But even that only hinted at the real danger they were facing. Ismail saw it clearly now. The helicopters, the fighter jets, the noise, and the delay in answering a simple question—all of it was strategic. The Navy had no intention of negotiating with them, no intention of letting them go to Somalia to save the lives of the hostages. They were stalling for time, wearing them down, and planning a rescue attempt, just like they did with Garaad Mohammed’s boys on the lifeboat with Captain Phillips. The
Renaissance
was three and a half days from the Somali coast. It was more than enough time for the SEAL commandos to mount a stealth attack.
The longer Ismail thought about it, the more convinced he became that talking to Paul was a waste of time. Releasing the hostages without a ransom was not an option. If the Americans wouldn’t negotiate on his terms, he would have to force them into it, not by shooting the Parkers but by coopting their family to act on his behalf. It was a gamble of monumental proportions. Once he tried it, he could never go back. But he didn’t care. He had taken the same risk in fleeing the Shabaab. The only future he wanted was a future with Yasmin. To get there, he had to put everything on the line.
“Shut up!” he exclaimed, getting his crew’s attention. His men quieted down and watched him through sullen eyes. “I have a plan,” he said and explained himself in Somali. He spoke the story so fluidly, and invoked Gedef’s name with such confidence, that he half expected them to swallow the lie without objection. But Mas was Gedef’s cousin, and he demanded proof.
“My relatives would never have agreed to that,” Mas said. “It’s too dangerous.”
Ismail stared him down, his heart hammering in his chest. This was a contest of wits he had to win. “Are you calling me a liar? If Gedef wasn’t dead, he would tell you himself.”
Mas blinked but stood firm. “Swear it in the name of Allah.”
When Ismail spoke the blasphemy, he knew his soul was all but lost. “
Wallah hil-atheem
, what I have told you is true.”
Mas fell into a brooding silence, and Ismail picked up the radio again. “We are not interested in conversation with your government,” he told Paul. “If any boat approaches us, we will shoot it. We are going to Somalia. If you value the lives of the hostages, you will not intervene.”
He turned off the unit before the negotiator could reply. Then he looked at the Captain who was watching him warily. “It is time for a different strategy. I need your help.”
Fracture Points
For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.
—Isaac Newton
Vanessa
Annapolis, Maryland
November 11, 2011
It was still dark when Vanessa climbed out of bed. She had slept barely two hours the entire night, and she was exhausted down to the marrow in her bones. But it was pointless to lie awake, staring at the ceiling and imagining the chess match playing out half a world away. All of it was out of her control—the pirates, the Navy, the negotiation, Paul Derrick. She couldn’t believe that life had brought her full circle, back to a place where the ground could shake at any moment, where people with unspoken intentions held the reins of her life. She felt like a child again, like her mother had just announced they were moving to another city for a new man, or a dream job, or a second chance, wrecking whatever sense of home Vanessa had succeeded in carving out for herself since Trish’s last flight of fancy—or calamitous failure—compelled her to cut all ties and leave the known world behind.
Vanessa showered and dressed and piled Skipper into her SUV for the short drive to Greenbury Point, where the Severn River emptied into the Chesapeake Bay. At such an early hour, the street was free of media crews—a mercy after yesterday. Mary had been right. The TV people had showed up just after lunch and stayed until long after sunset. When the first enterprising reporter knocked on the door, Curtis went outside and ordered them to stay off the property. The threat of the law held them at bay, but nothing kept them out of Vanessa’s mind. Their presence had haunted her for hours on end, turning her emotional prison into a physical barrier constraining the autonomy she prized more than anything else. She realized as she left the driveway that it was this instinct that had compelled her to rise before the dawn. She needed to feel free again, if only for a few precious minutes.
She parked in the lot at the head of the path and let Skipper loose to scamper and forage, as he always did. The morning sky was low and ponderous, with scudding clouds the color of shale sailing along on a stiff wind. She walked briskly at first and then began to run. She focused her mind on the earth beneath her feet, on Skipper’s solitary form in the gray distance, on the sound of the wind in the trees and the river lapping against the breakwater not far away.
