Pirate

by Duncan Falconer

  ‘That’s almost as bad as what I was doing.’

  ‘No one told us pirates operated that close to the Yemen coastline.’

  They heard a commotion coming from the town. They saw a man marching down towards the beach at the head of a boisterous retinue of gun-toting Somalis. It took Stratton a couple of seconds to realise it was Lotto, wearing tailored military fatigues, a green beret at a jaunty angle and wrap-around sunglasses. He carried an ornate walking stick over a shoulder and wore a pearl-handled pistol in a holster at his side. The men immediately behind him, judging by their dress and bling, had been exposed to a higher class of contraband than the run-of-the-mill guards and townfolk.

  The group reached the beach and turned towards the anchored carriers, walking past the prisoners, largely ignoring them. There came the sound of electronic chirping and one of the men handed a satellite phone to Lotto. The leader stopped to talk into it, looking skywards after a few seconds. The guys around him did the same.

  A shrill shout went up from one of the men standing on the bridge wing of the Oasis. It was echoed by others on the beach. Stratton looked up at the clear blue skies, along with everyone else. He could see nothing other than the occasional gull. But his ears began to pick up a new sound. A distant hum.

  An aircraft of some kind.

  Lotto was still looking up and he was still speaking into the phone.

  Then the aircraft came into view, about a thousand feet up, hugging the coastline. A small twin-engine propeller-driven craft. The sound got louder as it closed in. It was slowly descending, Stratton decided, as it approached them. Then the pilot adjusted its track and flew it over the line of cargo ships, then turned sharply away and began a wide turn out to sea.

  It described a long, easy circle and it kept descending. When it reached the beach again, it turned sharply back towards the ships. But this time it came inland to fly over the sand. Right towards the pirate leader.

  As he looked at it, Stratton noted something else about the aircraft had changed. Its baggage door was open. Just as it passed the bridge of the Oasis, a bundle the size of a laundry bag came tumbling out attached to a small parachute. The bundle hit the sand about twenty metres from Lotto and somersaulted along the beach, chased by half a dozen of Lotto’s men. He followed them casually.

  Stratton couldn’t see the bundle because the group crowded around it but he had a good idea what it was.

  They’d just witnessed the paying of a ransom.

  ‘Hopefully some of these poor bastards will get to go home now,’ Hopper muttered.

  As they watched, a canvas-covered flatbed truck drove easily down from the town front on to the beach behind them and headed across the sand towards the Oasis. The driver pulled it up just short of the soft sand and a man got out the passenger door. He was Somali but he looked different from the others. He had a big dark curly beard, a white skull cap on his head and he wore a long white shirt, like a dishdasha, over baggy cotton trousers and sandals. A brown leather weapons harness tightened up the whole look. The man was an Islamic warrior.

  He stood and looked at Lotto, the bottom of his shirt moving gently in the breeze. The driver stayed in the cab, his hands on the steering wheel. It was like they were waiting for something. Lotto said something to one of his men, a bespectacled and well-dressed individual who appeared to be employed in an administrative capacity. The man took several bricks of American hundred-dollar-bills from the ransom bundle. He handed one to each of the five hangers-on around Lotto. They all bowed and smiled and acted subservient. The bespectacled assistant tied the bundle back up and lifted it from the sand, eyes on Lotto.

  Lotto left everyone and walked over to the Islamic warrior. Stratton detected a hint of distaste in the way the leader approached the Islamist. They had a brief exchange of words. Then Lotto signalled to one of his men, who in turn ordered a couple of the guards to go to the rear of the truck.

  The warrior walked around with them, drew aside the canvas flap and indicated for the guards to go ahead. The men dragged a long, green-painted wooden crate out by a rope handle on its end. It was one and a half metres end to end and narrow, and whatever was inside was heavy – the Somalis strained to take its weight.

  Stratton got to his feet. Once again, the shape, size, colour and construction of the box gave it away. It was another piece of military ordnance. But this one was different. The stencilling was in Far Eastern calligraphy. It wasn’t a box of PKMs.

