The Tears of Dark Water (9 page)

He saw nods all around. They were with him, even Mas. He was their leader, the sailboat his prize. He spoke unequivocally: “This is our chance. There won’t be another.”

Then he turned and started the motor.

Daniel

The Indian Ocean

07°50´49˝S, 56°13´41˝E

November 9, 2011

A strange vibrato sound interrupted Daniel’s dream. He was climbing a cliff surrounded by snow-capped mountains. He didn’t know why he was there, but he didn’t question it. Vanessa was calling to him from above, her face obscured by clouds. Quentin was below him, playing out the rope. A breeze was blowing, but it was muted somehow, a murmur in the preternatural scene. The buzzing noise stood out, then faded as quickly as it came. Daniel’s unconscious mind tried gamely to find a place for it, but the disturbance was enough to disrupt the flow of the dream.

He rolled onto his side and opened his eyes halfway. The cabin was dark as pitch. He touched the bulkhead beside him and remembered where he was—the aft berth of the
Renaissance
. He heard the rumble of the engine through the soundproofing he had installed in the retrofit. The glowing hands of his dive watch told him that he had twenty minutes to sleep before he had to spell Quentin. He listened for a few seconds and heard nothing amiss. Then he closed his eyes again and dozed off quickly.

The next sound, when it came, tore apart the night.

He sat up straight, his nerves ablaze, as the clamor of automatic gunfire pierced his ears. There were multiple guns, and they were close.

He heard the shouts next, in high-pitched English: “Captain, don’t be afraid! We don’t want to hurt you! We just want the ship!”

He moved without thought, his reflexes driving him out of the cabin and into the nav station. He switched on AIS, sending out a signal with their course and speed. Then he pressed the unmarked red button. It was a safeguard of last resort, something he never imagined he would have to use. It felt inconsequential beneath his fingertips, but it was the only thing that could save them now.

His next instinct was Quentin. He launched himself up the companionway and found his son standing in the cockpit with his hands in the air. Daniel saw the skiff closing in from astern, dark faces and gun barrels glinting in the moonlight. He spoke to Quentin with a firmness that belied his terror.

“Don’t move. Do whatever they say.”

The hijacking was a disorderly affair. The pirates swarmed over the gunwales of the
sailboat as if they were scaling the ramparts of a fort, shouting lustily and pointing their guns in every direction. They were dressed in Western-style T-shirts, shorts, and flip-flops in various stages of wear. A large-boned Somali lashed a towline from the skiff to a cleat on the
Renaissance
. A second pirate—tall and clever-looking—trained his gun on the Parkers. The other Somalis took flashlights from their pockets and went below to ransack the saloon.

In the melee, only one pirate seemed composed. He was young and handsome, with high cheekbones and eyes that burned with transparent intelligence. He was wearing a red Nike T-shirt, khaki cargo shorts, and Velcro sandals. He slung his weapon over his shoulder and sat down on one of the benches, gesturing for Daniel and Quentin to join him. Daniel swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded, moving slowly to avoid provoking the guard. Quentin sat beside him.

“I am Afyareh,” the pirate said in English. “I am sorry for this.” He waved his hand toward the galley where his companions were raiding the refrigerator. “They are hungry. I will make sure they leave your belongings alone.” He looked at Daniel with understanding. “I know this is difficult for you. But you have nothing to fear from us. We are not killers. We are here for money, nothing more.”

You’re bandits and thieves
, Daniel thought angrily, the adrenaline still surging through his veins. But he kept his expression passive. “What are you going to do with us?”

“We will take you to Somalia,” Afyareh replied. “And then we will talk to your family and see about a price. If they are reasonable, it will be over soon. If not . . .” He allowed the threat to hang in the air, then shrugged. “But America is the land of
caano—
milk. I’m sure they will comply.”

How did he . . .?
Daniel thought in confusion. Then he remembered the flag on the mast. The stars and stripes were a dead giveaway. He felt nausea swirling in his stomach.

“The U.S. government will never let you get away with this,” he said, injecting steel into his voice. “They’ll treat you like terrorists. It would be much better if you let us go.”

The pirate raised an eyebrow. “Your government is not omnipotent. If they were, they would have captured General Aideed in 1993 and ended the war that made all of us beggars.”

Daniel was taken aback. Everything he had read about Somali pirates suggested they were illiterate peasants, trigger-happy and perpetually high on
qat
. Their masters were the educated ones, not the grunts in the boats. “Where are you from?” he asked, hoping to buy more time. Every second that passed took them further away from Somalia.

The pirate tilted his head. “I am from many places. But enough talk. Now we go.”

He stood and moved to the helm, studying the throttle and controls. He took a device out of his pocket and stared at the glowing screen.
GPS
, Daniel thought.
He’s deciding on a heading.
Seconds later, the pirate pushed a button and nodded as the rudder turned five degrees to starboard. He pushed the button repeatedly and the
Renaissance
came about, passing through the eye of the wind. When the boat was pointing just west of north, he shoved the throttle to the stops.

“It handles well,” he said to Daniel. “And you have plenty of fuel. That makes everything easier. Now come. Let’s save your boat from my men.”

They went below—Afyareh first, then Daniel and Quentin, and finally their guard. Daniel switched on the lights and was shocked by what he saw. The galley was a disaster. The cabinets and refrigerator had been tossed. Milk cartons were upended in the sink. Food was strewn across the countertops. A pirate was scooping peanut butter out of the container with his hand. Another was chugging water straight from the bottle.

