He had nothing.
The dinghy slowed. Again, waves of panic came over him. He fought not to lose his wits. He could do this. Simon had survived two rounds. He could survive another.
This time as the ropes lost their tension Simon stayed close to the shark, pounding and pounding his elbows into its gills.
The shark thrashed, but it was losing its strength to fight. If the shark had been healthy from the start of this ordeal, Simon didn’t think he would have had a chance, but maybe, just maybe, he might defeat it.
Simon kept pounding, crushing the gills.
When the ropes went slack, the shark thrashed again, slapping Simon across his back with its tail, catapulting him in somersaults through the ocean. He felt like he had fallen three meters onto a polished concrete floor.
But now was not the time to allow the disorientation or distraction of his physical state to hinder him.
The shark circled, watched him its inhuman eyes, but didn’t come for him.
Perhaps it was waiting to catch its breath.
Perhaps Simon was a threat in its mind.
For thirty seconds, maybe a minute, they watched each other, both dancing underwater and sizing each other up.
He needed air again. Always air.
If he surfaced, the creature would come for him.
Simon waited, his lungs screaming.
He needed to surface.
He would die if he did and he would die if he didn’t.
Then the ropes began to tighten.
The shark lunged.
This was it. This was Simon’s last chance.
He swam at the shark, pushing his rope through the shark’s jaws.
The shark’s jaws began to close able to take a bite out of him. With just centimeters to spare, Simon felt the rope tighten as they the rope yanked them again.
They were being dragged through the water once more.
Air!
He needed air.
He pulled himself up, sucking in more oxygen, not believing that he had survived round three with no major injuries, riding on the belly of a dying shark as they tore through the clear blue waters.
Now he tugged, snapping his arms back and forth, in violent sawing motions. Again, and again, and again—
The rope snapped, and he fell far behind his adversary.
The shark’s teeth had done their job, cutting through the rope and unbinding him from his lethal foe.
CHAPTER 6
Simon swam fast to the water’s surface, then tread water so he could recover his breath.
He watched the dinghy speeding away, dragging the dying shark through the currents. He couldn’t believe he had escaped this nightmarish ordeal unscathed. From what Simon could remember, bull sharks were solitary animals, but that didn’t mean the blood in the water wouldn’t attract other sharks. There was nothing he could do about them and none were in sight, so he concentrated on his bigger issue. While the Islamic State terrorists might not have yet noticed he had come loose from his ropes, it was only a matter of time before they came looking for him.
He turned in a circle, searching for land. He could see none.
He could, however, see the Spinecutter, maybe five hundred meters distant.
Despite his exhaustion, he kicked off and swam as fast as his tired muscles allowed towards the trawler where Meinke and Ariana remained Alfaqri’s prisoners.
Ten minutes of furious but exhausted freestyle closed the distance. Soon he was near enough for any terrorists up on deck to see him, so he ducked low in the water and watched.
The Zodiac had returned. Alfaqri was on the Spinecutter yelling at the two men in the dinghy. The men looked terrified. The shark was not attached to the rope.
Alfaqri lifted a pistol. Bam! Bam! Shooting the two men in rapid succession, Simon could see the head of one and the chest of the other explode into chunks of red, pulpy meat. They feel, lifeless, into the water.
It seemed to Simon that the captain was unraveling.
He dived under, swimming deep, searching for the anchor chain. As he came closer, he spotted the bag he had tied there earlier, still containing the spear-gun. Detaching it he swam upwards, coming up at the transom once again. So far, no one had seen him. Once again he’d been lucky.
Preparing to climb onto the boat, Simon took the spear-gun from his bag and loaded a spear. He counted the spare spears, five in total. There was no easy way to carry them so they would have to remain in the bag which he slipped over his shoulder. That meant the spear-gun was a one-shot weapon. Not enough to take out the five remaining thugs should they rush him all at once, so his strategy would require stealthy, silent killings, executed one at a time.
