely departure, and had paid little attention. Ragnar would not miss al-Darraji, with his love of power, an aggressive personality and the manners of a goat, a man used to pulling the trigger and watching other people die. A man who expected everyone to kneel before him, including Ragnar. No, he would not be missed.

“Feiz al-Darraji has disappeared,” Yousef said sadly, breaking the news. “His friends and soldiers cannot find him.”

Ragnar shook his head sadly. “When was he last seen?”

“A week ago.”

“Ahh, that is a long time. A week…”

“We have been looking, interrogating people who might know something.”

“Of course. I have heard of your inquiries,” Ragnar admitted, “but I hesitated to ask why.”

“Two bodyguards are also missing.”

“We live in dangerous times. Who, I ask you, is truly safe?”

“Since al-Darraji is gone,” Yousef said without inflection, “I have been appointed to take his place.”

Ragnar nodded, as if the appointment were inevitable. “May he rest in peace,” Ragnar answered piously, “but it is the way of the world. We are but flesh and blood, temporary creatures, until we meet the Prophet in Paradise.”

A trace of amusement crossed Yousef’s face. He sipped tea. Glanced at the
Sultan
lying in the harbor.

“The news of your success has gone to the ends of the earth,” Yousef el-Din remarked, a rather abrupt change of subject.

“We have made a start,” Ragnar replied. “We will not succeed until the ransom is paid.”

“They will pay. And you will pay us.” The “us” he was referring to was the Shabab, as Ragnar well knew.

“Let us stop circling the fire,” Ragnar said, his eyes pinning Yousef el-Din. “Al-Darraji intended to kill all the prisoners after the ransom was paid. He had his reasons, and no doubt you know them. Now I will tell you the reality of our situation. We can capture ships and demand ransom only because when it is paid we turn over the ships and crews. If we do not, they will never pay again. The money will stop coming. Without money, we will starve. That is, we will starve if the military forces of the West do not invade and kill us first.”

Yousef said nothing.

Ragnar continued, “Feiz al-Darraji did not care about us. He only wished to lead a glorious jihad against the unbelievers. He cared not for us, whether we eat or starve, whether we live or die. As long as he and his men could march into Paradise with the blood of infidels on their hands he would sacrifice us all.”

“So you killed him.”

Ragnar rose from his seat and drew his pistol. He checked to see that it was loaded. He pointed it at Yousef. Walked toward him until the muzzle of the weapon was only a few inches from Yousef’s head.

“As long as the Shabab stays out of my business we will get along. For only that long.”

He holstered the weapon and made a dismissive gesture with his left hand.

“Go,” he said. “This time, you live. The next time, you will not.”

Yousef stood. “I am but one man. The Shabab is thousands. They will destroy you if you stand in their way.”

“Perhaps,” Ragnar said, “but you will not live to see it. And the mullahs will not see any money. Believe that. Al-Darraji did not care whether he was in this world or the next. He did not care about money. So he said. He is now in the next world, and he went penniless. Your revolution progressed not a millimeter. I doubt if Allah gives a damn.”

Yousef shook with fury. “Do not blaspheme,” he roared. “Our jihad is
holy.
On the Prophet’s beard, do you understand
holy
?”

Ragnar turned his back. He heard steps, then silence.

When he turned around Yousef was gone. Down the stairs. Nouri nodded at him.

CHAPTER
TWELVE

Mike Rosen stayed aboard
Sultan
in his own cabin. An armed pirate sat in the passageway outside his door day and night. Food was delivered occasionally, the toilet still worked, water trickled from the sink taps and showerhead, and the air-conditioning was out. Fortunately Rosen had a balcony and French door or he would have suffocated. As it was, he spent most of his time sitting on the balcony scribbling in a notebook.

He intended to sell a book about this adventure for serious money, just as soon as he got home. He was writing it now. Even added a paragraph to an e-mail yesterday telling the people at the radio station to call his agent and get him started calling New York publishers.

Strike while the wound is still bleeding.

Yesterday that prick al-Said had come for him in the afternoon and accompanied him to the e-com center, where his computer now resided on an apparently permanent basis. He had been given a list of names of passengers and crew and had to type every one of them into the computer and fire it into cyberspace.

Of course, he also had to print out all the e-mails that had accumulated in his account. A few were private messages from his ex-wives, an occasional one from his kid. The radio station was forwarding a lot of material to him, mostly news articles. And the station’s executives had oodles of questions and advice. When the session was over, Mustafa al-Said took with him all the private e-mails and news stories, plus the dirty jokes Rosen’s family and friends forwarded and the spam that had trickled past the filter, all of it, every single piece of paper. The guard brought Rosen back to his cabin. Perhaps al-Said wanted to show the stuff to his boss, Ragnar, who reportedly couldn’t read any language on earth, nor speak English.

Obviously somebody in Eyl was reading the e-mails and translating for the pirates. Rosen wondered who.