To his surprise, Afyareh seemed just as angry. He began to shout in Somali, waving his arm around and pointing at the mess. Most of the pirates looked ashamed, but one of them—a young man with ermine-like eyes and a cut on his cheek—yelled back. Afyareh fixed the pirate with a wintry stare and spoke a few words in a low tone. It must have been a question, because all of the pirates nodded except the man with the cut. The man looked around in disgust and barked what sounded like a curse.

Silence descended on the saloon. Afyareh picked up a wedge of cheese and broke it into chunks, passing one to each of the pirates. He examined the refrigerator and took out a package of deli meat and a loaf of bread. He handed out slices of bread and meat to his companions, then took the bottle of water and wiped the mouth on his T-shirt before taking a long drink.

He looked at Daniel. “From now on, my men will behave.” He pointed at the dining booth. “You will sit there. Liban and Sondare will sit with you.” He gestured at the tall man who had guarded them in the cockpit and a gangly kid with eager eyes. “They will not disturb you when you sleep. If you need to use the bathroom, they will accompany you. In the morning, you can cook breakfast. I have questions about the boat, but they can wait until tomorrow.”

With that, Afyareh turned to address his men again. Daniel slid into the back of the booth, while Quentin took a seat on one of the wings. Daniel examined his son carefully. He was clearly scared, but his eyes were still bright. He hadn’t withdrawn like the afternoon before. Daniel felt the pride again, along with something more elemental—love.

“It’s going to be okay,” he said quietly. “They’re not here to hurt us.”

Quentin looked suddenly guilty. “I fell asleep on watch. I’m sorry.”

Daniel shook his head. “It was better that way. You didn’t resist.” He saw Liban moving toward them and lowered his voice. “I got a message out.”

Quentin’s eyes widened. “SSAS?”

Daniel nodded almost imperceptibly.

“No talk, Captain,” Liban said in heavily accented English, taking a seat on the starboard bench a few feet away, his AK-47 stretched across his lap. “Sleep.”

Daniel complied without a word, lying down and bending at the waist to conform to the shape of the booth. Quentin followed his lead on the opposite side. There was just enough room for them to rest in relative comfort. Daniel closed his eyes and imagined Vanessa and his parents on the other side of the world, oblivious to the peril that had befallen them, but not for much longer. Afyareh and his band of brigands had no idea of the storm they had unleashed or the power of the people who would move heaven and earth to contain it.

Proof of Life

We know what dark persuasions dwell in the soul of man;

for we are closer to him than his jugular vein.

—The Quran, Sura
50

Vanessa

Annapolis, Maryland

November 9, 2011

Vanessa’s iPhone vibrated on her nightstand just after midnight. She was in the bathroom brushing her teeth and paid little attention to it. Chad Forrester was the doctor on call, which meant that she was off limits to after-hours inquiries. It was a boundary she had established early in her practice after getting one too many non-emergent “emergency” calls from parents of young children worried that some run-of-the-mill event—a fever spike, a bout of diarrhea—might turn catastrophic.

She put her toothbrush back in the stand and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water, Skipper trailing dutifully in her wake. She was bone-tired after a long day at the office, but in her heart she felt invigorated. All day she had replayed the Beethoven in her head, feeling the Bissolotti vibrating in her hands, the bow dancing in Kreisler’s run of sixteenths. The music had reawakened something in her—a sense of possibility. She’d printed out her airline ticket and placed it on her desk at the office beside the photo of Daniel and Quentin. There was something about seeing her name and destination in ink that confirmed that what had happened inside of her was real.

She checked the security system to ensure the house was locked and then returned to her bedroom, water glass in hand. The noise machine was her next stop. She had spent her early years in big cities and couldn’t fall asleep in silence. The unit sat atop an antique roll-top desk that Daniel had inherited from his grandfather. After powering it on, she gave Skipper a pat and turned off all the lights in the house by way of a master switch. She climbed into bed and pulled the comforter up to her chin, imagining Daniel at the helm of the
Renaissance
, surrounded by the sea and the dawn—

Suddenly, her iPhone vibrated again.

You have to be kidding
, she thought. She almost ignored it, but curiosity got the best of her. She picked up the phone and frowned. The caller was Curtis Parker—Daniel’s father. It was his third attempt. He’d also sent her a text message:
Vanessa, call me as soon as you get this.

She felt a twinge of concern. She sat up in bed and called him back. “Curtis? What’s going on?”

“Vanessa.” As soon as he said her name, she knew something was wrong. There was a slight tremor in his voice—an incongruity she had never heard before. “It’s Daniel and Quentin.”

Her heart fell like a stone into a well. “What happened?”

Curtis took a pensive breath. “There’s no easy way to say this so I’ll just say it. They were hijacked by pirates. I just talked to my friend Frank Overstreet, the Assistant Secretary of Defense. The Navy confirms it. The sailboat is on a course for Somalia.”

A wave of dizziness swept over her and she almost had to put down the phone. “How did this happen?” she demanded at last, trying to make sense of the nonsensical.

“I don’t know.”

She felt the sudden urge to move. She stood from the bed and walked down the hallway to the darkened living room, stopping just short of the windows. Skipper followed her and lay down at her feet. “How did you find out?” she asked eventually, staring out at the night.

Curtis spoke with quiet gravity. “I got an email from the
Renaissance
late in the day. It said they’d been hijacked. I called Frank right away, and he said the naval authorities in Bahrain received the same message. The Seychelles sent a plane just after dawn. The sails were down, and the yacht was under power. They were towing a skiff with an outboard motor. The pilot tried to hail them on the radio but got no response. I waited to call you until I heard about the overflight. There’s no question now.”

Vanessa shook her head in complete confusion. “How did he have time to email you?”