Harbor patrol? A fishing boat? Or a skiff getting under way for a pirate cruise? He tried to count people. About a dozen, he thought. Which would make it a pirate boat. Two or three men would be enough for a harbor patrol.
Quinn watched the crew get the boat got under way. In just a moment it was motoring past the
Sultan
for the open sea. Speeding up, making a nice bow wave. The pirates were past the harbor mouth when their wake rocked the inflatable as the SEALs clung tightly to the lines.
Then the sound faded and the harbor again grew silent.
“Night Owl, come on in.”
Bullet Bob clicked his mike twice and motioned to the coxswain, who had heard the transmission.
In two minutes they were on the side of the Greek freighter that faced the shore. Several lines dangled over the side. The coxswain hooked the inflatable to the lines and held it there with the engine while the men in the boat snapped lift lines to the largest black bag in the bottom of the boat. Up it went, slowly. The lines came back down and two more bags went up. Then Quinn and the two men went up.
On deck the lieutenant took a look around with his regular night-vision goggles.
“Two men were aboard. We took them out.”
“Let’s get the boat up.”
The coxswain hooked the inflatable to the lift lines, and it was the last thing brought aboard.
The SEALs quickly went about their business. The largest bag contained a .50 caliber machine gun. This was carried to the bridge. The second bag contained two .50 caliber Barrett sniper rifles, and the third, the heaviest, food and ammo.
On the bridge Bullet Bob again used the night-vision binoculars. Yes. This would be a good place. The town of Eyl, the
Sultan,
and the boats on the beaches were all in range of the .50s, which were effective to a mile and a half. The machine gun and sniper rifles were, in effect, light artillery. When the time came to sanitize the
Sultan,
they could simply motor over in the boat, taking their weapons along.
As the men set up the guns a sliver of moon rose over the ocean. It didn’t throw much light, but it made the harbor and town and abandoned ships easier to see with the naked eye.
Quinn supervised the placement of the weapons, reported via radio to the flagship, then settled down with his men for a snack and drink of water.
* * *
“I’ll need a million bucks in fifties and hundreds, used, packed in a duffel bag,” Jake Grafton said as matter-of-factly as he could manage. “Put a lock on it and give me the key.”
Sal Molina looked up from the messages he was reading and eyed Grafton warily. “I’d like a million in cash myself, just for pocket change, you understand.”
“This will be a down payment on the ransom. Proof of my bona fides, so to speak.”
“What about the other hundred and ninety-nine million? The funny money you wanted Treasury to make.”
“Pack it on pallets. Damn stuff will weigh about four and a half tons, I figure.”
“Pallets.”
“Then send it to Admiral Tarkington aboard
Chosin Reservoir
as soon as possible.”
“FedEx or UPS?”
“What’s your beef, Sal?”
“Why are you going to Somalia?”
“The name of this game is rescuing as many of the
Sultan
people as possible, with the minimum amount of friendly casualties. I want to see the situation, smell it and touch it, then we’ll figure out how to unscrew this mess.”
“You really think you can pull this off?”
“Pretty sure. The only question is how much blood it will cost. We have Jurgen Schulz and his staff to thank for maneuvering us into this corner.”
“You’re not going to make that crack to a reporter, are you? Or to Congress?”
“Hadn’t planned on it. However, if Schulz tries to sit in Washington and tell me what to do, then I might.”
“You obviously think you can wow this pirate, Ragnar, convince him not to kill you.”
Grafton smiled.
“What if you’re wrong?”
“Well, Sal, I expect you to wear a decent suit and tie to my memorial service. None of those rag-bag Texas lawyer threads. And send some flowers. Callie likes flowers.”
Molina stood. “When are you leaving?”
Grafton glanced at his watch. “I’ll be leaving for Andrews in about an hour, after I talk to the director. We’ll take off whenever you get that bag full of money onto the plane. In the meantime, have the Fed put out a call for hundred-dollar and fifty-dollar bills to all the national banks. Get some stories in the press. We’re lucky they asked for used bills. That gives us some time.”
“Okay.” Sal Molina stuck out his hand. “Luck,” he said.
“Yeah.”
