Running Dark (9 page)

THE CIGARETTE BOAT REMAINED SILENT. SUMNER STRAINED TO
see through the darkness. He would have killed for some night-vision goggles. As it was, he tried to empty his mind of any thoughts and focus on his sense of hearing. He directed his eyes toward where he’d last heard the engine and was rewarded by the metallic clang of steel hitting steel. Definitely not a sound heard in nature. He attempted to see movement in the dark, but there was none. He waited. In order to heft the gun, the pirates were going to have to reveal their position with more noise. When they did, he’d shoot in that direction. Block sidled up behind him.

“Any idea where they are?” Block whispered.

“Directly in front and a little to the left of me.”

“Close enough to shoot?”

“Impossible to say. They could be out of range.”

Clutch moved to Sumner’s left. “How’d you get that gun on board? It’s illegal.” Clutch spoke in normal tones. Block shushed him.

“Keep your voice down.” Block sounded irritated. “Why the hell do you care if it’s illegal? That gun just might be the thing that keeps us alive.”

“I care because I’m in charge of security. It’s my neck if the authorities decide that I was negligent.” Clutch’s voice held a surly note.

Clutch
had been
lax. Sumner had simply carried the gun on board in its case affixed with a decal inscribed with the name of a famous fishing-rod manufacturer along with the words “fishing gear.” Nei
ther Clutch nor anyone else had bothered to inspect the luggage. In fact, Sumner was surprised at the lack of security on the ship. It was well stocked with life rafts, vests, flare guns, and the other accoutrements needed should the ship flounder and sink, but other than the LRAD it was completely unprepared for an attack of a hostile nature. Given the waters it cruised, Sumner found this lack of preparedness puzzling.

“So we broke one rule.” Block’s tone was dismissive.

“Not one rule—lots of rules. Running dark like this is also against the law.” Now Clutch sounded belligerent. Sumner thought his concern for proper procedure was too little too late, and ridiculous under the circumstances. He could only assume that the man’s ever-present anger made it impossible for him to cooperate with anyone.

“Me, I’d like to live, thank you very much. The rules be damned,” Block said.

Sumner heard another unusual clatter somewhere out in the darkness. “Hear that?”

“I did,” Block said.

“Forty-five degrees to the left.”

A whooshing came from that angle. Like the fizzing of a bottle rocket spiraling up. Sumner traced its progress with his ears, not his eyes, although there was a small light trail created by the lit fuse. His heart picked up a faster rhythm.

“What the hell is that? A grenade?” Block’s voice was strained.

“Too quiet,” Sumner said. “And it sounds like it’s moving upward, not toward us.” He put his rifle to his shoulder and tensed, waiting for the explosion. The blast came with a beautiful fireworks display. White bits of light shot heavenward, then tumbled down in an umbrella shape, brightening the sky all around. In the resulting glow, Sumner made out the shape of the cigarette boat as well as those of its occupants. There were four. They were just gray silhouettes in the distance, perhaps too far to be hit. Sumner aimed and fired anyway.

The rifle shot cracked through the night. He heard a yell, and then
the air filled with the roar of an engine. The walkie-talkie on Sumner’s belt crackled.

“Heard that.” It was Wainwright. “I’ve got enough power for half an hour. Use it now?”

“Go,” Sumner said.

The ship shuddered with the vibration of the huge turbines coming to life. The electricity flickered back on, bathing the entire deck with light. Clutch cursed from his position to Sumner’s left.

“We can’t see them, but we might as well have targets on our chests,” he said. Sumner felt completely exposed. He hunched lower behind the railing.

Block appeared at his right. “See anything?”

Sumner didn’t bother to respond. Instead he aimed again at the pirates’ last location. He concentrated on listening. They were moving closer. He targeted only blackness but fired anyway. He heard a yell, which gave him a great deal of satisfaction. He most likely hadn’t hit anyone, but they knew he was there.

“You’re keeping them on their toes,” Block said.

The
Kaiser Franz
started to move. Below Sumner came the swish of rushing water as the boat cut through it.

