He guided the boat like a serpent, fouling the Navy’s aim. He focused on Venus, shining like a beacon above the horizon. The beach wasn’t far now. Mahamoud was waiting for him there with a way of escape. His uncle would know what to do with the money in the briefcase he had salvaged from the abattoir of the sailboat. Mahamoud would know how to find Yasmin.
It was then that Ismail’s men started to die. Guray was the first to get hit. He cried out and clutched his neck, then slumped over and fell into the sea, disappearing into the darkness. Liban came next. Liban, the faithful—the only one whose loyalty had never faltered, even at the end. Two bullets tore a gaping hole in his chest. He tried to shoot back, but his wounds were too great. As his breathing slowed, he clutched at the sky, as if begging Allah for mercy.
At that moment, the pain in Ismail’s soul opened into an abyss. He saw the faces of the dead swirling around him—the faces of those he had killed and those he had loved and watched die. There were many whose names he never knew, fighters from the African Union and Hizbul Islam that he had fought in the war. But some of them had names. Their graves were the record of his ruin.
Adan, his father, in the schoolyard in Medina.
Samatar, in the training camp at Lanta Buro.
Yusuf, his brother, on Maka al Mukarama Road.
Gedef, his mentor and protector, on the high seas.
Daniel Parker, captain of the
Renaissance
.
Quentin Parker, like Samatar but with white skin.
Guray, whose life had been a tragedy from the beginning.
And now Liban, his companion and friend.
The horror was greater than Ismail could bear. He let loose a primal scream and turned the helm hard over, driving straight at the speedboat that had killed Liban. Bullets shredded the air like shrapnel. One whizzed by his ear, another ricocheted off the control panel, but none hit him. The speedboat swerved to avoid them and then joined its twin on the other side, racing toward the coast.
Ismail looked to the west. The mainland was a black scar beneath the starlit sky. He drove the boat toward it, taking evasive maneuvers but always pressing ahead. He heard the helicopters in the sky and saw their spotlights spearing the air. They swept over him and lit up the dark sea. He felt the downdraft from the rotors, felt the thunder of their presence, but he refused to surrender. Instead, he yanked the helm back and forth, trying to dodge the beams.
All at once, he heard a noise that made no sense. The engine of the boat coughed and sputtered, then quit altogether, as if struck by an unseen hand. As the boat slowed in the water, rising and falling with the waves, he flipped the starter switch over and over again, trying frantically to reengage the engine. He heard his men shouting at him, begging him to fix the problem, even as they fired a hail of bullets at the monsters in the sky.
Suddenly, he heard a voice boom across the water: “Throw your weapons into the water and put your hands above your head. Your boat has been disabled. Cease your fire or you will be shot.”
In an instant, Ismail understood everything. The Americans had betrayed him not once but twice—in moving the warship closer without warning and in giving him a broken boat. They had never intended for him to reach the beach with the ransom money. They had given him a rope to hang himself. He felt rage welling up in him along with despair. They were liars, all of them—even Paul, who brought him Pepsi and quoted from the Quran. As perfidious and corrupt as he was, Mas had been right.
I was a fool to trust them
, Ismail thought
. They only meant us harm.
He saw the choice before him with stark clarity—to die a warrior’s death or accept capture by the Navy and trial and imprisonment in the United States. He saw the gun at his feet, felt the adrenaline flowing in his veins. All he had to do was pull the trigger and the Americans would end his misery. But then he saw the faces of Dhuuban and Sondare staring back at him. They were just kids, like Samatar and Yusuf and Quentin Parker, their sins far less grievous than his. They hadn’t murdered or deceived anyone. They didn’t deserve to die.
He heard himself speak in Somali: “It’s over! Do as they say!” Then he threw his gun over the side and raised his hands into the night.
He was completely unprepared for what happened next. As the nearest speedboat approached with men in black brandishing automatic weapons, Mas turned and pointed at him, shouting a single word at the top of his lungs. It was an accusation at once true and false, and it pierced Ismail’s heart with more precision than a sniper’s bullet.
“
Shabaab!
”
“
Shabaab!
”
“
He is Shabaab!
”
Vanessa
Somewhere over Kenya
November 14, 2011
Vanessa stared at the phone in her hands like it was a living thing. She pressed the redial button again and listened to the maddening ring.
Pick up, Ibrahim!
she thought, trying with all her might to hold herself together.
What are you doing?
It was just after seven o’clock, nearly two hours after the drop. The cabin of the plane was as quiet as a graveyard. Flint was looking at her, his expression unreadable. She’d had the same exchange with him after each call.
Vanessa: “Why aren’t they answering?”
Flint: “They’re probably still counting the money.”
Vanessa: “How long can it possibly take?”
Flint: “You need to be patient.”
But patience was the furthest thing from her mind. Her thoughts were a whirlpool dragging her into the darkness. Something wasn’t right; she could feel it. Daniel and Quentin should have been released by now. The nightmare should have been over.
She dropped the phone in her lap and looked out the window at the moonlit African plain, struggling against the gnawing pains in her chest. There was nothing she could do to stop the panic when it reached this stage. It was like a runaway train barreling down a mountainside.
She reclined her seat and closed her eyes, focusing all of her attention on breathing. She felt her diaphragm contracting and relaxing, heard the air passing through her nose. When she locked in the rhythm, she allowed her mind to drift. She imagined herself picking up the Bissolotti, placing the bow on the strings, and launching into Schumann’s “Träumerei”. She visualized the music filling her heart like a concert hall and chasing away the demons. In time, the pressure in her chest subsided.
