The Gardener

by Tony Masero

  The emptiness sets in.

  Mechanically, he changes his clothes. Returns the artillery to the holdall. Mops the kitchen floor clean of mud, rinses out the mugs. Smiles at his own domesticity. Would have amused Justine too.

  Justine. His mind retracts.

  He still cannot believe he will never have her near again. Touch her. Be inside her. Feel her soft limbs encompassing him. The smell of her brown skin and hair is still fresh in his mind. But that body has gone.

  The emptiness subdues him with its realization. A person so alive in his mind still. It is incongruous, this hollowness. His loss.

  It was this loss that had finally decided him to quit the army. Until then, he had lived for it. Determined. Hardheaded and committed. Striving only to succeed.

  Then he had met Justine. She changed everything. Insinuating herself gently into his set attitudes. Opening up new ways for him to look at his life. It was the first time anyone had understood him so well. Their accord had been total. He could not pull a trigger so easily after that experience, though. It might be another man’s Justine that he widowed.

  They had both been army, so the separations were understood. It made the returns that more enjoyable. She understood his need to wind down after an operation. She gave him space. Smoothed the jagged edges. And he fell into her empathy with all the hunger of a thirsty man reaching an oasis. It had felt good having something to live for. To come back for. Three years. That was all they had. Just three lousy years. No. Not lousy. Glorious.

  But he wants her back. The ache will not go away.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Mungo Star holds a steady sixteen knots on her southerly course. Her cargo decks are piled high with a mountain of forty-foot containers. Built in 1993, she is a long-haul feeder ship well used to trafficking in the more obscure parts of the world, and her captain, James Harrington, is as experienced as the vessel he commands. A craggy, white bearded old sea salt, he controls the 5,000 TEU monster with a firm and steady hand.

  A clear night. The storm over Europe has run its course and been left far behind. A bright moon cuts the black waves with a hard light and casts a long sheen off to an empty horizon.

  Captain Harrington looks down from the bridge house over the hundred and twenty units and wonders briefly at the lethal firepower it represents. The shipping agent has insisted on an armed security unit for their protection. A batch of ten men, with the rugged stamp of mercenaries, is quartered in the deck housing with a supply of soft porn DVDs and beer. Occasionally, they patrol the companionways with a bored unexpectant air.

  His crew of Indians, mostly from the continent’s southern states, keep to themselves and go about their business with familiar lethargy. There is an air of mild tension about the big ship, though, mainly, he realizes, from the grapevine knowledge of her cargo and the presence of the security men. But there is a fair wind out of Africa and he hopes to make port safely in good time.

  Tonight’s curry rumbles warmly in his stomach.

  Pity about old Sri. He had been a good cook. Still, this new fellow seems pretty adequate. Few different uses of spices had made for an interesting dinner this evening on the mess deck. Captain Harrington sips his cocoa and settles into the command chair comfortably. It is quiet up here with very little to do as the ship ploughs on under computer controlled instruction. Just the basic bridge crew keeping an eye on things. He likes this time the best.

  Pain. A sudden stab in his side. Captain Harrington twists in his chair with an involuntary groan. Again. Like a tangled chain. He doubles up as the pain stabs viciously. The china mug drops from his fingers and shatters on the deck. A fire seems to be exploding throughout his entire stomach. “You alright, Captain?” The First Officer moves over beside him. Harrington bites back another cry. “No. Take over will you. I have to go below.”

  “Aye, sir. You need the doctor?”

  “I’ll be alright. Just a bit of tummy trouble.” He staggers to his feet and hunches over. He clutches at the seat as a final spike of agony runs through him.

  “Oh, my God!” Embarrassingly, he voids himself in his pants.

  The watch crew run over, but back off quickly at the stink. “Terribly sorry.” Another bout of pain cuts off the captain’s apology. He falls to his knees. It is like water gushing from him. One of the bridge crew gives a cry. They all spin around as the crewman doubles over and vomits.