“Cover your ears.” Wainwright’s voice came from the walkie-talkies and echoed on the deck. The LRAD blasted.

“He get them?” It was Clutch.

Sumner shook his head. “Have no idea. They’ve got to be moving. Probably zigzagging to avoid us. See anything?”

“Not a thing,” Clutch said. “And it’s worse with the deck lights on. They’re killing my night vision.” He pulled his transmitter off his belt. “Douse the lights!”

“We’ve got a spotlight,” Wainwright said. “We’ll use the LRAD on them as long as we can see them.”

The cruise ship picked up speed. Now Sumner could hear the pirates as they opened the throttle on their boat. The spotlight danced around the water, searching. Sumner still couldn’t see them, but he
heard them just out of the searchlight’s range. Whoever was manning the acoustic weapon had heard the pirate boat as well. It bellowed again at the exact moment the floodlight caught them. The decibels bounced off the pirate ship.

“That was good,” Block said. His words were swallowed by the boom of a grenade being fired.

Sumner flung himself back against the wall, away from the railing. He threw down the rifle and curled into a ball, protecting his head with his arms and presenting his back to the ocean. The grenade shot over his head, high. He heard it hit something before it exploded. This hit was close. So close that Sumner felt the heat and the pulsing wave of air that came after. Bits of shrapnel peppered the water. Thank God they’re such piss-poor shots, Sumner thought. Had they even a modicum of skill, the deck would have been blown to pieces.

“That one sheared off the satellite dish. There goes our contact to the outside world,” said Wainwright’s voice through Clutch’s receiver.

Sumner was bathed in sweat. He wiped his hands on his pants before retrieving his gun, then returned to the railing. The deck lights blinked off, plunging them into darkness once again. Even the searchlight was gone.

This time Sumner’s hearing was useless. The air around him was a cacophony of sound. The LRAD blasted, leaving a ringing in his ears and rendering him functionally deaf. The water pounded against the hull as they carved through it, and in the distance came the screams of the passengers somewhere deep inside the ship’s bowels.

“Block, shoot a flare,” he said.

Block was flattened against the deck wall behind him. He rolled up next to Sumner. “I don’t have a flare gun. I’ve got a Taser. Clutch has the flare.”

Sumner heard the pirates. Another grenade shot could be only seconds away.

“Clutch, shoot a flare, now.” Sumner snapped out the order in the
general direction of where he thought Clutch was. He could hear the cigarette boat revving, first far out, then maintaining the same volume, then becoming louder. In his mind’s eye, Sumner pictured the vessel making an arc away before returning to home in on the ship. The deck stayed dark.

“Clutch, the flare, now!” Sumner shouted.

“Where the hell is he?” Block said.

Before Sumner could answer, a flare shot out into the darkness to Sumner’s left. The flaming projectile rose into the sky. While it didn’t throw a lot of illumination, it was enough to once again expose the pirates’ position. He heard them give a yell. He lay on his stomach, aimed, and fired. The flare died out before he could determine if he’d hit. To his relief, he heard the pirate ship veer away.

“Bastards are moving back again,” Block said. He turned toward the spot where the flare had fired. “Good shot, Clutch. I was just starting to wonder where you were. What the hell took you so long?”

Out of the darkness came a woman’s voice. “I am sorry, sir. My English is not so good, and it took me a moment to find the flare gun.”

Sumner and Block both turned to look. The lights on the deck sprang to life again, and there stood the German girl, holding a spent flare gun.

“I’M MARINA SCHULLMANN,” THE GIRL SAID.

Block stood up and put out a hand. “I’m Harry. And this here’s Sumner. What’s your first name again?” Block asked him.

Sumner stood. “Sumner’s fine. Not too many people use my first name.” He held the rifle down and slightly behind him. Marina’s white-blond hair, chopped to her chin, blew around in the breeze, flicking over her ice-blue eyes. She had a reserved, cool way about her, which he knew from watching her was alleviated somewhat when she smiled, but she wasn’t smiling now.

She pointed at the gun hanging by Sumner’s leg. “This is what caused them to leave?”

Block shot Sumner a cautious look.

