The kid unlocked the padlock and spread the top of the bag. He reached in and pulled out bundles of money.
“I have brought the sheikh a gift from my government of one million American dollars as a sign of our good faith.”
Ragnar looked at the bills, dug out a handful for himself, smiled and gave orders. We were going to see the prisoners.
Noon led us out. I got a glimpse of the woman sitting in the corner. Her eyes followed me, but her face was expressionless.
* * *
Aboard the grounded Greek freighter, Lieutenant Bullet Bob Quinn and his men made an interesting discovery. The ship contained several demolition charges set to blow holes in her bottom, and to set her on fire. She still contained a reasonable quantity of fuel oil, perhaps eight hundred or so tons, and the charges were laid to breach the tanks and ignite the oil.
Quinn and his men quickly determined that the charges were radio controlled, and soon had disassembled the devices by removing the wires from the batteries to the fuses. The bombs were now inert. Quinn turned on his encrypted radio and reported his discoveries to
Chosin Reservoir
.
“Tonight,” the controller said in a few minutes, “could you and one or two of your men swim over to
Sultan
and board her? If that ship you are on is wired to go,
Sultan
might be, too.”
“At dark,” Quinn agreed.
He and his men sat on the bridge with binoculars and studied the
Sultan.
The pilot port was open, and the anchor chain looked inviting.
“When is the ball going to open?” Bullet Bob asked.
“Ahh … don’t know. We’ll pass that date and time along when we receive it.”
Quinn turned off the radio and looked at his team members. “Heavies are still cogitating,” he reported.
“They do that.”
“They are slow cogitators.”
“Old and decrepit.”
“Not young and virile and handsome, like us.”
“Amen.”
* * *
The news of our arrival spread quickly. Sophia Donatelli from Mediaset, her photographer and a reporter/photographer team from the BBC were waiting in the square. Grafton graciously granted an interview. Noon and I stood to one side watching.
The questions came thick and fast. Grafton was here on behalf of the ship owners, he said, and at the request of the British and American governments. He had begun negotiations with Sheikh Ragnar for the release of the ship
Sultan,
the crew and the passengers. When an agreement had been reached, he would hold a press conference and inform them of the terms.
Needless to say, Sophia Donatelli had my attention. She wasn’t a raving beauty, but she had presence. She glanced at me and I gave her a grin, and got a flash of one in return.
That warmed me right up, and I was beginning to feel better about this Somali gig when I happened to glance up. Ragnar was leaning over his balcony watching.
That did it for my bonhomie. I looked around, taking in the half-starved women and kids, the men with guns, the grungy boats on the beach, the brilliant sun, the empty sea, the hot wind off the desert, the derelict ships …
Maybe we are all coming to this, when there are too many people, not enough resources, people don’t care about decency or their fellow humans or … Or maybe I’m an idiot.
One thing for sure: The CIA doesn’t pay me to philosophize.
I made sure my pistol was riding properly, within easy reach, and concentrated on the interview. There were the usual questions trying to drag specifics from him, but Grafton deflected them all, smiling at everyone. As he made his escape, he nodded his head so I would know to follow. Noon was waiting to escort us up the hill.
* * *
We walked to the fortress. Noon was willing to drive, but Grafton refused. He said he had been sitting too much the last few days. Through the square, through a neighborhood of shacks and outdoor restaurants—maybe they served liquor—and past a couple of shacks with partially clad women sitting out front. Looked like whorehouses to me, but I have led a sheltered life.
Up the hill. Grafton and Noon were in an earnest, quiet conversation. I wondered what that was all about but was too conventional to ask. When Grafton wants me to know something, he tells me. Got that habit in the navy, I guess, and his wife never broke him of it. As we approached, I could see a lot of people on the roof, trying to get a bit of fresh air and sun. Got glimpses of them through the gun cuts in the wall, which as I knew was about six feet thick.
So we walked into the fortress, which stank despite the desert wind coming through the door and flowing out the gun ports. People packed in there like it was a Japanese railway car. I thought I could smell diesel fuel, but maybe not. Sure got a good whiff of human excrement and unwashed bodies.
