“This was why I fell in love him!” she had thought. “He has never put pressure on me to meet my friends or family, he accepted me warts and all.” Her mind had processed all at once.
“But But… You don’t know my real name” she had replied, tears in her eyes.
Suddenly dropping the map he had pulled her towards him. They had met in the middle and kissed each other.
“I am Chris,” he had said after breaking away brushing away her long hair from her face followed by a small smile as he looked into her tear filled eyes.
“I am Rebecca,” she had responded.
“Will you marry me, Rebecca?” he had asked this time using her real name, love in his eyes.
“Yes, my darling Chris. Yes!” she had replied as they kissed and then they had made love on the beach as the waves had rolled in around them.
24
Ras Kamboni, 2006
Wasir Osman Hassan, due to his Clan links in Adwalland, had always had a reputation for delivering. In the south, on the Kenyan border where the Foreign Islamists were using the area as a base camp, his links weren’t as strong and as such, he was suffering.
With the only healthcare available in Ras Kamboni in the form of a small pharmacy, the Al-Qaeda foreigners had contracted him to deliver to them their medical supplies from the Yemen.
Unfortunately, despite a heavy investment of bribes, Wasir, because the Kenyan coastguards were receiving more money from the Americans to stop the deliveries, and after the loss of another boat this morning, had come to the bitter conclusion that it was time to cut his losses and run.
Unable to fulfill the foreigner’s delivery, he was in a vile mood as this meant he was now going to have to purchase another load out of his own pocket to meet the order as one didn’t stiff or disappoint a client like the Al Qaeda if you wanted to survive.
His mood greatly improved while sitting in his little villa picking his teeth when one of his runners briefed him about an Englishmen in Lamu who was looking for a boat captain to bring into Ras Kamboni some much needed medical supplies from the Red Crescent Society for the little pharmacy to distribute.
“Arrange the meeting!” He barked at the runner. A plan formed in his mind before getting up to select one of the terrified young girls that he intended to use for his evening’s entertainment.
25
Lamu, 2006
Small, personal, and considered to be the perfect resting place after a safari or as a hideaway holiday from modern life, The Peponi Hotel, run by the Korschen family, who had opened it in 1967 to look after the hedonistic party seekers from Gstaad, was the reason why Chris and Rebecca had chosen it for their romantic weekend.
Walking into the bar of the small hotel, Wasir Osman Hassan spotted his ‘runner’ sitting in the corner with a man he was assumed was the Englishman and a very beautiful woman.
The runner having spotted Wasir as he walked into the bar immediately got up out of respect to his chieftain in order to offer his chair to him.
“It’s good to meet you, Mr. Wasir,” Chris said as a way of an introduction standing up in respect earning a single nod in return from Wasir whose eyes were instantly on Rebecca who in turn felt he was undressing her as he looked at her.
“May I introduce my fiancée, Miss Benson,” Chris said ignoring his lack of acknowledgement or manners to finish the introductions by indicating her position in his life to the pirate having spotted his obvious leer in her direction.
Again, Wasir said nothing; instead he offered a further nod in return. As far as he was concerned women existed for pleasure and creating sons, of which he had two from his three wives, and certainly not for attending meetings between men.
With the arrival of the waiter Rebecca asked if he would like a drink.
“Whiskey!” said Wasir towards the waiter, ignoring her.
26
London – Present Day
For what seemed like ten minutes when in fact it was just a minute, Rebecca sat in numb shock at the screen of her computer staring at the face of the man who had killed Chris as the steaming coffee continued to drip over her desk from the cup she dropped.
Hearing the coffee cascading off her desk and shaking herself free of Wasir’s image, on autopilot Rebecca got up and cleaned up her desk with her emotions in turmoil.
“It’s the Captain!” she said out loud, a fact she later confirmed when she had read the notes from the team in Nice.
“Interior Minister of Adwalland, Wasir Osman Hassan boarding The Libertine,” it had said.
Composing herself, she sat back down to gather her emotions.
When the Kenyans had told her that Christopher had been found dead over the border in Somalia she just couldn’t believe it. He would have never crossed the border.
“He an experienced aid worker, I don’t believe it,” she had said to her counterpart in the NSIS, the Kenyan Intelligence service.
“Cathy, I am extremely sorry,” was all he had said.
Because he was found murdered over the border she had no choice but to tell Michael that Chris was aware of her true identity because they just became engaged.
His response was immediate. He lifted her out that day, thereby rendering her powerless to question or make her own enquiries into his death allowing the official report to stand.
“Although he was foolhardy crossing the border to assess the situation in Ras Kamboni, his death was not because of kidnapping but instead tragically because his Toyota hit a landmine,” the report had read.
No mention was made of him illegally smuggling medical supplies across the border because neither Kenya nor the Red Cross wanted the embarrassment.
In her heart, Rebecca had always known it was the Pirate Captain who had killed him and stole the medical supplies.
Despite many attempts and enquires since his death, from the reading of prisoner transcripts to intelligence reports supplied from the Somali’s NSS nobody could find the Captain she had met in Luma named Wasir. Until now! When out of the blue when he appears on the yacht of a billionaire she was investigating.
Over the years out of a sense of loyalty whilst continuing to contain her emotions by throwing herself into her work, she had kept an eye on his elderly parents, who only knew her as Cathy Benson. It was the only time she had grieved as she stood by his parents and buried him in their small village in Hampshire and vowed.
“I will find your killer, my darling! God punishes! Man takes revenge!” she had said in Yiddish, her Jewish upbringing spurring her to act and finally, God had answered her and was going to allow the opportunity for her to do so.
27
Washington, D.C.
The conversation between Thomas and the President of Adwalland brought a pensive look from Navjot. Stroking his beard, he processed the essence of the discussion and after another moment of reflection and a review of his keynotes, he looked up into the eyes of his team.
“Well, that was certainly interesting,” he said.
“Did Litchfield just suggest that they take out Wasir?” Clara Martinez, the logistic planning officer and the number two of the group, asked.
“Yep”, Peter Obraniak, the group’s communications expert replied.
“Greedy bastard though, isn’t he?” said Joe Tonelli, his Behavioral Analyst, as if in support of why Litchfield might have made such a suggestion.
“Fifty million U.S. dollars per year for security to a pirate was steep in anybody’s language,” Navjot answered as if in agreement.
“Well, we now know for certain he appears to be the perfect choice to prod the tribal chiefs,” Joe offered.