After Molina left, Jake opened his desk drawer and took out a pistol and ankle holster. He strapped the holster to his left ankle and checked the pistol, a Walther in .380 caliber. The magazine was full. He chambered a round, popped out the magazine and added one more cartridge to it, then put it back in the pistol. He holstered the weapon and pressed the Velcro safety strap firmly in place.
He debated taking another magazine. He didn’t think they would search him, but if they patted him down, he didn’t want them to find a magazine in his pocket.
No. One magazine-load would have to be enough.
Grafton shook his trousers down and checked his image in the glass of the window. He saw a lean man in his mid-sixties with short, thinning salt-and-pepper hair combed straight back and a prominent nose. Clean-shaven, square jaw, a reasonable tan. He was wearing a fairly expensive gray suit and off-white shirt, no tie. Leather shoes.
He looked, he hoped, like a pirate’s idea of a successful senior bureaucrat or political appointee. Not the Sal Molina type, but the Jurgen Schulz type. On a sabbatical from Wall Street or the Ivy League. A guy who could talk about a couple hundred million as if it were small change.
Jake Grafton ensured all the drawers and cabinets in his office were locked, then picked up his small suitcase and walked out, turning the lights off before he pulled the door shut.
* * *
Ten miles north of the promontory that formed the northern side of the Eyl harbor, six SEALs in wet suits crawled through the surf onto the beach. They put out sentries, checked the consistency of the sand, which was hard above the high water line, then hoisted their boat, which contained their bags of gear, and trotted into the dunes.
Thirty minutes after they arrived, they established radio contact with
Chosin Reservoir
and reported beach conditions, distance to the dunes, the fact that the beach was deserted in every direction as far as they could see. Inland, the dunes turned to desert scrub and ran on for a mile or so before the foothills started. The hills were low and irregular, covered with scrub.
The senior man, a first-class petty officer named Ben Bryant, thought this beach would make an excellent landing area for marines, and he passed that observation on to the ship.
The only problem, as he saw it, was the tracks of pickup trucks in the sand above the high water mark. Up and down the beach, again and again. They had made a rutted road. Apparently they liked to drive the beach and look for things or people who shouldn’t be there, like shipwrecked millionaires or stranded submarines … or U.S. Navy SEALs.
Ben Bryant told the folks on
Chosin Reservoir
about the tracks, and began looking for an ambush site. He figured the time might come in the not-too-distant future when the bad guys’ beach rides might become an annoyance. If and when, that was an itch he could scratch.
* * *
Another SEAL team landed on the beach six miles south of Eyl. Again, the beach was straight, the sand was packed hard above the high water mark, and the dunes behind were empty. A half mile south of their landing place stood a fisherman’s shack on the edge of the dunes. A boat rested on the beach, tied to a rock so a large wave couldn’t carry it away.
Without a word, two SEALs trotted that way to check it out.
There were two men and a woman asleep in the shack. No kids. No weapons. No food in the place except for a couple of half-rotted fish. The SEALs used plastic ties on the Somalis’ wrists, binding them in front, and fed them MREs. They wolfed the food down.
There were tire tracks on the beach here, too. The Somalis couldn’t speak English and the Americans not a word of Somali, but through signs the Americans came to believe the pickups came by every two or three days.
The SEALs looked at each other. A pickup truck with a machine gun in the bed would be a nice souvenir of their African adventure. Perhaps they could even find a proper use for the gun.
* * *
Ten miles farther south along the beach, a helo settled onto the dirt road that led to Eyl and a team of six Force Reconnaissance marines piled out. They carried two machine guns and several cases of ammo in addition to their packs and personal weapons. The chopper was on the ground less than a minute, then rose and skimmed the earth eastward, toward the sea.
Two other roads led into Eyl. One from the north and one that wound its way through the mountains from the interior. Both were dirt, mere rocky tracks through the desert. Teams of Recon marines were landed in both places.
The teams quickly took positions, positioned their machine guns to control the roads, sent out scouts and reported back to the ship.
Eyl was cut off. No one was going in or out without a fight.
* * *
It was nearly eight o’clock in the morning in Eyl, Somalia, when the door to Mike Rosen’s stateroom opened and Geoff Noon walked in. “Good morning.”
