"Offseason. This place is a nightmare during peak times!' the officer explained, sighing as he pretended to look at the coastline. Actually, Mieke noticed, he was checking the gear lying on the starboard floor before taking a look at the passengers. Cheryl was relieved that she had told her two thugs to dress casually that morning. They blended in well as a bunch of overweight fishermen.
“I can imagine,” Purdue chuckled.
“And all this?” the officer asked, pointing his pen to all the diving gear and sonar screens. By any standard the level of technology was more than adequate, bordering on suspicious.
"I am a film producer," Sam jumped in, flashing his dashing smile. "Might make a documentary about your lovely city's marine life. Just scouting for now."
Nina shook her head and sank to her seat. “Here we go.”
Chapter 17 — Murder on the High Seas
“That’s four crew members dead by now. Four! In two days!” Ali shouted at the three subordinates in his presence. They had dropped their gazes to the floor in front of them, their hands behind their backs as not to appear hostile toward Ali Shabat, fierce mariner of the Arabian Sea. He ran a tight ship, so to speak. Years on the sea and most of that time spent in collecting riches from reluctant hands and deep waters had made him hard, but efficient.
“It is time for this crew to contribute, or else I am going to have to resort to extreme measures. So far I have been hoping to employ this crew to do the Meyer job and afterward being kind enough to let you share in my victorious kindness, but it looks like some heads are going to roll!” he ranted and paced while the vessel rose and sank more steadily after the storm had subsided. The tug was well on its way to the strait between Madagascar and Africa, through which on passing the Aleayn Yam would officially be in Southern African waters to where it had been summoned.
Ali and Manni were determined to make sure the tug functioned at full capacity until they had salvaged the Nazi ship that was allegedly lying on the ocean floor. Then they would decide which route would be best to sail to reach a dry dock where they could, at length, take the wreck apart and see if it contained any Nazi treasures their buyers could be interested in.
“Ali, the skipper asked for you. He says he has a suggestion,” one of Ali’s men said from the door.
“I don’t need his suggestions. Everybody is manning their posts just fine.” he boasted, chewing the khat he had brought with him. The others laughed with him when he urged them to join him in ridiculing Fakur’s futile attempts to get out of his current position. The Egyptian skipper did not agree with what Ali had planned for the salvage vessel.
“And what about the welder?” Ali asked. Manni scoffed. It was clear that Manni and Fakur’s friend, the welder, did not get on well at all. Ali looked at Manni in amusement and gave it some thought. “Bring me that welder. We might convince him to change Fakur and the others’ minds. I don’t need a mutiny aboard this ship.”
“Yes, Ali,” Manni said and disappeared down the corridor.
“I will not allow crew members to make threats or instigate trouble among the workers!” Ali shouted authoritatively. “This is not some joyride! The sea is our workplace, not some playground where we cruise like tourists. Just like every boat we traverse the ocean with, this boat is our livelihood, and the crew is expected to do everything I ask of them. If they do not comply, how can I assure that all our business is done smoothly?”
Manni came into the lower cabin with the welder, Aziz. The other four men already present stepped aside to accommodate the newcomer and Manni in the middle of the room. They had sailed out from under the brunt of the tempest, but the sun had already set, so it was dark outside.
“Aziz!” Ali exclaimed cheerfully. “How are you feeling? You look pale!”
The men stared at Aziz, taking note of the dark circles under the welder’s eyes. It was clear that he was sick and weak.
"Not feeling well, captain," Aziz mumbled. He was barefoot. Every time he looked down at his toes the room would start spinning. His legs were shaking visibly, and his lips were riddled with blisters.
“Take a good look, boys,” Ali said, as he put his arm under Aziz’s armpit to support him. “This is what people look like when they are seasick.”
All the men, including Aziz, stared at Ali in astonishment. How could he assume the welder was seasick when he was a professional sailor? When he burst out laughing, they realized Ali had been joking. Without warning, he withdrew his support and left Aziz to gravity. His legs were far too weak to hold him up, and he hit the floor with one thump that fractured his skull.
They could hear the crack as his body met the floor, but he was still alive. With a bleeding nose, Aziz groaned.
“This is what dehydration does, boys. Disorientation, dry mouth… obviously and a gradual onslaught of headaches like the spears of hell!" he bragged. He had kept Aziz locked up for three days since the welder failed to show up on time for roll call soon after they passed the Horn of Africa. Ali's tall, gaunt stature pranced around the welder who was curled up like a fetus, holding his head, weakly wailing in pain.
“Pick him up!” Ali ordered. “And bring him out to the stern. Bring Fakur, too. I want him to see this. The Aleayn Yam had only two of its original crew left now, due to their government’s embargo on trade with Ali and his countrymen. Outside, the sun kissed the horizon goodnight.
The wave crests were remarkably high for the almost gentle breeze, but the sea spray still wet the sailor’s faces as they brought out the chief engineer and rightful skipper of the vessel, Demi Fakur.
“Aziz!” he shouted hysterically. He knew what was coming, and addressed Aziz in Egyptian, so that Ali’s crew could not understand what he was saying. “Aziz, don’t let them break your spirit! You are in the arms of Yam! Praise be to Yam!”
"Praise be to Yam," the weary Aziz forced out. Fakur kept screaming the same words for Aziz to repeat, speaking his ode to the sea deity Yam the tugboat was named after.
“Lift him up!” Ali screamed. “And shut up that fool!”
A deafening blow struck Fakur against the head, dealt with the back of the hilt of a machete. He dropped to his knees and fell silent. He could still hear Aziz’ chanting — over and over to the discord in the melody the ocean waves sang. It was a dirge that permeated throughout nature at the moment they lowered Aziz head first into the waves.
They held him by his ankles, the falling waves sporadically allowing him to take a breath. Hanging upside down and being thrust against the hull by the foaming waves was too much for the injured man, and his body went limp within minutes.
Ali’s mockery and the cheering and the laughter of his fellow pirates were the epitome of evil. Fakur wept bitterly at Aziz’s horrible death, even though he knew it was a relief from his agony. The wicked stick-figured Somali pirate knelt next to the sobbing skipper and rested his open hand on Fakur’s back. “Don’t fret, Fakur. I tell you what: just so you don’t get lonely, I will let his carcass keep you company, how would you like that?”
Fakur choked ay the sick suggestion, but he did not look up. He didn't say anything because he did not want to provoke the irascible pirate who had violently seized his tug boat three days ago east of the coastal city of Djibouti, just as they had entered the Gulf of Aden. On the inside, he screamed in rage, keening in sorrow for the loss of his younger brother. He made a decision. He was going to remain quiet. No more attempts to bring Ali to see his side of the matter. From now on he would play it straight until he would find a way to warn Mrs. Meyer and her South African clients. If he could save them from the fate he and his crew had had to suffer, his death would not be in vain. He would be proud to die thwarting the plans of Ali Shabat and his demon crew.