Pirate

by Duncan Falconer

  Stratton looked into the older man’s eyes and saw the sincerity in them. He turned to his side. The Dutchman sawed between his wrists. A moment later his hands parted. He removed the rest of the line from his wrists and rubbed the life back into them. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘No need,’ said the Dutchman. ‘I’m sure what you’re doing is very important and of benefit to all of us.’

  Stratton glanced between the door and the window. Which one? he wondered. Neither would be easy. But he didn’t have to mask his tracks this time. One way or another, he wasn’t coming back. He gauged first light to be a couple of hours away.

  The Dutchman watched as Stratton walked to the door.

  Stratton moved his eyes from crack to crack in the door, the kerosene lamps outside allowing him something of a view. He could see a Somali squatting on a doorstep opposite. The man appeared to be asleep. If there was another nearby, he couldn’t see him. But he might also be asleep.

  Stratton looked at the Dutchman and beckoned him over. ‘Your knife,’ he said.

  The man hesitated, clearly thinking about his knife being used on another human being. It was a bad thought to a man like him, even after all the jailers had done to him and to the girl.

  ‘I need it to open the door,’ Stratton said, reading the man’s thoughts.

  The Dutchman handed the blade to Stratton. The operative couldn’t be sure if the Dutchman decided to trust him or if he had put aside his humanitarianism for the moment. Stratton put his ear to the door. He could hear nothing. He slid the blade through a gap between the edge of the door and the frame until it touched the bolt. He pushed down and sideways on the bolt with the blade and it moved a couple of millimetres. He did it again. And again, sliding the bolt over a little each time.

  It didn’t take long to draw the bolt out of its hole in the frame. The next move represented the real risk. He had to open the door without knowing what or who was on the other side, other than the sleeping guard across the street. It was the point of no return for him. If he failed here, they would cut his feet off. That alone would have been a strong incentive. But he didn’t need it.

  He pushed the door open gently. It swung easily and silently for the first few inches. Then the hinge protested so he stopped, but only for a second. Anyone looking at the door would know it was no longer bolted shut. He pushed it wide open and stepped out energetically, looking left and right, searching for a target, hand gripping the knife.

  A guard stood with his back against the wall to his right. So close Stratton could reach out and touch him. The man lifted his head and saw Stratton and stepped back as Stratton leaned towards him, his arm reaching out. The guard went for his rifle leaning against the wall. He bent and grabbed the barrel and lifted it up and then he saw the blade in the operative’s hand arcing towards him. And that was the last thing he ever did see. The tip of the blade went into the side of his neck and penetrated deeply into it with the force of the swing, severing both of the carotid arteries. Stratton grabbed the rifle before it fell from the dead man’s hand. Blood spurted from his throat and he dropped slowly to his knees, Stratton holding some of his weight.

  Stratton’s eyes went to the sleeping Somali across the street, waiting for the slightest indication that the man was about to wake up. But he didn’t stir. He was sound asleep.

  Stratton leaned the dead man against the hut wall, moved away from the door, one careful step at a time, while he searched up and down the street, looking for any other sign of movement.

  Vorg stepped into the doorway and looked at the dead guard and then he looked at Stratton.

  ‘Back inside,’ Stratton whispered.

  The Dutchman handled the guilt he felt for his part in the Somali guard’s death and did what he was told. Stratton closed the door and drew the bolt across. Then he moved around the hurricane lamp, careful not to cast a shadow over the guard, holding the weapon, ready to fire. Although he wasn’t that confident it would work. The barrel had rusted, as had the magazine and trigger housing. The wooden stock and butt had dried and cracked. He could only imagine what the working parts inside were like. But the AK-47 was, if little else, a robust piece of kit and could generally be relied upon to operate no matter its condition.

  He moved up the street, scanning in every direction as he went. The sleeping guard still hadn’t moved.

  Once out of sight of the prison hut, he focused his attention ahead, looking for Lotto’s quarters. It dawned on him that he hadn’t heard the girl scream for a while. He could think of several explanations for that, most of them not good, for him or for her.

  In his case, he needed her help. She knew where the Al-Shabaab camp was located, or at least she said she did. And that was where Hopper was most likely being held. Rescuing him had become the most important priority. The information Stratton had discovered about the missiles hidden in the hijacked vessels was vital to be sure. But it was going to have to wait.

  Stratton might have reminded anyone else in the same position of their duty to get the information back as soon as humanly possible regardless of the danger to other members of the mission. It was for the greater good. And in his younger days he might have done so. But his experiences over the years had reshaped him. He had lost too many friends. Hopper was more important to him than whatever the ground-to-air missiles were destined for. There were other chances to put a stop to that. Hopper had only one chance and that was Stratton.

  He walked slowly up the side of the deserted street in complete darkness. The wind had picked up. Sounds came to him from every direction: a door banged, plastic sheeting flapped, a distant generator hummed. He paused at the corner to a broader street across his front. Two houses down, one of them had lights on inside. Stratton crept up the street to get a closer look at the front. He crossed over and stood at the corner of the front wall. He listened but he could hear nothing. He carefully looked into the front window, but he could see no one, just a torn old sofa, a table and chairs. He skirted the front of the house and waited, looking down the street. Movement on the porch of a large house back across the road caught his eye.