  Stratton looked at Sabarak. The Saudi was also on his feet and staring intently between the Somali fighter and the box.

  Stratton’s interest went up a couple more notches.

  The guards carried the crate down to the water’s edge to a waiting skiff. The Islamic warrior followed them. The Somalis climbed into the small boat with the box, leaving the warrior on the sand watching as the coxswain backed the boat away and steered into the lumpy waves towards the centre of the Oasis and a staggered gangway that had been lowered to the water line. A couple of Somali men headed down the gangway to meet them. Between the four of them, they hauled the box out of the skiff and carried it up the gangway to the main deck.

  The warrior walked back to the truck.

  Stratton looked over at Sabarak again. The Saudi had focused his attention on the bearded warrior, who was climbing back into the cab. The driver backed up the truck and drove further down the beach. Several of Lotto’s guards followed at a jog. The driver pulled up opposite the Greek carrier and the warrior climbed out again. The guards went to the back of the truck and heaved another long wooden crate from its bed. They carried it down to the shore and waited for the skiff. The boat took the crate to the carrier and then the warrior went back to his truck again. The driver drove him down the beach to the East Asian vessel. It all happened again, one final time.

  Stratton looked back towards the deck of the Oasis. The men carrying the crate had gone along the side of the ship, past the huge storage bays to the very front, where they disappeared.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Hopper asked in a voice too low for the Chinese girl to hear.

  ‘All very odd,’ Stratton said.

  As they spoke, the warrior’s truck came across the hard-packed sand and headed for the town. Lotto, his man with the bundle and the rest of the Somalis came back up the beach towards the town, passing the prisoners. Lotto glanced towards them.

  He stopped and lowered his sunglasses to take a better look at the girl. She was looking back at him, her expression cold.

  He remained smiling. It was a knowing smile. He kept on walking towards the town and she lowered her head.

  Stratton couldn’t think of anything to say to help her. Perhaps if their leader himself fancied her, the others might leave her alone. But that wouldn’t solve her problem.

  ‘Up! Up!’ the old Somali shouted.

  The rest of the prisoners got to their feet and they were herded back to the town, past the broken truck, along the road to the hut. They filed in through the door, starting a line for the water buckets. After each man took a drink he went to sit back in his original place. The girl did the same.

  A Filipino prisoner got to his feet, stepped to the door and tapped it with the toe of his boot. ‘Toilet,’ he called out.

  He waited for about half a minute. He kicked the door again and repeated his request.

  They heard the Somali on the other side unbolt the door. The Filipino stepped out into the sunlight and the Somali closed and bolted the door behind him.

  It was only then that Stratton realised the Saudi was missing.

  ‘Where did Sabarak go?’ he asked Hopper.

  ‘He was with us when we came back,’ said Hopper. ‘I saw him. He must’ve held back and asked to get put in another hut.’

  ‘He’s made his move,’ Stratton said. ‘That jihadist character who arrived in the truck. Sabarak was very interested in him and those crates. Maybe something about that episode gave him the confidence to reveal himself.’


  ‘He’ll tell them who he is?’

  ‘He’s a jihadist. The warre bugger who turned up in the truck was too. Lotto has some kind of relationship with him. That would suggest that Sabarak could at least get an audience with Lotto. Once he did that he would begin the bartering game. And we don’t know what he has to barter with.’

  ‘He has us for a start.’ That was very true. ‘What do you think was in those crates?’ Hopper said.

  ‘Not sure. Weapons of some kind. At least that’s what the boxes were designed for. But why were they taking them on board the hijacked boats?’

  The Filipino returned and went back to his place.

  ‘I don’t think we should hang around here too long,’ Hopper said. ‘If Lottto lets Sabarak make contact with the jihadist, we’re in the shitter.’

  Stratton agreed, in principle. But there was something else on his mind.

