Pirate Alley: A Novel (28 page)

“It’s gold or bullshit,” Zakhem said after he had carefully read the message twice and handed it back.

“We’re going to find out, Colonel,” Toad Tarkington said with a smile. “Want to make a small wager on which substance it is? Like a steak dinner next time we hit port?”

Zakhem laughed. “You want me to bet on bullshit, right?”

“I like filet mignon.”

*   *   *

I took E.D. and Travis with me when I went sneaking that night. We all had knives and .45s, and they carried silenced submachine guns, MP-5s. Me, I was loaded down with night-vision goggles and binoculars.

We hiked through the brush to the sentry outpost on the northern end of the Eyl airport and settled in for a good look around.

Yep, the pirates or Shabab holy warriors, whichever had the duty tonight, were doing their relaxed campout. No sentry. Nice fire, way too big, on which they were frying something in a big pan. Some kind of fish, I figured. Or a dog. Or a couple of rats. Perhaps I didn’t properly appreciate the local cuisine.

Two pickups parked nearby. One of them had a machine gun mounted in the bed, and of course there was that tripod-mounted machine gun that commanded the runway. It was perfectly adequate to perforate any airplane landing or taxiing or taking off. If these guys didn’t like you, you weren’t going flying.

The three of them were sitting around the fire laughing and jabbering, probably telling lies about their sexual exploits.

I lay there in the brush on my belly watching. They had a plastic can strapped to the side of one of the trucks, and occasionally one of them would wander over for a drink from it. Water, I suspected.

A couple hours passed. A bug somehow got inside my lower trouser leg and decided to feast on the lean white flesh he found there. Moving as slowly as possible, I squashed the little bastard and itched the bite. Wished to Christ I were in Paris with a gal I know and happen to like, eating French grub at some white-tablecloth place with a bottle of good vino in easy reach, and contemplating the prospect of getting laid later.

Finally, as the fire began to die and the three warriors for truth, justice and the Muslim way got busy spreading blankets and rags, I started crawling. Crawled completely around the fire and got the pickup with the water between them and me. Worked my way right up against that thing, where I could see them by looking under it.

Finally they lay down in their blankets. Arranged weapons within reach and settled in for a pleasant night.

I waited another hour, until the moon sliver was up, then got to my feet and walked carefully around the pickup. Took the cap off the water can and dropped in three pills. I was about to screw the cap back on when I thought, what the hell, and added two more. That should be enough dope to knock out an elephant.

We left them there, sound asleep, and E.D., Travis and I hiked the length of the runway.

The guys on the other end were already asleep. One was in the cab of his pickup, and the other two were near the fire, which was burning nicely. They had piled such woody roots as they could find on the thing to keep the snakes and critters away.

I waited for half an hour, just to be sure, then doped their water can. Then I saw another can, so I doped it, too.

When we were hiking to our hidey-hole, E.D. asked, “How long do you want them asleep?”

“Until Grafton’s plane gets here tomorrow afternoon.”

“If they drink some of that spiked water in the morning, they may be awake by the afternoon. Or somebody may find them all sprawled out.”

“It’s a risk, sure. If you got any other ideas, let’s hear them.”

“We’d better get there around noon and check on them.”

“If they are asleep, spike the machine guns.”

“Okay.”

“If they are awake when the plane lands and it stops at their end of the field, kill them and haul away the bodies in one of their pickups,” I said. “That’s Plan B. It’s our only possible choice.”

Neither man said a word in protest. Those guys had to be asleep or dead when that DC-3 landed. We didn’t want witnesses. So maybe they were going to die tomorrow. On the other hand, maybe we three fools would.

I assured myself that the
Sultan
passengers and crew had an excellent chance. We all had an excellent chance. Yeah.

Hell, we had Jake Grafton.

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

I heard the radial engines murmuring gently.

“It’s coming,” I said into the handheld.

“Asleep North.”

“Asleep South.”

So there would be no witnesses awake to tell the sheikh that this Carmellini guy didn’t arrive with Jake Grafton.

I used the binoculars. Yep, the DC-3 was low to the south, coming straight in. I was across the runway from the terminal. I duck-walked back to the little draw that paralleled the west side of the runway and started trotting toward the northern end of the runway. Running, actually. I had a half mile to do, and in this heat it was a chore.