  He studied the shadows on the porch. A figure sat near the front door. He walked down a narrow alley, around the back of a house and along another gap between houses, then back to the broad street where he was diagonally opposite the big place. A small flame flared on the porch and lit a cigarette. It moved to light two more before extinguishing. The ends of the tobacco roll-ups glowed bright as the men inhaled deeply.

  He had an obvious problem. The house could well be Lotto’s and he needed to confirm it. To do that he needed to get a look inside. That required neutralising the watchmen. Which might cause a disturbance and increase the risks. The burning question now, how important was the girl? Could he find the terrorist camp without her? What if she was already dead? On the face of it the risk calculation wasn’t adding up.

  He leaned back against the wall of the house and looked to the skies for inspiration. How could he find Hopper on his own? It was starting to look impossible. His mind began to drift to his exit strategy. The Dutchman’s boat. Hopper kept coming to mind. He painfully pushed it aside.

  The house’s front door opened. Light streamed on to the street. The watchmen got to their feet. A figure stepped into the doorway. A large man wearing a towel around his waist. Stratton couldn’t say for sure but it looked like the pirate leader. The man said something and one of the others stepped behind him into the house. A few seconds later he came out again, helping a small figure who was staggering. It looked like the girl.

  The big man went back into the house and shut the door. The main light inside went out and then a lamp glowed in the window. One of the watchmen said something and the two others laughed. They helped the girl down the steps of the porch on to the street.

  They took her around the end of the porch and into a broad alley illuminated by the light from a window. They let the girl go and she dropped to her knees. The three men talked in mu
ffled voices. There was the occasional chuckle. It appeared that they were contemplating having some fun themselves.

  One of them knelt down beside the girl.

  Stratton took another quick review of the risk calculation. She was alive. Hopper could be found. There were three goons but they were occupied. It was dark. ‘Bollocks,’ he muttered to himself and gritted his teeth.

  Stratton pulled the Kalashnikov into his shoulder, brought the end of the barrel up and strode across the street.

  The two Somalis standing over the girl saw him at the same time. He pointed the barrel of the AK at them. They straightened and raised their hands, stepping back, their mouths gaping open. The one on his knees remained where he was, unaware of the intrusion. As Stratton walked, he reversed the rifle in his hands and swung it like a baseball bat at the kneeling Somali’s head. He struck him hard on the temple. He landed on top of the girl and she collapsed under his weight.

  Stratton swung the weapon back up on aim.

  ‘Down,’ he said softly but firmly, gesturing with a hand at the same time.

  The two guards dropped to their knees, their hands still held high.

  Stratton stepped around and behind them and pushed them forward to lie on their bellies. They kept their hands stretched out. Stratton stood between their prone bodies, decided what to do with them. There was only really one solution. He raised the carbine and brought the butt down heavily on to the neck of the first guard. There was a crack. Before the other guard could react, Stratton smashed the butt down on to the critical vertebrae of his neck and separated those too. He shuddered like the first one as the life left him.

  Stratton rolled the third guard off the girl, who remained lying still. She appeared to be unconscious. Then a sound startled him and he moved to the side of the house, pressing his back against the concrete block wall beside the window. He was an arm’s length from the porch. The front door had opened. It had to be Lotto.

  Stratton heard a couple of footsteps move on the wooden boards of the porch. They stopped. Silence followed. Stratton held the gun close, ready to use it, either as a club or as it was designed to be used. The pirate chief’s three guards lay at his feet.

  But Lotto didn’t venture to the end of the porch, he looked out on to the street. He struck a match, his grim, toughened features illuminated briefly. He lit a fat cigar that he held in his bright white teeth and blew the smoke into the air.

  Stratton waited. It dawned on him that killing the pirate was not such a bad idea. It might throw the rest of the gang into disarray. But then again in operational terms it would be better if their ground-to-air missile programme remained functional until the entire network could be brought down. A change in hierarchy might make everything less predictable. Stratton would take the man down only if he had to.

  He heard the front door close and sounds from inside. The clink of a bottle like Lotto was pouring himself a drink. Stratton went to the corner of the building, dropped to a knee and looked between the rails on to the porch. He couldn’t see any movement on the dark street. It was time to get out of there.

  He turned his attention to the girl and rested his gun against the wall of the building. It was hard to tell in the poor light whether the marks on her skin were injuries or dirt. He felt her throat. Her heart was racing.

  He quickly pulled off the unconscious guard’s trousers and shirt. This was not the time and place to dress her. He stood the girl up, bent down and let her fall forward over his shoulder. He stood. She was light, something he was thankful for. He grabbed the rifle off the wall and made his way uphill between the houses and away from the pirate leader’s house. The wind was strengthening. He got to the top of the town without seeing anyone. The houses stretched out to his left and right, straight ahead nothing but a black, arid wilderness.

  He walked into the wasteland with the naked unconscious girl over his shoulder.