While Simon treaded water, staying out of sight, he considered his predicament and options. The terrorists could not know whether he was alive or dead, they would only see that his body had disappeared during the ordeal with the shark. Most rational people would have presumed Simon had died — it was hard even for him to believe he had escaped unharmed — so why had Alfaqri shot his dinghy operators in anger when they were only following orders? Perhaps Alfaqri had wanted Simon’s severed hands as a trophy and a photo opportunity. Perhaps the shark had died from its wounds, and Alfaqri was losing face because he knew Simon had bested it, escaping an terrifying execution.
Having no way to know Alfaqri’s thoughts, Simon had to assume they presumed him alive, and the terrorists were still searching for him. Five was better than seven, but still terrible odds for Simon.
He heard shooting, the crack of a pistol firing.
A man screamed.
Simon climbed keeping himself as low as possible.
He saw one of the Venter sisters up on deck. She had the Glock 9mm he had left with Meinke on the beach and was firing controlled but continuous shots. Two of the men were cornered, and she was pumping them full of bullets. She impressed Simon with her accuracy. She kept shooting until she ran out of bullets.
That meant only three remained. His odds were improving.
One of the fallen men began to move. Even with a shattered leg bone showing sinew and ragged flesh where there should have been a knee, he crawled up behind the sister who Simon could now see was Meinke. The thug drew his curved Jambiya blade from the belt around his waist, pulling himself closer determined to impale her as his final act.
Simon grabbed the thug’s head in his two tense hands, twisting it until the neck snapped, and the corpse fell dead at his feet.
Meinke, again with her pale flesh spattered with the blood of dead men, was yet to notice Simon standing behind her. He raised the spear-gun again and was peering down the barrel like it was a telescopic sight. Simon almost called out, wanting to let her know that he had come back for them both. But he couldn’t give away the element of surprise. Alfaqri and the last of his underlings still waited somewhere out of sight on the boat.
Realizing she was out of bullets, Meinke dropped her weapon and fell to her knees, sobbing.
A hidden assailant saw his opportunity and rushed from below deck, an iron bar raised ready to beat Meinke to death.
Simon squeezed the trigger on the spear-gun. The silver shaft shot through the air, impaling the assailant in the chest. He too fell dead as he bounced off the deck to the water below.
Meinke turned. Her eyes and mouth wide in shock and disbelief. “Simon?”
His reassuring smile halted in its tracks, as Alfaqri materialized behind her. Sunlight glinted off the sharp, steel blade of the Jambiya now pressed against Meinke’s naked neck.
“My friend,” sneered the earless man. “No — you were right — we are not friends.”
Simon froze, assessing his options. He had no time to reload the spear-gun, and Alfaqri was too far distant to risk rushing over and wrestling him. Looking for weapons within easy reach, he found nothing.
“Alfaqri,” he called to his opponent. “I agree, but we don’t have to be friends to make a deal.”
“You are in no posi
tion to negotiate.”
Simon knew his next words were a risky gamble, but he also knew he had no other alternative but to bluff his way through. “I don’t see that you are in any more of a position to negotiate than I am.”
“That is a lie! I have the whore. What do you mean?”
“If you kill Meinke, you’ll have nothing left to bargain with. Nothing with which to make back your considerable losses on this venture.”
“You are wrong. I have the other whore.”
“Do you?” Meinke hissed without moving.
A look of confusion came over Alfaqri, then blood dribbled from his slackening mouth. His grip on Meinke lessened as his hands became loose and he dropped his precious blade.
Meinke stepped away from him, as shocked as Simon. Behind the Islamic State brute stood the battered form of Ariana. It had not been Meinke who had spoken, but her younger sister.
Simon ran toward his stricken enemy, unable to hold himself upright as blood gushed from him. Ariana had impaled a screwdriver into Alfaqri’s back, near his spine and close to where the heart pumped. Blood was flowing from the wound.