Sumner nodded. “It is. But it’s illegal on a cruise ship, so I would ask that you not broadcast that I have it.”

Marina looked surprised. “I am happy you have it. Who is Clutch?”

“The head of security. He had the flare gun. Did you see him over there?”

Marina shook her head. “I found the flare gun on the deck floor. No one was near me.”

Sumner made a mental note to throw Clutch against a wall and explain the rules of engagement to him. The first being this: Never run and leave your comrades to go it alone during a firefight.

“How long before they return?” Marina said, getting right to the point.

Sumner was about to tell her that it could be anywhere from a few hours to a matter of minutes when Block broke in.

“They turned tail and ran. We may never see them again.”

Sumner frowned. He wouldn’t have lied to the girl. She struck him as no fool. He watched her take in the information and shake her head.

“That is not true, Herr Block.”

Block shifted. “Now, don’t you worry, miss. Sumner and me here got the situation as far under control as it can be, considering the circumstances. You should go back to your cabin and lock the door.”

Marina raised an eyebrow. “I think the situation was better controlled when I shot the flare gun.”

Sumner suppressed a smile.

“And we thank you,” Block said, clearing his throat. But you still should go back to your room. Didn’t I see you with your parents?”

A cloud passed over her face. “My mother is frightened for me, that’s true. But I wanted to know what was happening. The ship’s captain is not informing us. He only says that he has sent a distress signal and an American aircraft carrier in the region is coming to our aid. But this I don’t believe.”

Block gave Sumner a worried look.

“Why not?” Sumner said.

“The Frenchmen in cabin 216 said that Americans will not come to the aid in Somali waters.”

“Did they say anything else?”

“Not to me. They moved away. Besides, it’s rude to listen to another’s conversation, is it not?” Marina gave Sumner a reproachful look.

Just what we need, he thought, a woman with a proper upbringing.

“And,” she continued, “I do not speak French.”

“That’s a shame,” Block said.

Marina looked a little annoyed. “Do you, Herr Block?”

Block grinned. “Hell no. I speak Texan.”

Block’s comment seemed to mollify Marina. She gave him a small smile.

“Is this your first cruise to the Seychelles?” Sumner’s question sounded mundane, given the situation.

Block snorted. “Guys, I’d love everyone to get to know each other better, but those pirates are gonna come back. Don’t you think we should be preparing for that?”

Sumner wanted to tell Block that he was preparing for it, but he couldn’t. Instead he raised his eyebrows at Marina to encourage her to answer.

“No. My father made this cruise six months ago. He liked it so much that he suggested to my mother that we go with him this time.”

Did he, now? Sumner thought.

“What does your father do?” Out of the corner of his eye, Sumner saw Block begin to protest the continued conversation. Sumner gave a sharp nod of the head to indicate that he remain quiet. Block must have understood, because he didn’t comment.

“He sells armored cars.”

Sumner thought Block would fall over with surprise.

“What kind of armored cars?” Block said.

“Kind?” Marina looked confused.

“What brand? Fords? Chevys? BMWs?”

Marina shrugged. “All kinds. They bring the car to our shop, and we take it apart and armor it.”

Sumner wondered what the odds were of an armored-car salesman taking this particular cruise to the Seychelles.

“I’d love to talk to him about how he does it,” Block said. “Bet I could sell a ton of armored cars to the guys in Mexico. That country is in the middle of a drug war.”

Sumner appreciated that Block wanted to learn about the market
ing opportunities for armored cars, but he thought the more interesting question was why an armored-car salesman was taking the same cruise twice only six months apart.

“Do you know the Frenchmen’s business?” Sumner asked Marina.

She shrugged. “No. But there is a Russian with his girlfriend. He sells drugs throughout the Eastern Bloc countries.”

“Legal drugs?” Sumner said.

Marina smiled. “Yes. A heart medication.”

STARK AND EMMA STARED AT RODUCCI AND THE KENYAN IMMIGRATION
authorities. Stark frowned.

“I can’t afford to have Price involved in any scandal. If you get detained at customs, I’d appreciate your keeping us out of it.”

“Of course,” Emma said.