  9

  Stratton headed deep into the darkness, doing his best to go south. It was difficult to gauge by the stars because of the cloud cover. He had gone about a kilometre from the town when he came to a gravel road running across his front. It looked well used. He decided to follow it east. The higher ground had been in that direction as they’d approached from the sea. And he could see a few trees. Which increased the chances of finding water. He walked down the centre of the dusty road.

  The girl was drifting in and out of consciousness. He had maintained a brisk pace, which couldn’t have been comfortable for her. But they needed to put as much distance as possible between them and the town. Lotto would no doubt be fuming when he found out, with Stratton as well as with his guards. To escape yet again was a slap in the face. He would not be impressed with the final body count the pirates had suffered that night either.

  The track they were on appeared to head parallel with the coastline. It was a tactical risk using it because it increased the chances of meeting someone. But this was an occasion when he was willing to take the chance in favour of the ease of movement. He came to the brow of an incline and paused to catch his breath and take in the view. The girl might have been light to start with but she was getting heavier by the minute.

  A large body of water stretched across the panorama in front. It wasn’t the ocean. That took up the entire horizon to his left. It was a broad river that came from the mountains in the south. But the river didn’t flow into the sea because it had been blocked by a naturally formed dam. A seasonal phenomenon. During the monsoons, when the river was in full flood, it couldn’t be stopped.

  Stratton felt thirsty and hoped that the water hadn’t been invaded by too much of an ocean backwash. He set off down the incline, his neck and back aching. He was looking forward to taking a breather. He felt the girl’s muscles tense.

  He stopped a few metres from the water’s edge and lowered her to the ground, placing the trousers under her head as a pillow and covered her body with the shirt to preserve her modesty. She moaned and moved her head from side to side.

  He went to the water, cupped a hand and tasted a little. It was brackish but drinkable. After a couple of mouthfuls he brought some over to her and dripped it on to her forehead and across her mouth. Her eyes flickered and her breathing quickened. She licked her lips. She opened her eyes and looked at him leaning over her. She suddenly became afraid and struggled to push herself away.

  ‘Easy,’ Stratton said, reaching out but without touching her. ‘It’s me. You’re OK. You’re safe now.’

  She stopped, her whole body tensed as she came to her senses. Her eyes darted around before finding him again. She was still scared but he was a pillar of strength in a place where they were surrounded by danger. She realised she was naked and held the shirt to her.

  ‘We’re out of the town,’ he said. ‘It’s just you and me. No one else.’

  Her expression changed and she eased off a bit.

  Stratton wondered if she remembered what had happened to her. Such a serious trauma could cause short-term amnesia.

  But she suddenly remembered. The horrific memories of the past few hours flooded her mind. She fought to control an abrupt emotional reaction and rolled into a ball and began to sob.

  ‘You know who I am?’ he said. ‘You remember me, right? I’m Stratton.’

  She calmed a little and nodded.

  ‘We can’t stay here long. They’ll be looking for us. We have to get further away. Do you understand?’

  She didn’t acknowledge him. He wondered if she was going to make it at all. Perhaps she had become unhinged. He couldn’t help thinking about his next move if she was unable to keep going. He couldn’t leave her of course.

  ‘Immy?’ he said. ‘You need to get up. You can’t stay here. I can’t carry you any more. Do you understand?’

  She still didn’t move.

  Stratton felt suddenly tired. He had to get on. Time was running out. She had to motivate herself. It seemed like she had gone into a catatonic state. He felt his patience wearing thin
. He needed to find Hopper and get out of Somalia. It looked as if he might have to do it alone.

  ‘Immy?’ he said. ‘I need you to wake up, right now.’

  She remained motionless.

  ‘Immy?’ he repeated, getting to his feet and standing over her. ‘I know you don’t want to die. But if you just lie there, if you don’t get up, your life is going to come to an end very soon.

  ‘I’ll spell it out for you,’ he said, getting angry. ‘I can’t leave you here alive. If I did and they found you, they would eventually learn what I know, what we both know. I can’t allow that information to be compromised. They’ll move the missiles and find another way of getting them out of the country. So you see, if you don’t pull yourself together, I won’t leave you here to die. I will kill you myself.’

  He held the stock of the assault rifle over her. ‘Don’t make me do this. You either get up now or it’s over. You know I’ll do it.’

  He raised the weapon and aimed for her head, resigned to killing her. It seemed a terrible thing to do but the equation was simple enough. It was her or him. And she would probably die anyway, of exposure, or when she was caught.

  He looked towards the beach, gauging the distance to the ships. Perhaps he could get her on board. Hopper was doomed. The girl sat up and looked towards the water, her back to him. Like she didn’t know he was there. Stratton felt relief at his own reprieve as much as hers. She got to her feet, clutching the shirt to her, and walked to the water’s edge. She walked into the water up to her waist. She started to wash herself. She took a long drink and then doused her face and her arms and shoulders gently.

  She stopped what she was doing, lowered her head and began to cry again. He felt helpless and unable to offer any encouragement that might be of use to her. He decided to shut up and let her get on with it.