At some point she began to sprint. She caught up to Skipper and urged him on with a winded: “Let’s run!” The dog dashed to her side, joining her gamely despite his age. They ran together through the forest and around the point to a bench overlooking the wind-tossed bay. It was here that Daniel had brought her in the mad rush of their engagement, here that he had painted a picture of the life they would make, a life with the baby she hadn’t wanted to keep, with a house where they could grow old together, with a family—his family—who would care for them as a family should, not out of guilt and obligation like Trish and Ted, but out of love and commitment. It was a pleasant fairy tale, and she had believed it because she wanted it to be true.
She stopped at the bench and took deep gulps of air, her chest heaving beneath her hooded sweatshirt. She looked out at the Bay Bridge and remembered Quentin at thirteen sailing alone on the Sunfish Daniel had bought him for his birthday. He was so comfortable at the helm, so sure of himself, that she had no choice but to indulge his passion for the water, even though she didn’t understand it. He was a Parker, as Daniel had often said, and Parkers were sailors. She felt it again—the satisfaction and sorrow of Quentin’s transition to adolescence. That was the year he had started to drift away from her, trading Sunday music sessions for afternoons exploring the bay. That was the year he and Daniel had first charted out a course for a circumnavigation.
She started off again at a more leisurely pace, following the wide loop back to the parking lot. Skipper trotted beside her, his tongue dangling. She was so intent on soaking in the silence that she almost didn’t feel the vibration of her iPhone in her pocket. By the time she took it out, the call had gone to voicemail. It was Curtis. She called him back.
“What’s up?” she said, feeling more stable than she had in three days.
“How far away are you?” he asked.
“I’m at the Point. Is something wrong?”
His reply was guarded. “I don’t know.”
“What are you talking about?” she demanded. “Did something happen?”
“I can’t explain over the phone. Just get here as soon as you can.”
Vanessa pulled into the driveway and screeched to a halt behind Curtis’s Mercedes-Benz, ignoring the CNN truck setting up a live feed beyond the row of Tuscan pines that shielded the house from the street. A reporter hailed her across the distance, but Vanessa focused on Mary, who was waiting for her on the porch. The FBI agent ushered her into the house. Duke and Curtis were talking in the living room, and Yvonne was on the sofa, paging through an issue of
Architectural Digest
.
“What’s going on?” Vanessa asked when they were together again.
“The phone rang a few minutes ago,” Mary explained. “We let it go to voicemail, but the caller didn’t leave a message. It was an international number. I thought it might be Ariadne, but when I read the country code out loud Curtis corrected me. The prefix was 881—a satellite phone.”
“Daniel!” Vanessa said, making the connection.
Curtis nodded. “It was his number.”
“What does that mean?” Vanessa asked in confusion. “Why would they let him call here?”
Curtis’s voice took on a note of gravity. “We don’t think it was Daniel on the phone.”
Vanessa’s imagination went into overdrive. “You mean . . . Why would they . . .?”
Mary picked up the narrative. “I called my boss in Virginia. He’s at the command center where the incident is being managed. They have a direct link to the
Gettysburg
. Derrick was talking to a pirate named Ibrahim. The Navy wanted to deliver a secure radio to continue the negotiations, but Ibrahim cut off the conversation. That was thirty minutes ago. It’s late afternoon over there.”
“You think Ibrahim called here?” Vanessa asked quietly.
Strong nodded. “That’s the only logical inference. But if we’re right, this situation is going to get complicated in a hurry—”
Before the security consultant could explain himself, the phone began to ring again.
Mary was the first to reach the unit. “It’s the same number.” She held out the handset to Vanessa. “You should take the call. Use the speakerphone. I’ll make a recording.”
Vanessa stared at the handset like it was a rattlesnake. “You’re kidding.”
The FBI agent shook her head. “He doesn’t know we’re here. We need to find out what he wants. Use your instincts. Don’t agitate him. Just let him talk.”
