The Catch: A Novel (3 page)

The girl nodded, and Munroe, not wanting to make her more uncomfortable than she was already, standing alone in the presence of someone she believed was a young man, left the house, shut the door, and headed down the stairs checking her watch.

In spite of her recommendation to delay the embarkation until tomorrow’s khat hour, Leo would proceed with his own plan to board early in the morning dark. She had time. Not a lot, but enough that she could make the return across town on foot, and so she walked, long strides in the dark, mind churning, running what she knew about this contract against everything Leo hadn’t said.

She reached the compound with forty minutes to spare and waited out the time on the street, where she could watch the gate and catch glimpses of the activity that went on beyond it. Waited until the cars were loaded and the men were inside, and Leo, hand to the roof of the Mitsubishi, Amber in its passenger seat, paused to scan the area. He looked for her, waited for her, was so convinced of her attachment to Amber Marie that even in light of what Natan had surely told him about her leaving the property, he couldn’t imagine that she would have simply taken the other half of his offer and walked away.

Munroe strode for the gate and stepped into the path of the security lighting. When Leo saw her, his head ticked up in acknowledgment. “You’re late,” he said.

She paused and made direct eye contact, something she’d never done before. Gave a sly half grin that should jar his perception, then continued for the Land Cruiser where Natan, with his boo-boo hurt ankle, was behind the wheel eyeing her now-fuller backpack.

She grinned at him too, all the way to the back of the vehicle, where she dumped her pack on top of the other bags that filled the storage area, and then climbed into the backseat beside Victor, who nodded: a gesture that said welcome and also provided notice that
now he, and probably every other member on the team, knew the unspoken reason she’d been ordered to come along.

She nodded back.

Victor, levelheaded and older than the others, was perhaps the only one who saw beyond her façade of youth and inexperience, and because the rest of the team treated her as an outcast, a necessary evil that they used but didn’t trust, Victor had set about to mentor and protect her. She allowed him that. Even in her indifference she appreciated the kindness and, under the circumstances, expected that he’d be the only one who wouldn’t let chest-thumping war-bonding and loyalty to his boss completely overwhelm reason.

Munroe slammed the door, and Leo, who’d been watching her all this time, turned, and got behind the wheel of the lead car.

They headed out in convoy, dark streets to better-lit thoroughfares, then on to the northernmost shore of the city and the older of the port facilities, where, unlike the newer construction across the bay with its gantry cranes stretched out like giant manacles over massive container ships, the more humble mixture of local dhows and ancient breakbulk freighters berthed to load and unload the piles of boxes and bales lining the dock.

At the guard post, Leo handed over documents that would allow them entry, documents that had required effort for Munroe to procure, that would guarantee no one looked at what they carried into the port, the type of work for which clients in her past had paid a premium—done here for minimum wage and taken for granted because Leo had no idea of the skill it took to do what she did. In his eyes, all she was and all she’d ever be was a flunky, an expendable underling, unlike the big boys who carried the guns, and that was fine by her.

The guard waved them through and the lead car navigated along de facto streets formed by shipping containers stacked four and five high, toward the breakbulk wharf and finally to the freighter for which they’d been conscripted.

Four ships filled the wharf, and a few men still milled around, remnant stevedores sweeping the docks from a ship recently loaded or unloaded. Mostly the port was quiet, all the agents long gone, which had been Leo’s reasoning for boarding at this hour.

In the world of shipping, nothing happened for a crew or a vessel at port without the ship’s local agent. The agent, eyes and ears and hands of the ship’s owner or charterer, should have been the one to secure the port clearance. Going behind his back as they did tonight meant going behind the back of whoever controlled the ship. And because they were avoiding the agent, they were sneaking armaments into the port for no legitimate reason.