Simon punched Alfaqri hard in the skull, rendering him unconscious, maybe even dead. He didn’t care. Heaving up the body he found the strength to throw him into the ocean. Simon watched as the terrorist hit the waves, then surfaced again, inert and face down in the water. The body didn’t move as the current dragged it from the Spinecutter.
The two women collapsed into each other, hugging and sobbing.
“I will check the rest of the trawler, okay, just in case?”
Meinke was the only sister who looked up, acknowledging him with the slightest of nods. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Simon nodded, grabbing a fallen AK-47 from the limp hands of one man Meinke had gunned down. He checked the magazine for bullets then pulled back on the slide to chamber the first round. With the safety off, he searched the trawler from top to bottom. Satisfied no one else remained on board, he looked down toward the water, on the slim chance someone may hang off the side. There was nothing. He checked the Zodiac dinghy moored to the Spinecutter, but otherwise devoid of anything.
It was then that he spotted the shark’s corpse, floating some distance away in the lapping water. Its wounds had beaten it.
It was an odd feeling for Simon, to pity a predator like the shark, but he did. Unlike the Islamic State brutes who were sadistic sociopaths, the shark was nothing more than an innocent bystander in the wrong place at the wrong time. He knew it would have eaten him for lunch, given the chance, but that was an evolutionary survival tactic and nothing more. The creature was nothing like the betrayers of both Islam and humanity, those who supported the Islamic State.
Simon saluted the shark. He would make a toast to it later, when he had an opportunity for a well deserved, quiet drink in a bar back in Cape Town.
When Simon returned to Meinke and Ariana, they were standing, holding each other, waiting for him.
“All done?” Meinke asked.
“All done,” Simon replied. “We can go home now.”
She nodded. She didn’t smile like he did. After what they had both been through, he wondered how many years it would be before either of them could smile again.
“How are you holding up?” He didn’t know what else to ask.
She shrugged. “I don’t even know how to answer that.”
“What about Ariana?” He nodded towards the younger sister, her body pressed up against her sister, head buried in Meinke’s collarbone and her eyes screwed shut.
“She’s alive, and in one piece.”
Simon nodded. He wanted to say more, but knew anything he said would sound trite.
Ariana asked, “What happened to you? I thought they would execute you?”
With a cold shudder, he remembered the ordeal in the water, bound to a shark and fighting for his life. He wasn’t certain the sisters would believe him if he told them the truth. But this wasn’t about him. Despite his ordeal, he’d suffered minor trauma compared to the Venter sisters.
“Nothing of consequence,” he said. “I’m sorry it took so long to get back to you.”
“I know you did your best, Simon, so thank you.”
He nodded. Exhausted, they collapsed onto the deck. So he sat down next to them, keeping a small distance so as not to crowd Ariana, who seemed in shock. They all needed a moment to rest, to do nothing.
His gaze drifted out over the soothing, lapping waters. It was still and silent, except for their boat rocking amid the Indian Ocean. The gentle peace gave him space to make sense of what the hell had just happened. But what he wanted was to take his mind off everything. He didn’t need lasting memories of this encounter.
Meinke sung a foreign lullaby to her sister. It sounded African, rather than Afrikaans. Song parents sung to their children after they had experienced a vivid nightmare.
He shook his head, remembering why he was here. “No, Ariana, Meinke, thank you. You saved my life too.”
CHAPTER 7
Mpumalanga Province, South Africa
Several weeks later, Simon felt relaxed as he sat in his Toyota Land Cruiser, watching the early morning mists rise over the rocky savanna grasslands, dotted with the occasional acacia, baobab and thorn trees. The road he’d parked on was little more than a dirt track, far from the main arterials bringing locals and tourists alike to the canyons, trout fishing lakes and national parks of northeast South Africa. An isolated landscape just as Simon liked it.
It wasn’t long before he saw a Jeep tear down the road towards him. Peering through his binoculars, Simon checked the number plate. The vehicle belonged to Tristan Venter just as he had expected.
