Authors: Russell Blake
Yes, a villa off the coast of Italy sounded perfect.
Soon, he would be able to afford it.
~ ~ ~
Four days ago, Mahe, the Seychelles islands
The Cessna Caravan waited on the Mahe airport runway, engine warming up as the pilot went over the last-minute details with the three passengers he’d be ferrying on this trip. Fuel topped off, the plan was to fly to the African mainland, with the estimated travel time just over six hours to reach the Somali coast – allowing for headwinds and any unexpected weather – and then to continue on to Yemen.
Dawn had broken a few minutes earlier, and the passengers had wasted no time loading their gear into the plane. The pilot didn’t speak much, nor did the men, which was for the best – all were extremely good at what they did, and had learned not to ask questions. The pilot had no reason to want to know who his passengers were or what they were going to be doing once they were on the ground in Somalia. All he cared about was the large paycheck he was collecting – easily two years’ worth of cash, if not more.
“I am Henri, your pilot. So, you are ready?” he asked with a token smile, his French accent coloring his English with a musical lilt.
“Never more,” the tallest of the three replied, not returning his smile, his English also accented, but only slightly, and not with French. “You can call me Sol.”
“
Bon
, Sol. Then we go, yes?”
Sol nodded and then made for the plane, the pilot following more slowly. He recognized the effortless economy of movement all three shared, but didn’t comment on it. The less he knew, the better. He had made a small fortune running discreet flights for a select group of special clients, in addition to his air tour business, and this wasn’t the first time he had received unusual instructions that weren’t strictly legal. Then again, a man had to do what he could to make his way in the world, and legality changed from country to country and depending on what day it was, so what did he care of the rules men arbitrarily imposed upon one another? None of it much mattered at twelve thousand feet – they all looked like ants once at a certain altitude, going about their busy chores, scuttling across their domains with single-minded determination. Flying above it all had given him a certain perspective many earthbound mortals couldn’t appreciate, which enabled him to take delicate jobs without any qualms – as long as the money was sufficient.
At forty-nine, Henri Jacquot had seen much in his life, first as a member of the elite French Foreign Legion, later as a jack-of-all-trades entrepreneur plying his skills in Africa, where the siren song of boundless treasures to be had for men of grit – and the paucity of rules – appealed to his free-spirited nature. As a natural part of his orientation, he had gravitated toward jobs that involved considerable risk to offset their outsized rewards, and over the last twenty years had been involved in too many questionable operations to count. Whether flying blood diamonds north or arms south, Henri was a survivor, and one of his great skills was the ability to forget what he needed to, virtually instantly.
The plane taxied to the end of the runway and he paused, waiting for clearance from the tower. When it came he pushed the throttle forward, and before they were halfway down its length he was pulling up into the clear sky, only an occasional white cloud floating in the seemingly endless blue. He climbed to a cruising altitude of ten thousand feet, and once he had leveled off, engaged the autopilot, the engine droning its familiar purr as the passengers gazed out the windows with uninterested expressions. He settled into his seat and shifted, trying to get comfortable, his bones feeling old on days that began like this, and adjusted the headset to better monitor any radio chatter.
When the Somali coast loomed like an endless brown smudge on the horizon, Henri turned from the controls and called out to the men.
“Hey. We’re going to be there in a few minutes. Up and at ’em,
non
?”
Three faces stared back at him blankly, and then the men began going through a routine familiar to Henri – the sorts of things men who killed for a living had been doing for as long as that vocation had existed.
They began their descent, Henri plotting the course according to the GPS coordinates he’d been given, and within another ten minutes they were dropping into a desert wasteland, all sand and barren emptiness save for an occasional desiccated stream bed. The plane bucked as it was buffeted by thermal updrafts from the rising heat of the arid land, tossing it around as if it was being swatted by a bored deity’s hand.
The Cessna lined up on the road, if a dirt track could be described as such, and then set down on a wide stretch, dust billowing behind as its wheels skidded along the hard-packed sandy soil. Once Henri had slowed to a taxi speed he continued until he came to a wash where two vehicles sat parked in an adjacent flat area – an ancient Toyota SUV, at one time in its existence white, but now more rust than anything else – and a seventies-era Datsun pickup truck.