Unlike many countries, Djibouti permitted the transport of weapons—even had systems in place to facilitate maritime security teams who needed to transfer from airport to seaport. This was one of the reasons Leo had chosen to base his team out of Djibouti—the law of the land spared him the logistical headache and expense of maintaining a mini arsenal in international waters and meeting client ships at sea. There were fees, there was paperwork, there was time and expense, yet none of that had been an issue before, and still tonight Leo made every effort possible to avoid legalities. Which raised the question: If the person who owned the ship and the one responsible for the freight weren’t paying for this armed escort, then who and why? Because Leo and his team, although less expensive than some of the larger, better-known maritime security companies, still didn’t come cheap.

The lead vehicle continued to the end of the wharf, pulled to a stop near the center of the last ship, and Natan, following close behind, stopped the Land Cruiser alongside. The freighter was larger than Munroe had expected, Liberian flagged, maybe six or seven thousand tons, about 150 meters long, with three hatches and two deck cranes. She sat low in the water with a freeboard that couldn’t have been more than five meters, and by initial assessment was either an old ship or not well cared for.

Munroe stepped from the car and, together with the others, collected
the gear. The captain came down the gangway while several of the ship’s crew looked on from the deck. He was short and stocky with a healthy midsection. Under the glare of the port lights his weathered face and thinning hair pegged him as in his sixties, but his posture, physique, and more, the way he carried himself, said early fifties on the outside, and Munroe would have guessed there was military buried somewhere in his background.

Leo moved to greet the man and the two shook hands, exchanging words with imperfect English as the common language between them. Munroe knelt to tighten the straps of her backpack, keeping far enough away to avoid drawing attention, close enough to listen in as the captain bantered good ol’ boy to good ol’ boy with a level of camaraderie that came off with far too much exuberance to be genuine. And then, after a moment or two, as if exhausted from the effort, the captain swung his arm in a wide motion toward the gangway and said, “We hurry. Please. Put your men quickly so we go on the way.”

Leo turned toward Victor and nodded him toward the ship. The Spaniard picked up his gear, started upward, and the other three followed. Munroe let them pass, hoping to catch the last of what was said between Leo and the captain, but they didn’t speak as the men trudged up, and when her delay turned awkward she stood and grudgingly followed, leaving the boss men to whatever they had to discuss.

On deck, the ship rumbled beneath her feet, the main engine’s oil pumps already running, which explained the crew loitering about: waiting to cast off lines as soon as they were given the order. The men acknowledged her when she boarded but didn’t move to shake hands or speak to her, didn’t have the faux friendliness of their captain, though from the curiosity written on their faces it would seem that Leo’s men were the first armed escort to have boarded with this crew, if not the ship.

Munroe paused beside the gangway, let her bag slide off her shoulder, and set it by her feet. Victor and the others continued aft, toward the working and living quarters, which rose five levels above a deck long and wide enough that it could be used to lash down additional
freight, if needed, but at the moment was empty. The ship’s cargo was limited to the holds below—bags of rice, according to Leo, humanitarian aid for South Sudan by way of Mombasa, Kenya—and scanning the deck for the nearest access hatches, Munroe could only wonder if he was really that stupid or simply believed that she was.

The captain reboarded while Leo, arms around Amber, lingered on the dock. Unlike the crew, who kept to themselves, the captain approached Munroe and offered a hand, and when she took it, he gripped hers and pumped it in a move of dominance.

“English is your language?” he said.

She nodded.

“Good. Very good,” he said, and welcomed her aboard with more of that same too-genuine-to-be-true friendliness: A minute or two of chitchat, just as he’d done with Leo, and then, duty finished, he turned and called out an order to one of his men. He continued on toward the door that the rest of the team had passed through, and Munroe turned back to the docks, searching out anyone who showed undue interest in the security team’s arrival and departure.

The lighting and distance worked against her, and finding nothing, she leaned forward to stare at Leo and overtly watch the last of his good-bye. It was childish to needle him like this, but given the circumstances, the immaturity of it only made her want to do it more. He caught her eye, gave his wife a final kiss, and Amber turned from him and climbed behind the wheel of the Mitsubishi.

