“Very good. No one is playing hero.” He set aside the passports and looked around the room. He was an excellent judge of fear and liked what he saw. He sent one of his men out to the deck to cast off their fishing boat with orders for Abdi to make for their base as quickly as he could with the news they had captured the freighter. “My name is Hakeem, and this ship is now mine. If you follow my orders, you will not be killed. Any attempt to escape and you will be shot and your body fed to the sharks. Those are the two things you must remember at all times.”
“My men will follow orders,” Kwan said resignedly. “We’ll do whatever you say. We all want to see our families again.”
“That is very wise, Captain. With your help, I will contact the ship’s owners to negotiate your release.”
“Bastards won’t spring for a gallon of paint,” the engineer muttered to a table companion. “Fat luck they’ll pay to save our hides.”
Two of the gunmen had been in the kitchen gathering up anything that could be used as a weapon. They emerged dragging a linen bag full of forks, steak knives, kitchen knives, and cleavers. One gunman remained in the mess while the other continued to haul the bag out into the hallway, where it would most likely be thrown over the side.
“These guys know what they’re doing,” Duane whispered to the ship’s radio operator. “I would have gone for a knife as soon as their guard was down.”
Maryweather hadn’t realized one of the pirates was directly behind him. The Kalashnikov crashed down on the back of his neck hard enough to drive his face into the Formica-topped table. When he straightened, blood dripped from a nostril.
“Talk again and you will die,” Hakeem said, and from the tone of his voice it was clearly the last warning. “I see there is a bathroom attached to the mess hall, so you will all remain here. There is only one way in or out of this room, and it will be barred from the outside and guarded at all times.” He switched to Somali and said to his men, “Let’s go see what they are carrying for cargo.”
They filed out of the mess and secured the door with heavy-duty wire wrapped around the handle and tied to a handrail on the opposite wall of the passageway. Hakeem ordered one of his men to stay outside the door while he and the others systematically searched the vessel.
Given the ship’s large external dimensions, the interior spaces were remarkably cramped, and the holds smaller than expected. The aft holds were blocked by rows of shipping containers so tightly packed that not even the skinniest pirate could squeeze by. They would have to wait until they reached harbor and the containers were unloaded before they would know what was inside them. What they discovered in the forward three holds made whatever was in the containers superfluous. Amid the crates of machine parts, Indian-made car engines, and table-sized slabs of steel plate, they found six pickup trucks. When mounted with machine guns, the vehicles were known as technicals and were a favored weapons platform across Africa. There was another, larger truck, but it looked so dilapidated it probably didn’t run. The ship was also carrying pallets of wheat in bags stenciled with the name of a world charity, but the greatest prize were hundreds of drums of ammonium nitrate. Used primarily as a potent fertilizer, the nitrate compound, when mixed with diesel fuel, became a powerful explosive. There was enough in the hold to level half of Mogadishu, if that’s what Mohammad Didi wanted to do with it.
Hakeem knew that Didi’s exile into the swamps wasn’t permanent. He always talked about returning to the capital and taking on the other warlords in a final confrontation. This massive amount of explosives would surely give him the edge over the others. In a month or less, Hakeem was sure Didi would be the ruler of all of Somalia, and he was just as sure that his reward for taking the freighter would be greater than anything he could imagine.
He now wished he hadn’t sent Abdi ahead so quickly, but there was nothing he could do about it. Their little radio couldn’t pick up anything beyond a couple of miles, and the fishing boat was already out of range.
He returned to the bridge to enjoy the Cuban cigar he had pilfered from the captain’s cabin. The sun was sinking fast over the horizon, turning the great ocean into a sheet of burnished bronze. Dusk’s beauty was lost on men like Hakeem and his band of pirates. They existed on an ugly, cruel level where everything was judged based on what it could do for them. Some would argue that they were the product of their war-ravished country, that they never stood a chance against the brutality of their upbringing. The truth was that the vast majority of Somalia’s population had never fired a gun in their lives, and the men who aligned themselves with a warlord like Didi did it because they enjoyed the power it gave them over others, like the crew of this ship.
He liked seeing the captain’s head bowed in defeat. He liked the fear he saw in the sailors’ eyes. He had found a picture of the captain and a woman in the office, the captain’s wife he assumed. Hakeem had the power to make that woman a widow. For him, there was no greater rush in the world.
Aziz and Malik entered the bridge. They had helped themselves to some new clothes from the officers’ quarters. Aziz, only twenty-five but a veteran of a dozen hijackings, was so slender that he’d had to cut extra holes in the belt to keep his new jeans up around his waist. Malik was in his forties, and had fought at Mohammad Didi’s side against the United Nations and the Americans. Shrapnel from a street fight with a rival gang had left the right side of his face in ruin, and the blow had affected his mind. He rarely spoke, and, when he did, little of what he said made sense. But he followed orders to the letter, which was all Hakeem demanded of him.
“Go get the captain. I want to talk to him about the company that owns this ship. I want to know how much he thinks they will be willing to pay.” He studied Aziz’s eyes. “And lay off the bang.” He used the African nickname for marijuana.
The two pirates descended the stairs to the main deck. With the sun setting, the interior of the ship was gloomy. There were only a few functioning lamps, so shadows clung to the ceilings and walls like moss. Aziz nodded to the guard to untie the wire. He and Malik had their weapons at the ready when the door creaked inward. All three men gaped.
The mess hall was empty.
THREE
MALIK AND AZIZ HAD JUST STEPPED INTO THE EMPTY MESS hall when the guard felt a presence down the hall. He peered into the gloom, raising his rifle. Had he not been so spooked by the crew vanishing, he would have calmly explored the passageway. But every nerve in his body tingled with electricity as if a mild current had been applied to his skin. His finger curled around the trigger, and he unleashed a wild, ten-round burst. The juddering flame from the barrel of his AK-47 revealed the hall was deserted, while the bullets did nothing more than scrape more paint off the dingy walls.
“What is it?” Aziz demanded.
“I thought I saw someone,” the guard stammered.
Aziz made his decision quickly. “Malik, go with him and search this deck. I will tell Hakeem what has happened.”
The pirate leader had heard the gunfire and met up with Aziz halfway down from the bridge. He was holding his pistol like he had seen in music videos, arched at arm’s length and turned flat on its side, and his eyes were bright with anger.
“Who was shooting, and why?” He didn’t slow his pace when they met, forcing Aziz to double back quickly.
“The mess hall is empty, and Ahmed thought he saw someone. He and Malik are searching now.”