Henri pointed the plane at an empty spot near the cars and eased the Cessna to a stop. Behind him in the cabin the passengers were already moving, passing out assault rifles and pistols from one of the oversized rucksacks they’d brought aboard. Under normal circumstances that would have been alarming to any pilot, but this was Africa, and Henri was open-minded. He didn’t bat an eye when the youngest of the three swung the fuselage door open, rifle in hand, looking like he was going to war.
The men leapt out of the plane and waved at the three Somalis standing by the vehicles, also toting Kalashnikov AK-47s – the ubiquitous accessory for any well-dressed local – who waved back and beckoned them to approach. Sol went to greet the welcoming committee while the other two opened the cargo hold and dragged a large green canvas pack out of the Cessna’s belly, placing it carefully on the ground next to the door.
After a brief exchange, two of the rail-thin Somalis moved to the plane to help the new arrivals with the heavy cargo, and the four of them lifted it into the rear of the Toyota. Sol nodded, and the two natives climbed into the Datsun truck bed while the driver ambled to the front cab and slipped behind the wheel. Sol and his companions squeezed into the Toyota with their silent Somali driver, and a few moments later both engines roared to life in a cloud of blue smoke and pulled onto the road that traced the outline of the coast, headed north.
Ten miles later the little convoy slowed, and Sol consulted a handheld GPS. He turned and murmured to the driver, and the vehicles rolled to a halt as they reached the rendezvous point. Sol squinted at the harsh terrain, his eyes roving over the surroundings – he could just make out the ocean in the distance, maybe two miles away over a slight rise created by sand and wind, but desolate, like everything they’d seen up to that point.
Satisfied there were no obvious threats, he checked his watch and issued a few brief instructions to his companions. After grabbing their rifles, the pair quickly exited and moved to the rear of the vehicle where the pack was nestled.
At Sol’s prompting, the driver got out with him and headed toward the pickup truck, a hot gust blowing sand across the road, no sound marring the windswept tranquility of the landscape but that of the open desert and the burble of the truck motor. As they approached, the Somalis in the truck bed opened an old cooler and fished out bottles of water, their weapons resting easily in their laps, their dark skin seemingly impervious to the sun beating down. A few minutes passed, and then Sol’s men approached from the Toyota, walking slowly in the heat.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” the younger one said, eyeing the horizon before exchanging glances with Sol. The two Somalis in the bed shifted over, making room, and everyone clambered aboard for the bouncing ride back to the plane.
When the truck returned to the Cessna, Henri stepped from the wing’s shade and wiped sweat from his face, eyeing Sol behind the wheel, only his two men sitting in the truck bed.
“Where are the lads?” he asked as they hopped out, all three covered in a fine layer of tan dust.
“They decided to walk,” Sol said, his expression neutral. “Let’s get going.”
Henri took the cue – it was none of his business. The men boarded the plane, stowing their weapons in the now empty cargo hold, and then took their seats in the sweltering interior.
Henri cranked the engine over and it roared to life, and he coaxed the Caravan onto the dirt track. He fought to keep it under control as it bounced along, picking up speed, and when he saw a long, relatively straight stretch he firewalled the throttle, the sudden torque pushing everyone back in their seats. The big motor revved up effortlessly and soon they were airborne, the ravaged, drought-plagued Somali coast disappearing beneath the wings as Henri made a long, slow bank over land and then pointed the nose toward Yemen as they became a solitary dot in the lonely sky.
Chapter 7
Korfa watched through binoculars as the truck drove away, leaving the Toyota unattended at the agreed-upon spot a kilometer away. He waited a few minutes, scanning the road with the glasses, and then lowered them and turned to Nadif, who was waiting next to him with three of his most dependable gunmen.
“Come on. They’re gone. Let’s go get our money,” Korfa said, rising from his position behind a large rolling dune. The small group began trotting toward the waiting SUV, and in fifteen minutes they were at the vehicle, eyeing it suspiciously. Korfa gestured to the rear compartment, and Nadif moved to the cargo door and swung it wide.