  Harrington looks up gauntly at the First Officer. Hunched over in his own mess, Harrington shivers uncontrollably, his face as pale as his beard. “Food poisoning, Number One,” he whispers hoarsely. “Alert the Medical Officer.” The First Officer picks up the hand set. Keys the button. Sweat starts to bead his face. He falters, clutching at his mid-section and sucking air as the pain strikes.

  Within half an hour, eighty-five percent of the crew are totally incapacitated.

  The Algerian cook moves swiftly through the housing levels on his way to the communications room.

  Along his route is the evidence of his ministrations, hanging onto stanchions or hurrying, crouched over, along mired corridors. Men stagger awkwardly, wincing in pain as they try to reach a toilet before the dam breaks.

  The captain’s despairing command for an SOS call to be issued and the shipping agent to be advised never happens. The two duty officers on station squirm in a torture of agony as they try to fulfill the order. It is easy work for the Algerian. Coldly and with the expertise of long practice, he pushes heads forward and drives the needlepoint of a long ice pick deep into the base of the each man’s skull. Death is instantaneous.

  Punching in digital wavelengths, he broadcasts in accented English, “Come in Lunchbox. Come in Lunchbox. This is container ship Mungo Star transmitting. Message from Captain’s cabin. Dinner is served. Repeat, dinner is served and your presence requested.”

  There is a crackle of static. Then loud and clear, “Lunchbox receiving. Arriving soon. Repeat, arrival imminent.”

  “Understood. Mungo Star out.”

  Dragging the two bodies from sight, the cook locks the door and leaves to explore the security quarters. Cracking open the cabin door, the sound of groaning and the feral stench tells him his tainted curry has been an equal success there as well.

  Moving up to the deserted bridge, it takes him some time to find the control panels for the deck lighting. Luckily, all the panels are clearly marked. Floodlights blaze on, bathing the container units in a harsh light. He is interrupted by a crewmember bursting onto the bridge. He has to be one of the crew either on a duty shift or choosing to avoid the meal. A handful will still be functioning. It was expected.

  “What is happening?” the man cries distraught. “The engine room staff are all sick. I couldn’t get through on the intercom. Is it plague?”

  “Don’t worry, my friend,” replies the cook. “I have sent an SOS. Help is on the way. See, the deck lights will guide them in.”

  The man turns to stare out of the windows. The cook eases the ice pick from his belt and moves in.

  Two security men patrolling at the prow of the ship blink as the lights come on.

  “What the...” Louis Carter jumps in surprise, backing away at the sudden glare.

  “Must be checking the spots,” answers his companion, Greg Miller. Carter and Miller have both served together before. Both befriended each other as orphans at Dr. Barnado’s, and then served as part-time soldiers in the Territorial Army. They are the two youngest members of a club of mercenaries that operates out of the UK. Taking on missions where and when the fancy takes them. Neither is particularly experienced, having seen only short terms of active service in Bosnia. A messy business they had both soon decided was better left alone. But the money is good, and this particular security job had seemed like an easy call.

  “I dunno. What the hell they want to check them out now for? Something’s up. I’m checking in.” Carter, the more responsible of the two, keys his ear mike.

  “Command, this is Patrol One. What’
s happening back there? Why the lights?”

  Nothing. He tries again. Static answers. Then a weak voice. “Patrol One. This is Command. Get back here. We’ve got a situation.”

  “What situation?”

  Anger. “Fuck it! Will you just do as you’re told, Carter? Get back here now! We’ve all down with the raging shits.”

  Miller looks at Carter. “Did he say what I think he said?”

  Carter grins. “It’s the old Montezuma’s Revenge. The buggers have crapped out.” They both laugh as they make their way down the companionway alongside the looming containers. They are almost at the deck housing when Miller catches Carter’s arm. “Hold up,” he says cautiously.

  “What?” Carter turns.

  “I dunno.” He pauses. “Just go easy. I got a feeling.”

  Although inexperienced, the two have seen enough to trust their senses. Carter nods and raises the Heckler Koch machine pistol he carries. “Okay, mate. I take your word for it.”

  It is then they hear the rotors.