Munroe couldn’t see her face but, having been through this with her eight times now, knew that as soon as Amber was alone inside that car, the veneer would crack, and the pain and neediness she’d held back on the dock would seep out and the tears would flow.

The vehicles circled around, and by the time Leo reached the deck Amber was already out of sight. He paused when he got to Munroe and flashed a grin, his way of showing that her behavior hadn’t bothered him. She picked up her bag to follow him.

“Have you been on a ship before?” he said.

“It’s not my first voyage.”

He frowned, almost as if he’d been counting on her falling sea
sick on their first night out and was disappointed that it might not be so, then headed up the ladder—stairs in land-based terminology—for the bridge, and she in turn passed through the same door that the rest of the crew had.

The bosun pointed her up one level to where the helmsmen and mechanics bunked. Her berth was farthest down the passageway, accommodations for one that would be shared by two because Leo’s guards would rotate watch.

Munroe found Victor in the room, which suited her fine, and she suspected he’d been the one to arrange to have her bunk with him. Munroe dumped her gear on the floor, and without looking up from the array of equipment he’d already spread out on the bed, Victor said, “Leo says you take first.”

“Is he on first too?”

Victor nodded and said, “You know the ships?”

His was the same question as Leo’s, only this one came from a place of concern instead of wanting to see her lose breakfast.

“I’ve been on a few,” she said.

Victor grinned and wagged his finger. “You keep secrets,” he said, and the way his gray-streaked beard twitched with his exaggerated speech forced her to return a smile. He’d already unloaded half his bag and unpacked his weapon, had laid out the equipment: handheld VHF radios, protective gear, and supplies—backups to his backups. He busied himself with his AK-47, which was what all of Leo’s team used because parts and ammunition were so easy to find in this part of the world and the telltale staccato blended in with the enemy’s.

Courtesy of Leo, she’d be keeping watch unarmed, just a warm body to fill his obligations. Victor handed her a radio and an earpiece, then nodded to his ballistic helmet. “You can use if you want,” he said. “We trade when we trade shifts.”

“You don’t want me dead like Leo does?” she said.

He chortled and, noticing her interest in his weapon, said, “You use this before?”

“Something like it,” Munroe said, and this time he laughed as if
she’d let him in on a private joke. He wagged his finger again, as was his way. “You go on the ships, you use the guns.” He ran a palm over his weapon, but paused and shook his head. “You make up stories.”

She smiled and shrugged. In all, she’d probably spent more time on the ocean than he had, mostly in cigarette boats and in gutted and refitted fishing trawlers that had hauled the smaller boats longer stretches, up coastline in the Bight of Biafra, all part of the gunrunning operation she’d abandoned when she was seventeen. On ships she’d laughed, and loved, and killed, and on a ship she’d fled one life for another. Now here she was, more than ten years later, another circle completed.

Victor put the weapon in her hands, pointed out its working parts, and she listened, allowing him to teach her what he felt she should know, and when he was satisfied that she’d been properly schooled, he took the rifle away and returned to his own work.

The ship shuddered beneath their feet, indicating that the lines had been cast off and the voyage was about to begin, and Munroe left the berth for the passageway and the main deck, for Leo who had no idea of the sweet talk and magic that had been involved in guaranteeing the tug and the pilot would be available, arrangements that he’d never had to make before, would probably never make again, a task that shouldn’t have fallen on her shoulders but had, due to his hiding their boarding from the agent.

Munroe stood on the open deck of the
Favorita
, night-vision binoculars dangling uselessly from her wrist, staring out over the water and the pinpricks of light that dotted the vast blanket of darkness while the ship rolled a gentle back and forth in its forward churn through the ocean swells.

They traveled at about twelve or thirteen knots—fourteen or fifteen miles an hour in land-based language—a slow and easy target in high-risk-area terminology. Leo had put her in this spot an hour ago with the instruction to keep watch, and knowing it would frustrate him, she’d stood exactly here and had done nothing more. The ship and the people on it weren’t her responsibility; she couldn’t care enough to pretend that they were.