The wind was out of the west, hot and dry, right off the Sahara. It was pushed up and over the coastal mountains, so cooled a bit on being elevated; if there was any moisture to be squeezed out of that air the mountains got it. Still, here in their wind shadow it was a little bit cooler than it would have been without the mountains’ help.

I had been sweating anyway. I had bathed as best I could and shaved. Was now wearing a set of rumpled khakis and a button-up short-sleeve shirt from Sears. I was still in my desert boots. My backpack was packed with extra underwear and my toothbrush, plus the Kimber .45, the Ruger .22 with silencer and my knife. The pack bounced up and down as I ran because I didn’t have the straps tight enough.

Since I was about to join the diplomatic corps, I didn’t figure that the bad guys would search me. After all, there were fifty or a hundred of them and only one of me. If I got out of control they could always pop me. Even if they confiscated my weapons, I could always take a shooter from one of their warriors when I needed one.

Little puffs of dust rose from my footfalls as I booked it. The engines were plainly audible, even though throttled back. I kicked it into overdrive.

The plane was on the ground. I heard the engines pulled back to idle.

It went by me spewing choking dust, and I sprinted the last two hundred yards. I got there just as the tail kicked around and the guy goosed the outboard engine. The passenger door was already open, which was a good thing because the plane didn’t stop. Just completed its one-eighty and taxied toward the terminal.

As I hit the floor inside, Jake Grafton pulled the door shut and turned the handle.

He looked at me with a smile and said, “Nice run?”

His trouser leg was right there by my face, so I used it for a towel. His grin widened.

There were two other men in the passenger cabin. They were dark Middle Eastern types in ratty trousers, pullover shirts, and worn tennis shoes. They had AKs near at hand. Smallish men, less than a hundred and fifty pounds. They looked at me with dead eyes, expressionless faces. Except for us, the passenger cabin was empty. A single row of threadbare seats went up each side, so you got a window/aisle seat regardless of what you asked for.

Grafton introduced me as we taxied. Ben and Zahra. “They are on our side,” Grafton said, and the men extended hands. I shook them. Firm, muscular, calloused hands.

“They are on our side, but you don’t know them. Ignore them.”

“Sure.”

Grafton and I plopped into two seats near the rear door, with the aisle between us.

“Got a pistol on you?” the admiral asked over the rumble of the idling engines. With the engines at power this thing must reverberate like a kettledrum. I could see why. All the interior insulation was gone. Welcome to Africa.

“Yeah,” I admitted.

“Put it in your waistband where they can see it. That bag there”—he pointed at a duffel bag two seats forward of mine—“is yours to guard. Full of money. Don’t let them take it away from you unless I give the word. Put this in your backpack.” He handed me a small handheld radio transceiver.

Amazingly, the air in the interior of that aluminum airplane was even hotter than the air outside. My heart rate was getting back to normal, but sweat poured off me, soaking my shirt. I noticed Grafton looked a little travel-worn, too.

“Enough money for me to retire on?”

“Only if you want a shack in Somalia.” He must have thought that was droll, because he knew I was a Paris kind of guy.

I fished the Kimber out of the backpack and stuck it in my belt. Put the radio in the bag and zipped it up.

“How was your trip?” I asked.

“Long.”

Another minute, and our pilot cut the left engine. The plane rolled to a stop in front of the terminal. Grafton opened the door while I got the duffel bag and luggage—my backpack and his soft travel bag. I passed them out to him. The pilots never left the cockpit. Ben and Zahra followed us off the plane, their AKs in one hand and a little bag of personal possessions in the other, and wandered off.

As I stood on the dirt in front of the terminal, with the tower and machine-gun nest to our left, Grafton closed the door and made a vague wave at the pilot. We humped the stuff toward the terminal as the left engine made noises and spewed smoke while the prop began to turn.

Then dirt was flying and the plane was moving.

I tossed the duffel bag on my shoulder. I guessed it weighed at least eighty pounds. Grafton got our two bags and we strolled toward the half-dozen armed Somalis waiting for us.

“I’m Grafton. Anybody here speak English?”