Simon started his engine and waited. When the Jeep was almost on top of him, Simon pulled out, forcing Venter to brake, churning up a large cloud of dust that competed with the mist and made visibility even more difficult.
Stepping from his car, Simon moved to the driver’s side of the stalled Jeep. Venter, as expected, was at the wheel on his own. He was a thin man, in his late fifties, balding, the hair that remained trimmed at the sides and back. His expression was both sad and worried, his shirt drenched in sweat. When Simon peered closer, he noticed Venter was fumbling with a small caliber pistol expecting this to be a random mugging.
“Tristan,” Simon beamed, as if it surprised him to see the property developer. “Imagine running into you, out here!”
“Simon?” When Venter registered who Simon was, he relaxed. A little relaxation suited Simon, but so was a little tension. He had intended his stunt to unsettle his former client.
Venter twitched as he returned his pistol to the holster under the steering wheel. Simon felt for the Glock 9mm pistol in his belt, hidden at the small of his back. Not that he expected to use it, he just wanted to know it was there.
“I take it this isn’t a random meeting?”
Grinning, Simon said, “No, you got me there, mate. I was in the area, so I thought I’d look you up. Wanted to see how Meinke and Ariana are coming along?”
Tristan Venter nodded. Simon could see that he was struggling to express his gratitude and sensed the man no longer wanted anything to do with him. “We have a family home out here. I thought it was best to get away from everything. Give my daughters the time to heal, in their own ways.”
“You’re a good man, Tristan.”
He climbed out of the vehicle. “Meinke seems back to her normal self again, but Ariana…” He almost sobbed. “She just sits there, on a cane chair on the porch, watching the grasslands. She doesn’t want to do anything… ever…” He crossed his arms, and a sob escaped his mouth. For a moment, Simon almost felt pity for him.
“I came to tell you about what happened afterwards,” Simon offered when the man composed himself.
“After what?”
“After all the terrorists were dead. Mate, I don’t think anyone told you what happened next?”
“I don’t remember, Simon. Tell
me again?”
Simon stared towards the horizon, searching for the herds of zebra and impala that wandered these lands. He saw nothing, just empty grassland and bush scrub and trees. The two men were alone together. “You know I scuttled the Spinecutter, sent it to the bottom of the seabed? The explosives I found onboard did the trick.”
“Yes.” Venter stared at Simon through red eyes. “Yes, I think you told me that.”
“I didn’t tell you what I discovered on board though.”
Tristan gazed out across the savanna grasslands, not wanting to make direct eye contact with the man who had put his own life at risk to rescue his daughters.
“I think you already know what it was.”
Venter said nothing. He just stood there, shaking, looking as guilty as a diabetic eating a donut.
“Assyrian contraband, Tristan, artifacts collected by the Islamic State to sell abroad, to fund their terrorist activities.”
“Are they still there, in the seabed?” He almost looked hopeful.
“No, Tristan — well, not for much longer.”
Venter didn’t want to ask, but he wanted to know the answer.
Simon had planned on telling him, anyway. “Gridley-Brooks and I contacted UNESCO, told them where the artifacts were, GPS coordinates and everything. They have an archaeological team there now, recovering everything they can. Those pieces will end up in museums in Europe. You’ll never see them.”
Tristan Venter shuddered, “Why would I want to see them?”
“Because you paid for them. They’re technically your property, right?”
This time Tristan looked at Simon. “How did you know?”
“Your client, Mr. Cheng Xuesen — who is being questioned by FBI agents in New York — was only interested in the real deal. Not fakes, not replicas, but real ancient artifacts. They raided his apartment in New York yesterday. The Aztec decor, they were real Aztec artifacts, bought off the black market from smugglers operating out of Guatemala. That’s what you were doing for him here, purchasing illicit Assyrian artifacts, for the property you were building him in Johannesburg.”
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