Noon introduced Grafton to the captain, I think. He was wearing what had once been a white uniform and had four stripes on his shoulder boards. He and Grafton had another quiet conversation. The captain did a lot of talking and Grafton listened. When the admiral spoke, the captain listened carefully.
Those two were still at it when some television guy who said his name was Ricardo came blasting in, talking loudly. “You’re with the American government,” he said to Grafton. “We’re the press, and that pirate has imprisoned us. You must get us out immediately.”
“All these people have the same problem,” Grafton said mildly. “Why don’t you go sit down and let me finish my conversation with Captain Penney?”
“But we’re the press,” he howled. “Television reporters.”
“And these people are consumers of your wonderful product. Sit down, please.”
The fellow looked as if he needed a more forceful argument to persuade him, so I latched onto the back of his neck with one hand and squeezed a little. Marched him into the next room and found a vacant spot to drop him. He spluttered all the way.
Two women buttonholed me before I could get back to Grafton. “You’re with the American government?”
I admitted it.
“They took a woman from here. Nora Neidlinger. She’s—”
“She sorta slim, brunette, short hair, tan, with a nice figure?”
“Why, yes.”
“I’ve seen her.”
“Is she okay?”
“She’s alive.”
“Her daughter is beside herself.”
“I see.”
Truly, I didn’t know what else to say. I went on, saw an Arab in there, Atom something, some Italians, Brits, Americans from all over. All of them were in bad shape. Most of them seemed to be suffering from dehydration. All of them were dirty … they told me of dysentery, of the people that had died the previous night.
By the time I got back to Grafton I was ready to strangle some pirates. Grafton must have seen it in my face. He led me outside to where Noon was waiting.
“Mr. Noon, we’ll be down the hill shortly. Would you meet us in the square?”
Noon set forth down the hill. Grafton looked around, then faced me. “I see the wires going up the building. You were right—those are antennas. We can’t dig the batteries and capacitors and detonators up, so we must find the radio controllers.”
“You know there are more than one.”
“Your job tonight is to find them. Start with Ragnar’s hotel. I’ll tell you when.”
“How are we going to know if we got all of them?”
“We’ll have to ask Ragnar, of course.”
He started walking. I caught up with him, matched him stride for stride. He walked with his head down, looking at the road, lost in thought.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
“Those people are sick,” Jake Grafton said to Ragnar. “Seven dead of dysentery already, and more will die today and tonight. They need medicine and clean water, and the sickest ones need to be evacuated.”
Grafton sounded like a man ordering a pizza. Didn’t raise his voice, didn’t look nervous or flustered, looked like a man in perfect control of himself and the situation. He looked like a man used to command.
High Noon translated that bit while I glanced around. The woman was still there, sitting in the corner. Obviously American or European, well-endowed, tan, nice set of legs and arms, a face that showed nothing. I suspected she wasn’t having a pleasant time of it. Ragnar had her sitting there to show her off, his trophy, to his men and Grafton and me.
Before Ragnar could reply to Noon’s translation, Grafton started talking again. “Nora Neidlinger”—he gestured at the woman—“was a passenger on that ship. She is an American. I want her released right now.”
Ragnar’s face darkened as he listened. I glanced at Neidlinger, who was wearing the best poker face I had ever seen. I wondered if she was sedated.
The pirate chieftain erupted. Words poured forth, plus much gesturing. He was nervous, couldn’t hold still. He looked at his men as much as he did Grafton, and I realized he was playing to them. He had to hold on to their loyalty no matter what. If he lost it, the gig was over. Nothing was more important than that.
Noon started talking, even though Ragnar didn’t even pause. “Two hundred million American dollars in old bills. Three days from now. Friday. At noon. Or we kill them all. Everyone. Old, young, men, women, sick, healthy, all of them. No medicine. No tricks. No one leaves. Pay the money!”
When he wound down Grafton spoke in the same flat tone he had used before. “I told him I would speak to my government. Perhaps they will authorize more money. Perhaps not. In the meantime, he must show good faith. He must release Ms. Neidlinger and allow medicine, water and food to be brought in by helicopters. They can land on top of the fortress. The sickest people will be evacuated. Two helicopters. Only two.”