  Habid Hamid narrows his eyes and squints into the distance. His smooth features reflect the gleam from the distant blossom of light. Their target, the lit container ship is clearly visible through the Plexiglas bubble of the helicopter. Behind him a band of armed followers sit waiting in the darkness.

  He turns and waves at them. “Be ready, my brothers,” he shouts over the noise of the rotors.

  A second helicopter hovers on Habid’s starboard side. The dark beast gleaming in the moonlight. They are ready. He taps the pilot on the shoulder and the two helicopters angle forward as they accelerate towards the isolated ship.

  As Habid abseils down and his feet touch the rust streaked roof of one of the container units, he feels a thrill surge in his breast. Success. I own an army. Beneath my feet are the seeds of many deaths. It is the avenging sword in my hand. Our holy crusade begins here.

  Below them, Miller and Carter crouch in the shadows, watching the raiders descend with practiced discipline. Carter is frantically trying to make contact with his command.

  “Command. Come in Control. Patrol One. We have unknowns coming in. It’s a bust. Repeat. It’s a bust. Instructions?”

  It is a while before he gets an answer. “Patrol One. Command.” The man is gasping out the words. Struggling to speak. “We’re fucked back here. They’ve got us all down with poison or something. Do what you can.”

  “Command. What do you mean? Do what we can. We’re on our own out here!”

  “Just do it. That’s what you’re paid for. Hold them until we can get it together here.”

  “Oh, right! There’s about fifty of them and just us two. You’ve got to be bleeding nuts.”

  “Do what you can, son.” They hear an agonized groan and the contact is cut off.

  Miller turns to Carter. “They’re not the only ones in deep shit. We’re in it here too.”

  Carter shrugs. What can you do? Decide. “You take the left side and I’ll take the right.”

  They break and run to port and starboard of the vessel. Above them, shadowy figures slide over the edge of the stacked containers, finding their way like spiders down to the deck. Miller steps out into the port companionway. Fires. A long burst. Repeated flashes in the darkness. Two of the invaders tumble. Spin away, screaming. The rest fade into cover. Ricochets stream off container walls in sheets of sparks. Snatched fire is returned. Miller finds cover in a shadowy stairwell and sinks down.

  Carter slides around a corner panel on the opposite side. Before he can fire a round, a black clad figure sees his moving shadow. Sights on him from behind the deck cranes positioned above. The deck around Carter is patterned in a sudden rain of erupting metal. Staggering, he falls back. Drops. Extremities quivering. The merciless firing continues to pour down until he spreads like a wet sack and lies still.

  Like shadows the invaders advance. Covering each other. Moving from darkness to darkness. They are everywhere. Miller squeezes into his narrow hide. He is firing desperately now. Blindly. Into the blackness at the foot of the stacked containers. It is a lost battle. Panting in fear. Ejects an empty magazine. Fumbles with a new one. He is taken by a figure he never sees.

  Like a whisper the assassin glides up beside Miller. The automatic brushes the side of Miller’s head. The man pulls the trigger. Miller never knows what hits him.

  Within an hour the ship is secured. There is little resistance. The healthy crew on watch are either dispatched or taken prisoner. All remaining living members of the crew are forced into an empty wardroom. A nod is all it takes. The execution is swift and complete. The bodies are piled high.

  Habib sits in the command chair so recently vacated by the captain. His long fingers stroke his chin. Thoughtful for a moment. “One of you,” he says over his shoulder without turning, “Clean this stink up. Then, let us turn this vessel to its new course.”

  Chapter Twelve

  McBraith is having a mild sexual fantasy.

  Open-plan office. Gray decor. Busy, busy. Silently observing from behind his executive glass partition. Amidst the daily office hustle, he watches a young temp feeding a photocopier. His eyes glaze. The girl wears a very short skirt. Bends. Extracts a paper refill from the cupboard beneath the machine. McBraith breaths a long sigh.

  “Finished?” Anne Longridge. Behind him. Eyebrow arched disdainfully.

  McBraith spins the office chair around. Faces her. “Mmm? Yes, Anne. What’s up?” All innocence.