Vanessa took the phone, struggling to contain her raging nerves. She pressed the talk button and turned on the speaker. “Hello?” she said softly.
“Is this Vanessa Parker?” said an accented male voice.
“Yes,” she affirmed.
“My name is Ibrahim,” the man went on. “I believe you know who I am. Your husband and son are with me. You may talk to them.”
“Vanessa,” Daniel said, and her heart fell off a cliff. “We’re okay. Quentin is okay. They haven’t done anything to us.” When she didn’t respond, he said a little louder: “Vanessa, are you there?”
“I’m here,” she finally replied, tears welling in her eyes. There were a thousand things she had imagined saying to him, but she couldn’t remember any of them now. Her heart was broken inside of her, yet it was still beating defiantly, like a drowning swimmer clawing toward the light.
“I’m so sorry,” Daniel said, his voice thick with emotion. “This is all my fault. I can’t imagine how you’ll ever be able to forgive me.”
The tears spilled down her cheeks.
I was wondering the same thing. But now it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, except bringing you and Quentin home.
“I bought a plane ticket,” she said, speaking the words before she could restrain herself. “To Cape Town at Christmas.”
His astonishment was as transparent as his feeling. “You did?”
“I played the Beethoven again. From memory.” She took a breath, her mind racing on the current of inspiration. “You asked me to do that.”
There was silence on the line.
“So you have to make it there,” she went on. “Okay?”
“Okay,” he said at last, speaking the word like a vow. “It’s a plan. Here’s Quentin.”
“Mom?” Quentin began. “We’re all right. Don’t worry about us. We’ll be fine.”
When she heard her son’s voice, Vanessa broke down completely. “I’m so glad to hear that, sweetie,” she said, wiping her nose. “We’re going to find a way to bring you home.”
Ibrahim came back on the line. “Mrs. Parker, I want to return your family to you. But there is a price. Five million dollars, delivered to coordinates I will provide. You have until 17:00 hours East Africa Time on Monday, November 14. In addition, you must call off your Navy. We won’t release the hostages until we receive confirmation from Paul, the American negotiator, that the ships around us will let us go. Do you understand?”
“That’s a lot of money,” Vanessa said, feeling the acid burn of dismay.
Five million dollars? Even Curtis and Yvonne don’t have easy access to that kind of cash.
“We need more time.”
“The deadline is not negotiable,” Ibrahim replied. “If you do as I ask, your family will not be harmed. If you fail, they will die. I will call at sunrise tomorrow for your answer.”
At once the line went dead.
Vanessa looked at Mary and Duke. “What are we supposed to do?” she asked, feeling like a noose had just been placed around her neck.
“He’s given us no choice,” Duke replied, his voice grim. “We have to engage.”
“I think it’s an opportunity,” Curtis said. “Until now we’ve had no influence over the outcome.”
“Where are we going to get the money?” Vanessa asked.
Curtis smiled wanly. “Five million is just the opening. He’ll come off that figure. It’s just a business deal.” He gave Mary a hard look. “So long as the government plays along.”
The FBI agent tensed. She took out her BlackBerry and punched a number on speed-dial. “We shouldn’t do anything until we talk to Derrick.”
Paul
The Indian Ocean
02°21´21˝S, 53°01´32˝E
November 11, 2011
Derrick stood on the bridge wing of the
Gettysburg
, watching the
Renaissance
through binoculars. The ocean was a mottled turquoise, the late-afternoon sun half hidden by clouds. Forty-five minutes had passed since Ibrahim had signed off abruptly. Derrick had tried to raise him again over the radio, holding forth with one monologue after another, but the pirate hadn’t replied. Something had changed in the negotiation. Derrick had heard a shift in Ibrahim’s voice. His last words had sounded like a valediction. Yet the reason wasn’t obvious. Derrick had talked it over with Rodriguez, but he had offered no insight. Was it a bluff? A challenge? Was Ibrahim daring the Navy to force his hand?