Stark moved next to her to stand in the open doorway. “I’m staying here for the moment. My meeting isn’t for another two hours, and I’m going to use the plane as my office. Something tells me that you and those officials are going to be having an extended conversation. I’ll just watch the proceedings from up here. Do you mind?” He appeared to be enjoying the moment.

“Not at all.” Emma did her best to sound unconcerned. She stepped out of the plane into the damp, cool air and moved down the stairs with what she hoped was a pleasant expression on her face. When she reached the bottom, Roducci held out a hand.

“So nice to meet you!” He pumped her hand with a heartiness that Emma found disconcerting. “Major Stromeyer of Darkview Enterprises asked me to meet you upon your landing and to give you your traveling papers.” He kept her palm in his grip and held her gaze a beat while he let the information sink in. He released her and produced an envelope from his back pants pocket with a flourish. “Here they are.”

Emma said nothing as she opened the flap to pull out the papers.

“The letter is from the American embassy located here in Nairobi.
It confers temporary diplomatic status on you, as well as the immunity from prosecution that comes from that status.”

The papers were written in the form of a letter rogatory and suggested that Emma be allowed entrance to the country. It explained that she would be stopping only briefly in Nairobi on her way to Dubai. A Post-it note on the paper said that she was to meet her next contact near the Price private jet in one hour and warned Emma not to call until she received a second, cleared line from the contact. Emma peeled off the Post-it and placed it in her pocket.

The second paper looked exactly the same, except it was translated into a foreign language. Emma flicked a glance at the two immigration officers. The one closest to her held out a hand. She offered him her passport and the letter rogatory. He said nothing as he read them.

“Allow me to explain,” Roducci said. “Normally you would require a visa. This is no real problem, a mere fifty dollars in the terminal and even less for a transit visa to another location. However, Major Stromeyer indicated that she did not wish for you to be registered in such a fashion. The officers have informed me that you must stay here, in the airport, for the time needed to obtain another flight to Somalia, which they understand is your final destination. You are not allowed to leave the airport.” Roducci looked at Stark, who still stood in the open doorway at the top of the jet’s stairs. “I am required to ask if the Price company intends to ensure that Ms. Caldridge does not venture outside of the terminal for any reason.”

Stark shook his head. “The Price company will ensure no such thing.”

Roducci looked taken aback. “You won’t?”

“I won’t.” Stark nodded to the immigration authorities. “If you will excuse me, I need to make some calls before I disembark.” He disappeared back into the airplane.

One of the officers raised an eyebrow and made a “huh” sound as he watched Stark leave. Roducci looked flabbergasted. He moved the
Kenyans away from Emma and engaged in a spirited discussion with them. After a moment they nodded their agreement to something, Emma didn’t know what, and headed for the terminal entrance. Roducci waited until they were out of earshot before filling her in.

“I have offered to ensure your compliance.” Roducci looked less than pleased at the turn of events. “But I need your agreement that you will stay in the terminal. Normally I would assume such compliance in the face of a direct demand from the immigration authorities, but Major Stromeyer indicated to me that you are a woman with her own ideas about things.”

Emma wasn’t about to promise Roducci anything until she met with her contact and learned the next step. She smiled a reassuring smile. “I promise to inform you if my plans change.”

Roducci looked stern. “I don’t have the power to help you if you break the law. My relationship with African police is one of mutual distrust. So far they have not attempted to incarcerate me, but the threat is always in the air.”

“I understand. And I hope that nothing untoward happens,” Emma said. She wondered at Roducci’s business but decided that the subject was best left alone. “Is there a first-class fliers’ lounge? I’d love a shower.”

Roducci looked hesitant. “Yes, but it will cost you twenty dollars, and shortly thereafter you will enter hell. Best to save your money. Perhaps you may gain access to the one maintained by the international airlines.” He walked along with her to the terminal. “The man in the dark slacks. Is he always so disagreeable?”

Emma saw no reason to lie. “Yes.”

Roducci gave an expressive shrug. “Life is far too brief to be so upset.”