  “I think you’d better see this.” She hands him a faxed message. “It just came in from our shipping agent in Lisbon.”

  McBraith takes the page casually between two fingers. “Like the suit,” he says smiling at her, studying her slender form encased in dark blue. It is a ‘forgive me’ look. Boys will be boys.

  But it won’t wash. “You’d better read it,” she says coldly.

  He scans the page. “No reply to scheduled radio calls. Not on course. What the hell does this mean?” Now he is alert.

  “It means your ship’s gone walkabout.” There is a degree of pleasure in her voice. Payback for his errant eye.

  “Get them on the phone. Now!”

  She sits on the corner of his desk making the connection. Hikes her skirt up a fraction. McBraith ignores her. Mind elsewhere. Racing. The first delivery. Gone astray! Mtubu has made his down payment. Fifty-percent up front. That’s a lot of money. How to play for time? The warlord won’t like it.

  “senhor Oliviera for you.” She hands him the phone.

  “Oliviera, McBraith here. What’s this all about?”

  “Mr. McBraith we’ve lost all contact with the ship. We are all very concerned here. I’m afraid things do not look too good.”

  “Is this a mechanical problem, an accident, a sinking? What are we talking about here?”

  “No, the ship is still afloat. We have report of a sighting not an hour ago. The thing is, Mr. McBraith, she is steaming in the opposite direction. She has reversed her course.”

  “You mean away from her port of call in Africa?”

  “Sem, senhor. Yes. Yes. That is correct.” Oliviera is obviously distraught. The line is perfect and McBraith can hear every tense breath the man takes. “Our other ship, the sister container vessel, out of Hamburg, the Nautico, could raise no answer ship to ship. Everything seemed okay. There were people moving on deck. No sign of trouble. But they just would not respond. Everything would seem to indicate a... a... how do you say it? A hijacking.”

  “Hijack!”

  “Mr. McBraith, I have alerted all international maritime agencies. Considering her cargo, I thought it the wisest thing to do.”

  “Yes, of course, senhor Oliviera. You did the right thing.” McBraith taps the desktop impatiently. “Tell me, how is our insurance on this sort of thing?”

  “Well, Mr. McBraith. As you requested, we only have minimal cover on this shipment. The collective premium, you remember, was excessive. We have only limited recompense, I fear.”

  M
cBraith remembers his decision. A volatile cargo. The insurance costs would have cut profit to the bone. He had kept the cover to the minimum necessary under maritime law. There was no way it would cover Mtubu’s deposit. He has the cash safe, but now he is remembering Mtubu’s threat.

  “We must make contact, senhor Oliviera. At all costs. If this is piracy, perhaps they will negotiate.”

  Oliviera sighs deeply. “There is also another consideration, Mr. McBraith. We should consider terrorism. If that is so, they will be only interested in the cargo. Nothing else.”

  McBraith hesitates. Now that is a dire thought, isn’t it? “True. You have a suggestion?”

  “Could we possibly advise representatives of countries with a vested interest? The United States, your own Great Britain. They have the means to overcome such an eventuality.”

  “Perhaps...” McBraith is thinking fast. “Perhaps we should hold fire on that for the present.” Don’t want the bloody Foreign Office sticking their nose in here, it’ll mean kickbacks to God knows who in the Cabinet if they get their sticky fingers involved.

  “Hold fire? I’m sorry what does this mean?”

  “Oh, my apologies. An expression. What I mean to say is that we should wait and have some confirmation as to what’s actually taking place here before we involve the government. After all, there might be some simple explanation. Don’t you think?”

  Oliviera sounds doubtful. “As you wish, Mr. McBraith. Perhaps so.”

  “Very well. You’ll keep me informed, please.”

  “The minute we hear anything, we shall, of course, let you know.”

  McBraith hangs up realizing he is out on a limb. Anne is watching him closely. “What?” McBraith says pointedly.

  “Nothing, Charles. Nothing at all. Would you like some coffee?”

  “I think something a little stronger is called for.”