“No.”
Grafton found a chair and pulled it around and sat in it. He slouched and crossed his legs. Comfortable. “How do I know that Ragnar will release everyone and the ship after the money is paid?”
“You have my word.”
“How do I know that you have not made a deal with the Shabab to kill them after you get the money?”
“Do you take me for a fool? I know that once the hostages are gone, the Americans and Europeans can attack this town and kill everyone in it. What is to prevent them? Only my doing as promised. My good faith and honor keeps me alive. And all my men. The hostages have not been harmed. When the money is paid they will be released.”
“I have been told the Shabab wishes to betray you.”
“A lie.”
“You cannot spend corpses.”
“Your people will be returned alive.”
“We will not pay for dead people.”
Ragnar’s eyes became cold, hard. “I know about Osama bin Laden. I know your government can kill anywhere. Anyone. I need no threats.”
“The Shabab would like to see you dead.”
This comment went through the group like chain lightning. They snapped at each other, fingered their weapons; Ragnar shouted at one of his sons.
“Two hundred million American dollars,” Grafton said, “but only for all the hostages. Nothing extra for anyone.”
As Noon translated, Grafton walked over to the duffel bag that contained the money. It was still half full. He picked it up, turned it upside down and let the bills cascade onto the floor. He picked up a handful, looked at it, then tossed it down.
“Two hundred times this much,” he said, glancing at Noon, who translated.
Grafton took his seat again and slouched comfortably.
Three more minutes of thrust and parry, but Ragnar kept looking at the bills heaped up on the floor. I knew then he was going to surrender, and so did Grafton.
When the pirates quieted down Grafton returned to the subject of helicopters. More harsh words. Ragnar kept glancing at the money from time to time.
Finally Ragnar nodded. Grafton held out his hand to me for the radio. I pulled it from the backpack without letting my underwear or the Ruger fall on the floor.
He turned the thing on, fiddled with frequencies and volume, then made a call. It was immediately answered.
“This is Grafton.” He explained what he wanted. Two hours, he was told. He apparently knew the person on the other end, and they made a few personal remarks. Grafton closed with, “And I want you to send a message to the powers that be. Tell them Ragnar wants two hundred million and won’t take a penny less.”
“Wilco.”
“Thanks, Toad.”
Grafton put the radio in his shirt pocket, leaned back in the chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “Tell him two hours,” he said to Noon, then turned and glanced at Neidlinger. Motioned to her. She rose and came over, stood near him while Ragnar’s face flushed. He was one mean bastard; I could read it in his face.
“I may be able to get you out of here,” he said. “These people want money so badly that—”
“No,” she said softly, looking at him, not Ragnar.
A look of surprise crossed the admiral’s face, then disappeared. “Why?”
“I’m going to kill the son of a bitch.”
Grafton thought about that, studied her face for a few seconds, then said, “A better option would be to ride a chopper out of here and leave Ragnar to me. Take your daughter with you.”
“No.” The word came quickly.
Grafton seemed to be searching for words. “Revenge is a wonderful thing,” he said finally, “yet it comes in many varieties. There is something going on here I don’t understand.”
She shrugged. Walked back to the corner and resumed her seat.
Grafton glanced thoughtfully at me, and his mouth made a little O. Then he scrutinized Ragnar and his sons and lieutenants, taking a moment to examine each one, as if committing their faces to memory. He took his time, as if he had all the time in the world. It was Ragnar who got the fidgets.
Grafton wiggled one finger at High Noon. “Tell him I want the American television reporter and photographer released from that prison. As a sign of his good faith, his honor.”
Noon did so. Ragnar nodded once. One of the lieutenants left the room and started down the stairs. When his footsteps had faded, Grafton stood and shook out his trousers. “Mr. Noon, perhaps it would be best if we left before we wear out our welcome with the sheikh. Thank him for his hospitality. When I hear from my government, I will return for another negotiating session.”