He looked up from his notebook at the city and harbor and the coast of Africa stretching away to the south. The head of the promontory and the old fort blocked the view northward.

Rosen squinted at the fortress, shading his eyes to see better, but it didn’t help. He couldn’t see a soul at this distance. He sighed and went back to the notebook.

Someone pounded on his door.

He tossed the notebook aside—he didn’t want Mustafa to steal it—and went to the door. Al-Said and the guard motioned him out. He went.

There was a man waiting for them in the e-com center, an overweight white man with short sandy hair and wearing a linen sport coat over a dirty white sport shirt. Sandals on his feet. He was sitting in one of the chairs and helping himself to a glass of clear liquid from a large bottle, which sat on the desk in front of him. A gin bottle. He reminded Rosen of Sydney Greenstreet in
Casablanca,
which was probably a slander on Greenstreet.

He glanced at Rosen, took a healthy sip of straight gin, then stuck out his hand and said, “Geoff Noon.” British accent.

Rosen ignored the proffered hand. “Mike Rosen.”

Noon withdrew his hand and addressed the gin. “Well, well.”

Rosen dropped into the chair in front of his laptop.

Noon eased himself in his chair, finished the gin and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Young al-Said here wants me to do a bit of translating. Hope you don’t mind.”

“You from around here?”

“Airport manager. They need someone who speaks English, international language of aviation and all that rot, and who can help them order little luxuries from here and there … all for hard currency, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Ten years this past June I’ve been here. Seen it all. Revolution, murder, piracy, what have you. Still, a chap could do worse.”

Rosen didn’t see how, but he held his tongue.

“Don’t know a thing about computers,” Noon continued, “but I can read English. Rare skill around here. You type it and I’ll read it, then you can send it on its merry way to a waiting world.”

“I see.”

Noon paused to pour himself another little tot of gin. Al-Said and the guard watched impassively.

“So, this fellow tells me Ragnar wants you to send a message to the world, especially the ship owner, telling them that he wants two hundred million American dollars. Cash.”

“Already did that.”

“Deadline is next week. This day next week, at twelve o’clock.”

“High noon?”

“Well, had to pick something, didn’t he? I suggested a week. High noon. You remember the movie? Poetic. That’s what my friends and colleagues in aviation call me. High Noon.”

“I’ll call you asshole.”

Noon flipped his fingers. “Start typing. Let’s see how you do.”

“Deadline is unusual for a pirate, isn’t it? I thought they just kept their victims until the ransom was paid, no matter how long it took.”

“That’s the hoary, age-old custom, tried and true, yes. The men and old women were enslaved, the young women went to harems. But in our new modern age Ragnar dares to be different. He has no facilities to hold almost nine hundred people indefinitely. They’ll start to get diseased, die on him from this and that; he has other uses for his men.”

“Right.”

“It’s the return on capital equation. He has a lot of assets tied up in this.”

“Capitalism is a wonderful thing.”

“Makes the world go round.”

Rosen got on line and called up his e-mail account. In the six hours since he was online he had received forty-seven e-mails. He ignored them all and addressed a new one to the manager of the station. Wrote out Noon’s demands.

Noon read over his shoulder. When he had it down, Rosen asked, “So what happens if they don’t pay by the deadline? What’s Ragnar’s threat?”

“Oh, death, of course. He’ll kill them all.”

“I’m one of them.”

“Sorry about that, old man. But we must keep life in perspective. No one lives forever.” Noon pointed at the keyboard. “Type it out.”

“He can’t be serious!”

Noon shrugged. “Humor is not one of his virtues. He has mined the fortress. If anyone attacks him or attempts to rescue the prisoners, he will kill them all with explosives. Blow it up, bury them under the rubble.”

“How do you stand yourself, you fat slob?”

“I live here, Mr. Rosen. I act as a translator occasionally for any of the locals who need one because I have to go along to get along. I don’t work for Sheikh Ragnar. His business is his business.”

“I’ll bet he greases your filthy palm with a little bit of blood money from time to time. Is that it?”

“Even rats have to eat, Mr. Rosen. Now write it out and I’ll read it to see if you are an honest scribe. Then you can send it.”

Rosen did as he was told. Noon poured himself another drink.

When that e-mail was on its way, Rosen settled back to read his incoming mail. He printed each one out after he read it. Nice notes from both exes. A long one from his station manager posing a dozen questions, copies of wire service stories on the
Sultan
capture, the headlines of which Rosen only skimmed, and a request from his producer to somehow record some of the conversations with the pirates. That brought a sneer to his lips. A joke from a fan who apparently didn’t know or care that he was a pirate captive: It was raunchy but not funny. Offers to enlarge his penis, insulate his house, buy Viagra, get a break on membership from a local singles Web site and help a Nigerian banker move money from an abandoned trust account into the States. That was the crop. As the e-mails scrolled off the printer he passed them to Noon, who read each one with interest while he sipped gin.

“You should try this Viagra supplier,” High Noon said finally. “They send me mine.”