  They heard the bolts on the door go again and watched as a man walked in carrying a large cooking pot, followed by a filthy-looking boy with a stack of battered aluminium bowls. The cook filled one from the pot, handed it to the boy and the boy stepped to the nearest prisoner and gave it to him. He went back to the cook and took another bowl to the next person in line.

  When Stratton was handed his, he studied the contents of the bowl in his tied hands. It looked like some kind of fish stew, with more bones than meat. But he was hungry. He crunched down on a fish head and chewed the bones to a pulp and swallowed. Someone in the room choked violently as he struggled to extricate a bone from his throat. The man beside him slammed his back repeatedly. The choking man managed to cough it up.

  ‘It’s Saturday,’ Hopper said, eating his food as if it were an everyday meal. ‘The wife would have expected me back by now. She won’t be worried of course. Not if I’m late by a few days.’

  Stratton sympathised. But it only reminded him once again of why marriage wasn’t the wisest choice for someone in their business. Close relationships were almost as bad. Something Stratton had managed to avoid for the most part. And times like this proved him right. He wasn’t missing anyone. And no one was stressing over him because he hadn’t come home when he should have.

  He had long since identified it as a kind of loneliness and he was well aware that it wasn’t healthy either. The way his mind worked, no man could really be complete without a family. Surely that was the prime purpose, to find a partner and produce offspring in order to continue the line. But there was time yet for all of that. Right now he was a soldier and he needed to focus on that alone. Every lifestyle had its sacrifices. His was a lack of companion -ship, of love. He would do without for the time being and gamble that he could find it when he was good and ready. When he was no longer in this business.

  ‘We were going cycling today,’ Hopper said. ‘Bradbury Rings … When do you think they’ll tell her I’m missing?’

  ‘If they thought we’d taken a boat, then they’d more than likely assume we’d been lost at sea before considering we’d been taken by this shower,’ said Stratton. ‘They won’t rush into assuming the worst. First thing they’ll probably tell her is there’s been an extension to the op. They won’t give her any bad news until they’re certain.’ He knew that much from experience. He’d had to pass on the bad news more than once. Watching a loving wife or girlfriend break into small pieces right in front of you is not something he was built to take, tough as he felt. He didn’t have the tools to deal with it. Which only served to cement his belief that close relationships weren’t worth the pain they could create, even for those not directly involved in them.

  ‘If Sabarak barters us to Lotto, we’re screwed,’ Hopper said. ‘Even if London agreed to pay a ransom for us, which I strongly doubt, Lotto might not take it. He might rather make a present of us to the jihadists. We should consider making a break for it, and the sooner the better.’

  Stratton knew that was the right course of action. But the boxes on the ships were bothering him. Kidnapping Sabarak was one part of a larger operation. The big picture was about something else. They might have failed to bring in Sabarak, but perhaps they had stumbled on another and possibly larger piece of the puzzle. He couldn’t let that go. If they concentrated on saving their own skins, they would be failing in their duties. They weren’t just ordinary soldiers charging at an enemy. They were specialists. That meant thinking for yourself, changing course and making decisions, sometimes major ones, without consulting the head shed. He felt an urge inside him that was far stronger than the need to save his own neck. He couldn’t leave Somalia until he found out what was going on.

  ‘We can’t leave,’ Stratton said. ‘Not yet.’

  Hopper couldn’t hide his surprise. He didn’t know Stratton very well personally but he knew his reputation. Like everyone else in the SBS, Hopper hadn’t been privy to the details of Stratton’s operations for the SIS and, on occasion apparently, for the Americans. But the rumours went around. And Stratton would never reveal anything himself. If he had done half as much as he was supposed to have, he wasn’t someone to ignore in a situation like this.

  Hopper had initially thought there was no one better to get caught with after being captured by the Somalis. But cracks of doubt were beginning to appear in his confidence, cracks caused by Stratton’s strength and his own weakness. He could think of nothing but escape and a return to his wife and children. Stratton hadn’t mentioned it since seeing those boxes going on to the ships. The man constantly pushed the limits in order to succeed on an operation. Which was why he was a top operative. He saw success as a higher priority than his own safety, or at least close to it.