“Knock next time, shithead.” Noon was wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday. Maybe he slept in them.
“And a pleasant morning to you, too, sir. If it’s not too much trouble, the gentlemen of Eyl request that you accompany me to the computer center, where you can check the news from Merry Old England and the former colonies. If you please.”
Noon smelled of gin. Already. Bastard had already had his morning tots. More than one, Rosen was sure. As they walked, with the pirate guard trailing, whiffs of Noon’s body odor nauseated Rosen.
“When was the last time you had a bath?”
“What a coincidence you should ask! My chambermaid is drawing my bath as we speak. When we are finished with our errand, I shall leave you to enjoy the squalor of this abandoned ship and go home to my mansion on the hill, to a luxurious hot bubble bath, clean clothes and a noon feast prepared by my personal chef and served by professionals in white livery. Then gin fizzes on the verandah and a wonderful Cuban cigar. One can live quite well in these climes on a modest income, as I do.”
“I haven’t had anything to eat since noon yesterday.”
“I’ll talk to the pirates.”
“Great.”
“They’re roasting a goat on deck by the pool. Perhaps—”
“No goat. I can root around in the galley and find a can of something, if they’ll let me.”
In the e-com center Noon settled into a chair like a bird returning to its nest and took a nip from his gin bottle. Rosen fired up his laptop, which was sitting just as he left it. As long as the pirates left it alone, Rosen mused, it was probably less likely to be stolen here than at Rosen’s condo in Denver.
Almost sixty e-mails awaited his attention. He scanned the list. A U.S. military sending address caught his eye, so he opened it.
This is what he read:
Mr. Rosen,
The company that owns MV
Sultan of the Seas,
the company that insured it, and the governments involved have appointed me chief negotiator for the release of the passengers, crew and ship. I will arrive in Eyl tomorrow evening. Please pass this message along to the pirates and ask them to meet me at the Eyl airport.
Sincerely,
Jacob L. Grafton
Rosen printed out the message and handed the copy to High Noon, who put on his glasses and perused it. “Any previous messages from Mr. Grafton?”
“No. That’s the first one.”
“What does ‘MV’ mean?”
“Motor vessel.”
“Tomorrow evening. Didn’t give a time. Probably arrive after tea, on the flight from Mombasa. The wogs have plenty of time to arrange a reception.”
Noon read the e-mail again. “Chatty chap, isn’t he? Why don’t you google Mr. Grafton and see what comes up.”
Rosen did so. Noon pried himself out of the chair and came over to squint over his shoulder at the screen. The gin and body odor made Rosen breathe shallow.
“You can sit here if you like,” he offered.
“This is fine. Hmm … American naval officer. Two star. Retired. Well, that should be enough for Ragnar, I think.”
Noon went back to his chair and settled his bulk.
Rosen continued to scan the list of documents that mentioned Grafton. “This guy has testified at various congressional hearings, on at least three occasions.”
“Ragnar won’t be interested in that,” Noon said dismissively. “He’s a pirate. Pretty good one, as a matter of fact, but quite ignorant. Doesn’t know a thing about Congress or condoms. Educating the wog bastard would be a complete waste of time and brain cells. Let’s do the rest of the e-mails. Print out each one, and if something deservers an answer I’ll give you any hints that pop to mind.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you. I would have been quite at a loss.”
“Bloody cheeky blighter. Try to behave yourself. Let’s see if you and I can get through this little adventure alive, with all our body parts still firmly attached, shall we?”
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
When Geoff Noon arrived via boat at the beach in front of Ragnar’s lair, the press was waiting. Both the Italian and Fox News reporter/photographer teams were there filming him arriving in a punt powered by an outboard motor that gave off great clouds of white smoke.
Geoff waded ashore with his battered leather attaché case right into the middle of the mess.
“Mr. Noon, are you going upstairs to see Sheikh Ragnar?”
“Yes.”
“We wish to interview him.”
Noon ignored the Fox man with the massive mustache and concentrated on the Italian woman, Sophia Donatelli. He couldn’t help himself. He smiled at her.