“How much longer until we land?” she asked Ruan Steyn as calmly as she could.
“Forty-five minutes,” Steyn called from the cockpit.
Vanessa lifted the sat phone again and tried the
Renaissance
without success. She punched in Brent Frazier’s mobile number next, hoping he would have an update, but he didn’t answer either. She blinked in confusion. She had spoken to him just before the drop. Why wasn’t he available? She called Mary’s BlackBerry. The FBI agent had promised her it would never be out of reach. She waited and waited, but all she heard was a chorus of endless rings.
She felt the chill begin like a wintry trickle beneath her collar. There had to be a benign reason for the silence.
It’s going to be all right
, she reassured herself.
We did everything they asked.
At last, Steyn announced their descent into Nairobi. Vanessa fastened her seatbelt and watched the lights of the city grow closer. The plane flared over the runway and landed smoothly, taxiing to the same hangar from which they had left. When Steyn shut down the engines, Flint opened the door.
“We’ll call them from the office,” he said with an unconvincing smile.
Vanessa collected her purse and stepped out of the plane. She saw Mary standing beside the Land Rover. The FBI agent walked toward her, then pulled up short, as if unsure how to make the approach. Vanessa saw the trail of mascara beneath Mary’s eyes and stopped dead.
“What’s wrong?” she exclaimed, her resistance crumbling. “What
happened
?”
Mary gave her an ashen look. “There was a shooting,” she said in an unsteady voice. “Daniel is dead. Quentin is in a critical condition. He’s in surgery now.”
For a moment, Vanessa just stood there, too stunned to speak. Then the shock gave way to horror, and her body began to shake. “
No! Oh God, no!
”
Mary wrapped her in a fierce embrace. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
In an instant, Vanessa’s suffering turned into anger. “
Why?
” she screamed, pushing Mary away.
“
Tell me, goddammit!
”
“I don’t know,” Mary said softly. “No one knows.”
Vanessa’s eyes flashed. “Get me on that ship! I don’t care what it takes.
I want to see my son!
”
Mary’s bottom lip quivered. “The Navy has some of the best surgeons in the world. They’re doing all they can for him.”
“That’s not
good enough
!” Vanessa shrieked, feeling helpless and cornered. “
Get me on that ship!
”
Mary looked at her compassionately. “I wish I could.”
Just as quickly, Vanessa’s anger transmuted to despair. She sank to her knees and began to weep. She heard voices shouting inside her head, like a great assembly of her detractors. Trish, in Quentin’s first year:
You’re too serious to have a child. You need to lighten up.
Ted, when Quentin started to see a therapist:
I always thought the kid was strange.
The detective at Annapolis PD:
Did you have any idea your son was into drugs?
Then her own voice rose above the rest:
If you don’t get your act together, Vanessa, he’s going to be as messed up as you are.
The prophecy spoken a thousand times by her shame had finally come true. She was married to a dead man she had just started to love again, and her son was hovering on the brink, his body riddled with bullets.
Mary put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off. She didn’t know how long she stayed on the hangar floor. It could have been minutes or hours, she didn’t care. She saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing except the vertigo of falling and the humiliation of failure. She was a disgrace. Everything in her world was meaningless apart from Quentin’s life.
At last, the raging storm of her emotions began to relent, leaving her exhausted and empty. Through her tears she saw Mary’s outstretched hand. She took it and climbed to her feet, allowing the FBI agent to lead her to the Land Rover.
Tony Flint opened the door for her, looking mortified. “I’m sorry, Vanessa. I never thought . . .” His voice trailed off as he closed the door behind her.
She settled into the seat and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. She saw Mary slide in beside her and felt the Land Rover accelerate out of the hangar. She had so many questions. But only one of them mattered right now. “How long has Quentin been in the OR?” she asked quietly.
Mary turned toward her, her eyes limpid in the shadows. “I spoke to Paul half an hour ago. All he could tell me was that Quentin had been airlifted to the
Truman
and that he was in surgery. Paul was about to take a helicopter to the carrier. He said he’d call as soon as he could.”
Vanessa felt the ache of grief in every inch of her body.
Paul Derrick. The best negotiator in the FBI. How could he have failed? How could all of them have failed? The Navy, the SEALs, the entire apparatus of the government? How could the whole thing have gone so horribly wrong?
“Are the pirates dead?” she asked in time.
“Two of them were killed,” Mary said. “The rest were captured. They’ll be tried in federal court. I expect the government will ask for the death penalty.”
Vanessa shook her head.
They don’t deserve a trial. They deserve a hanging.
“And Ibrahim?”
Mary met her gaze. “He survived.”
Vanessa remembered the pirate’s final words to her:
We have done nothing to harm them. Deliver what you promised, and I will do the same.
She wanted to lash out at him then, to claw his face with her fingernails and pluck out his eyes.
You’re a goddamned liar!
she thought.
You’re a liar and a murderer. Death is too decent for you. Whatever it takes, I will watch you burn.
Paul
The Indian Ocean
02°10´42˝N, 45°52´49˝E
November 14, 2011
The Seahawk carrying Derrick and Rodriguez landed on the
Truman
at 19:51, an hour and twenty-two minutes after the shooting. The aircraft carrier, darkened for nighttime operations, was a hive of activity and noise. Men in helmets and goggles were moving about the flight deck, tending to helicopters and jets gearing up for flight. The aircrewman collected the negotiators’ duffel bags and led them across the amber-lit deck, around the tower, and down two flights of stairs to a hatch that opened into the ship.