They made it to a lounge maintained by a consortium of international airlines, paid a fee, and entered. The room was a narrow rectangle. Ancient armchairs upholstered in an orange industrial fabric, tattered and stained, lined one wall, and laptop power stations
lined another. After the plush accommodations on Stark’s private jet, the spartan room felt depressing.

Travelers occupied most of the chairs and all of the power stations. Some read, while the vast majority talked on their cell phones. A group of Arabs sat in a far corner, the men wearing business suits, the women head scarves and black, cloak-type dresses. To Emma’s right, a long counter held a Coca-Cola fountain and an industrial coffee-maker. Plastic-wrapped sandwiches sat on a battered tray. At the far end of the coffee counter was a hallway that led to the washrooms.

“I’m going there.” Emma pointed to the sign.

“I will await you here. I understand that your second contact is due to meet you in the next hour.” Roducci snatched a newspaper from a nearby rack and settled into a free chair.

The bathrooms matched the outer area, in both age and cleanliness. Fluorescent lights cast a bluish gray glow onto the tiled walls. The far end contained three shower stalls. Yellowed vinyl curtains hung from a horizontal metal pole spanning each entrance. Emma moved one aside. White ceramic tile with gray specks and grout colored black with mold encased the interior. With a sigh, she headed to a sink. She dropped her duffel on the floor beneath it. The soap dispenser of the first was empty. She pushed the second, also empty, as was the third. At the third she depressed the handles of the cold and hot water faucets. A weak stream of tepid water poured out. It stopped after twenty seconds. She washed up as well as she could, repeatedly hitting the handles while splashing water on her face and cleaning her hands.

When she stepped into the main room, Roducci was gone. She headed to the counter, grabbed a shrink-wrapped muffin and a carton of yogurt. A display held individual servings of cereal. She chose a box of granola, ripped the top off the carton of yogurt, and poured the granola into it, then wolfed down the mix. When she was done, she took another quick look around for Roducci. She had twenty minutes before the second contact was to meet her at the rendezvous,
so waiting for him to reappear was out of the question. She’d have just enough time to hustle back to the landing field.

On the tarmac once more, she received another bad turn of luck. The Price jet was gone. She walked a little farther out to check the names on the long row of private planes currently resting in Nairobi. None matched the Price jet’s configuration. At the tenth jet, she reached the very end of the airport. A chain-link fence rimmed the runway. Beyond that was a frontage road. Cars whizzed by. She stood for a moment, perplexed, when she felt a touch on her arm. A man in a bright yellow reflective vest frowned back at her. He waved toward the aluminum door.

“I was just looking for my jet,” Emma said. The man asked her something. She didn’t know what he was saying, but she took a stab in the dark. “It’s the Price Pharmaceuticals jet.”

He walked her to a small booth situated next to the aluminum door. A stool, a counter, a telephone, and a clipboard filled the tiny area, barely leaving enough room for the man once he stepped inside. His foot kicked a wastebasket on the floor. He muttered and shoved it up against the wall with the toe of his boot. He consulted the clipboard before picking it up and showing it to her. At the top was the name, registration number, and time of embarkation for the Price jet.

“It wasn’t supposed to fly anywhere. This was its destination,” Emma said. The man shrugged, either not understanding her or not caring.

The aluminum door behind her slammed. She jerked around to see Roducci. He, too, glanced around as if searching for the jet.

“No Price jet and no contact. I’ve been stood up,” Emma said.

Roducci’s eyebrows hit his hairline. “The contact did not appear and the disagreeable man left? I don’t believe it!”

Emma didn’t either. She looked at her watch. “Let’s give it some time.” She moved to lean against the terminal building to wait.

Thirty minutes later she decided that the contact wasn’t going to
show. Roducci sat on the ground next to her, his head against the wall. She tapped him on the shoulder.

“Do you have a secure contact number for Major Stromeyer?”

Roducci shook his head. “She calls me on mine. She purchases prepaid phones for temporary use and gives me the latest number. Currently I can only contact her through the Darkview offices’ line.” He frowned. “Not a good idea, as it will immediately reveal our location to anyone listening.”

So calling Stromeyer was out. “Any idea who the contact may be?”