The men’s eyes widened when they saw the rucksack in the back. Nadif stepped back, making room for Korfa, who took hold of the bag and unzipped it, pausing for a few moments as he eyed the contents before closing it back up. He shrugged off his backpack and ferreted around in it before extracting a device that had arrived the prior day from Mogadishu, along with instructions for its operation. Taking his time, he powered it on and then moved it slowly over the bag, watching the dial intently, and then stood back and methodically went over the entire vehicle. Satisfied, he switched the scope off and handed it to Nadif with a nod.
“It’s clean as far as I can tell. Are the keys in the ignition?” he asked.
Nadif hurried to the driver’s door and opened it. “Yes.”
“Start the engine,” Korfa ordered as he edged away from the vehicle. Nadif’s brow furrowed, and then he nodded and hopped behind the wheel as Korfa continued to distance himself from the truck, his assault rifle held loosely by his side.
The motor rumbled to life and everyone visibly relaxed. Korfa strode to the SUV and climbed into the passenger seat, while the three remaining men squeezed into the rear.
“Get us back to the ship. I feel exposed out here. We’ll count the money, and assuming it’s all there, we’ll clear out by this evening,” Korfa commanded, raising the glasses to his eyes once more as they bounced over the ruts and beat a trail across the dunes to the sea. He never stopped sweeping the horizon, on the alert for any trickery.
Their Mogadishu contact had provided the gizmo he’d assured Korfa would catch any transmitter or locator chip, but he knew nothing of these things, even after being coached to watch the lights and the meter, and was inherently distrustful of technology. This was the largest ransom he’d ever collected, and his experience had taught him that nothing worth having ever came easily.
The heavy SUV crossed the blighted expanse at a crawl, and took half an hour to reach the ship, anchored in the shelter of the large cove. Half the men were onshore, waiting, and when they saw the Toyota they began whooping, jubilant, the tension of the long standoff finally dissipated.
The old vehicle stopped at the shore and Korfa got out, followed by Nadif and his men. As the others gathered around, Korfa and Nadif moved to the rear of the truck and watched as the pirates hoisted the rucksack between two of them.
“Come. Let’s get the bag to the ship. We’ll count it and then I’ll radio for the others to bring the trucks,” Korfa said. Once the money was verified, on Korfa’s orders transportation would be dispatched from the village of Eli, and then the pirates would disappear, the surviving crew turned loose to fend for themselves while they waited for their ordeal to finally end.
The men cheered again as their compatriots lifted the sack over their heads, carrying it like a holy relic to the shore and the waiting skiffs. Korfa grinned as he saw the excitement in their eyes – this was the kind of take that would be legendary, and his name would be whispered in hushed reverence for years to come.
He supervised the passage to the boats, reveling in his moment of triumph while keeping his expression somber. All the men boarded and the outboard motors revved as they cut across the natural harbor to the ship, looming in the water in silent witness.
Nadif had the two men carry the money to the captain’s cabin, where a cash counting machine sat waiting on the table. He and Korfa ducked into the room with the money while the two trusted gunmen framed the doorway, guarding the quarters as their leader went about his joyful task.
In the Toyota’s tire compartment, a red LED under the floor cover blinked for five seconds, and then switched to green.
The detonation vaporized the vehicle in a white-hot blast, and in a nanosecond the searing explosion spread, enveloping the ship and everything around the truck for half a mile. The distinctive shape of the mushroom cloud would have been wondrous to behold if anyone had lived to see it, but that wasn’t to be – everything in the vicinity was immediately killed, metal melting from the searing heat, the ship blown out of the water like a child’s toy by a chain-reaction that for a brief moment approached the temperature of the surface of the sun.
~ ~ ~
The men in the Cessna saw the fireball in the far distance as the explosion shot skyward, visible even though they were already sixty miles away. Henri’s eyes betrayed a flicker of shock as he craned his neck, and then he drew a controlled breath and focused on concealing his reaction. A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Sol’s mouth, and he removed a satellite phone from the bag next to him and entered a number. A voice answered after a few seconds and he whispered several words in a foreign tongue, then switched the phone off and turned to look at the three packs stowed in the rear of the plane.