  Stratton would probably never agree with that statement, but others who had worked closely with him were certain of its truth. Hopper was suddenly concerned. Like most other members of the service, he knew that Stratton preferred working alone. That was probably because few people could play by his rules. Hopper felt in his guts that it was looking bad for them.

  ‘Those crates they loaded on to the ship,’ Stratton said. ‘I want to know what’s in them.’

  Hopper’s heart sank, though he never showed it. He nodded, accepting that it had to be done. ‘OK. Then as soon as we do that, we get out of here?’

  ‘Then we get out of here,’ Stratton agreed.

  The guards allowed no more than two prisoners at a time to leave the room on a toilet break. After the meal, Stratton and Hopper took it as an opportunity to explore. When they stepped out, the Somali pushed them down the side of the hut opposite. The toilet, a hole in the ground, was at the back. All they could see were the cramped little houses left and right, front and back. And guys with assault rifles.

  When Stratton walked back into the hut, the girl glanced at him. She did that every time the door opened. Like she was waiting for someone. Most of the prisoners had dozed off. Stratton and Hopper took their places against the wall. The girl remained awake, staring at the wall. She seemed to be in a constant state of anxiety.

  The day dragged on and they all lay there in the hut. There was nothing else to do but think. Or doze. The evening meal when it came was fish stew again. The hours passed slowly until darkness began to fall. The girl had hardly moved. Her eyes were closed. The air became colder with the passing of the sun. Stratton firmed up his plans for the night’s activities. He intended to be busy.

  6

  The moonlight shining in through the paneless opening high up the wall of the prison hut bathed the room in a grey wash. They could hear a couple of small generators chugging away somewhere not far from the hut. The privileged no doubt. The town had no mains electricity. They could smell kerosene lamps and hear the waves pounding the beach, a sound that had not been as obvious during the daytime.

  They heard voices occasionally passing by outside. A round of laughter. A vehicle, probably an old truck, puttering along the main road. By now the limited conversations in the room had ceased completely. The sound of gentle snoring dominated.

  Hopper lay stretched out on
the floor. He was not asleep and was thinking, mostly about his family and what Helen was doing. He estimated the time at around nine or ten o’clock. That put it at six or seven back home. The children would be going to bed soon. Helen would then watch the TV or read a book, a mug of tea in her hands. She would wonder what her man was doing at that moment. But she wouldn’t be concerned. Not yet. It was still too soon. He’d been delayed many times before. It was the nature of the job. They had got married two years after he joined the SBS. She’d grown thick-skinned, used to the long operations and him being away months at a time. He’d only been gone a few days so far and therefore the wait had been nothing.

  He suddenly wondered what would happen if something went wrong. If he didn’t make it back. He imagined them coming to her front door, one of the SBS officers and probably the Sergeant Major. She would probably have an inkling something was wrong as soon as she saw them. But she wouldn’t react. She was the optimistic kind. Even when she saw their sombre expressions, at the worst she would expect to hear he had been injured and wouldn’t be home for a while yet. And when they told her he’d been killed, she would suck in her emotion, for a while at least. The first thing she would ask was how he had died. They wouldn’t go into detail. But then she would think the worst and crack up. She would burst into tears, her life would fall apart.

  Hopper rolled on to his back.

  ‘Hopper?’ Stratton whispered.

  Hopper looked up at his partner sat against the wall next to him.

  Stratton slid down and whispered into Hopper’s ear, ‘Soon as everyone is settled, I’ll make a move out of here.’

  Hopper looked at him strangely, like he hadn’t fully understood. ‘You going alone?’

  ‘I’ve been going over all our options. One person can move more securely than two. If anything happens to one, there’s still a chance for the other. Also, if any of this lot should decide to raise the alarm after I’ve gone, you can change their minds for them. I’ll only be a couple of hours at the most if all goes well. I’ll also be looking to our escape. When I get back we’ll bug out together.’