Roducci shrugged. “There are four Darkview personnel in Nairobi. Perhaps five. I know two.”

“Can you call them?”

“Of course.” Roducci dialed his phone and waited. Hung up. Dialed again and waited. Hung up. “No answer at either.”

Emma looked at the jets all around her. “I’m standing in an airport. Seems to me I should be able to get my own flight to Hargeisa, or at least closer to it, don’t you think?” she said.

Roducci’s eyes lit up. “I have just the thing. A good friend of mine is a member of a fine, upstanding family. They have their own jet that is parked here. I will contact them to determine what it will cost for you to charter it.” Roducci whipped out his BlackBerry and began thumbing it furiously.

Emma started back to the terminal.

“Where are you going?” Roducci jogged next to her as he held the phone to his ear.

“To check the monitors. There may be a commercial jet leaving soon.”

“Please, please, not necessary, not to mention not likely. Who goes to Hargeisa anyway? Just let me discuss this with my friend. I urge you to settle down. All will be well.” He followed her into the terminal, chattering into his phone in a language Emma didn’t understand. She headed to a customer-service desk manned by two agents. Above
the desk hung several screens that contained scrolling flight information. She stood in front of the monitors, watching the green letters advance across the display. Roducci continued with an animated conversation. He lowered the phone.

“My friend says that you can use the jet. He can have a pilot here within the hour.”

Emma kept her eyes on the schedules. The flights to Mumbai were scrolling by. “How much?”

Roducci held another conference. He lowered the phone. “Two hundred thousand dollars. American.”

Emma gave him an incredulous look. “Are you joking?”

Roducci seemed offended. “It is a two-hour flight from Nairobi, and the cost of fuel is astronomical at the moment. The fee is for a round-trip, because once you are delivered there, the plane must be flown back here, and that is assuming you don’t get shot down on approach. The insurgents are firing upon aircraft.”

Emma raised her eyebrows at him. “What a lovely thought,” she said. “But that’s in Mogadishu, not Hargeisa.”

Roducci gave a dismissive wave. “Nonetheless, we are discussing Somalia, so anything is possible. My friend would like to receive his jet back in one piece. And by the way, the jet you are paying for is the top of the line. A Gulfstream of the latest model. My friend assures me that it has all the comforts of home. He bought it from a very extravagant Russian billionaire who is now dead.”

The screen completed its circuit. There were no flights to any destination in Somalia.

“Tell him thank you very much, but the cost is too high.”

“Major Stromeyer will perhaps assist you in paying for part or perhaps all of it.”

“I doubt that.”

“I can arrange it very quickly. I am able to procure whatever you desire. I have a corresponding agent in Africa who is quite good at this.”

Emma had no doubt that Roducci could arrange anything in any part of the world, but now she was much more concerned about his prices. “Who would pay for the procurement?”

“Why, the American government, of course. Major Stromeyer sees to it that my invoices are paid. She is not as generous as some contractors who hire me, but she is fair.”

“I would have to run any charges past her and Mr. Banner first.”

Roducci grimaced. “Mr. Banner and I do not always see with the same eye. I prefer to negotiate with Major Stromeyer.” A smile creased his face. “She is a beautiful woman, is she not?”

“Major Stromeyer is very nice. As is Mr. Banner, once you get to know him. I’m sorry you don’t always see eye to eye.”

Roducci shrugged again. “It’s no problem as long as Major Stromeyer is there.”

Emma stepped up to one of the women behind the customer-service desk. “I need a flight to Hargeisa.”

The woman shook her head. “All flights from Nairobi have been suspended. Ethiopian Airlines maintains flights, but you will need to connect in Addis Ababa.” She tapped on her keyboard. “A flight there leaves in two days. You’ll have a twelve-hour layover, and you will arrive in Hargeisa late that evening.”

“Is there no other way? It’s very important that I get there.”

The woman paused. “The United Nations relief organizations fly their personnel into Hargeisa. Go back to the main ticketing counter in Terminal One and look for this sign.” She wrote on a small notepad, tore the sheet off, and handed it to Emma. It bore the letters UNHAS.