“Aye, yes, sir,” came a voice from inside the tin terminal shack, and a white man appeared. Fat, balding, wearing a dirty button-up shirt, filthy slacks and sandals. “Welcome to Eyl. My name is Noon. I’m the airport manager.”

Grafton took a good look around, his first. “Who paved the runway?”

“The Chinese, in a fit of capital expenditure designed to capture our hearts and open Eyl to international development … by the Chinese. About twenty years ago, before the unpleasantness started.”

Grafton nodded and glanced over the armed men. “Who are these guys?’

“Your bodyguard. Ragnar wanted to extend every hospitality.”

“The customs of the country, I suppose.”

“Precisely. Every man of substance has an entourage.”

Grafton sighed. “You have a restroom?”

Noon smiled and gestured grandly. “All of Africa is your urinal, sir. If you have other ideas, you might try the brush behind the building. Other people have been there before you, so watch where you step.”

“Welcome to Somalia,” I muttered as I readjusted the duffel bag on my shoulder. I saw Noon glance at the pistol behind my belt.

Grafton said, “Mr. Carmellini, my aide.”

“Well, gentlemen, after you refresh yourself, we will depart for town and your interview with Sheikh Ragnar.”

*   *   *

Carrying that eighty-pound duffel bag full of folding green up six flights of nonventilated stairs in the desert heat was the mustard on the shit sandwich. Fortunately I was a studly young man in the pink. Even so, by the time we reached the top I would have traded the entire contents of the damned bag for a cold beer.

The room at the top was full of pirates—and one woman, a white woman, who sat in the corner. Her clothes were not the cleanest, and she wore no makeup. She eyed me coldly. I ignored her and concentrated on the men, standing around their leader, Ragnar. There was no doubt who he was. He was the tallest and fattest, and in absolute command. He radiated power.

I looked the entourage over while Noon mopped his brow with a mechanic’s rag and fought to catch his breath while giving Ragnar the lowdown on us, I suppose. Most of the guys to the right and left wore sidearms, and a few had AKs cradled in their arms.

When Noon ran down, Grafton introduced himself and me. Noon translated.

I lowered the bag to the floor and held it upright with my left hand. I could see some of the pirates eyeing that Kimber in my belt. I ignored them and watched Ragnar.

He introduced his sons and a couple of his lieutenants. Skinny, medium-sized guys, the Somali body type I had come to expect. None of these people got enough food when they were growing up, regardless of who their daddies were.

“I have come on behalf of the ship owners and insurers, and the governments involved, to negotiate a release of the ship
Sultan of the Seas,
and its passengers and crew.”

Ragnar set his jaw and jabbered awhile. Noon said, “Ragnar says the ransom amounts and time deadlines are nonnegotiable. If you have come to arrange payment, you are welcome. If you have come to try to save yourself some money, you waste everyone’s time.”

Grafton didn’t blink. “I have authorization to arrange to pay one hundred million. Nothing else. For the ship and crew and passengers. Before I pay that, I will have to talk to the captain, ensure everyone is well and in good health, treated with dignity and respect, given adequate food and water.”

Ragnar waved a sheet of paper and made a statement. Noon said, “He says he wants another million each for these eighty-five people. Unless you pay, they will stay behind when the others leave.”

Their positions staked out, they thrust and parried back and forth. After about five minutes, when Ragnar was obviously beginning to lose his temper, Jake Grafton suggested a change of course. “If you will let me visit the captain and his crew, and the passengers, I will communicate with my government and tell them of your demands. Perhaps they will change their minds.”

Ragnar was petulant. Negotiating was not one of his skill sets. He was accustomed to giving orders and watching people jump.

Jake Grafton was old Mr. Smooth. “As proof of my government’s serious purpose, and as a sign of respect for Sheikh Ragnar, I have brought with me a gift for him. Tommy?”

I picked up the bag with my left hand and took a step up beside him. One of Ragnar’s boys stepped forward eagerly as Noon talked, so I tossed the bag at him with my left hand. He put both hands up to catch it, and was unprepared for the weight. He lost his balance and fell. He gave me a murderous look while his pards beamed and Ragnar laughed. Grafton pulled a key from a pocket and passed it over.