by Greg Barron
Again the engine revolutions build to a roar, the deck vibrating. The chain begins to move as the anchor winch engages. Looking back at the tug, he sees the huddled, frightened faces, almost disappearing as yet another wave engulfs the stern.
Now, however, the chain tightens and the tug begins to spin. Simon sees how sensible this approach is: already the crew of the other boat are protected by the raised bow. Now Simon feels real movement in the hull.
Ishmael appears, his face sullen and dark. ‘My brother told me to tell you that we are making better than one knot over the ground.’
Simon sees just the faintest curl of water against the other vessel’s bow and hears subdued cheering. ‘Thank you.’
‘So, Englishman,’ Ishmael goes on, ‘what do we do now? We have rescued a boat load of fanatics — what do we do with them?’
Simon turns and grins. ‘As soon as we are away from this damn rock I will go aboard and get my daughters, after that the rest of them can drown in the sea as far as I care.’
Two nautical miles from al-Kahf, the two hulls rafted up, fenders squeezing with the compressive force of the sea like fat sausages. The crew lines the rail, seven strong, the most unlikely terrorists Simon has ever seen: bedraggled and confused, yet happy to be alive. He is first aboard the Sa-baah, clambering over the gunwales, accepting thanks and tears, men bowing and embracing him as their rescuer.
The captain, better dressed than the others, has a hint of the Orient in his eyes, a maroon turban tied low and decorated with a cut-glass ornament.
Simon greets him with a handshake. ‘I am looking for two girls. Where are they?’
The captain looks confused and raises three fingers. ‘Three, but one is much older than the others.’
Kelly, of course. How might she have fared at the hands of her captors? After all, she is a very pretty young lady. Simon’s anger returns in an impatient wave. ‘Where are they?’
‘Gone.’
‘Gone where?’
A shrug of the shoulders, then a long explanation that they are mere hired crew, and do not know who they are working for — only that the owners have a ready supply of cash and carry weapons. All wear long beards. The crew were unaware that the three females were captives, having seen them on deck for short, supervised intervals.
A fast boat, a large kind of inflatable called a RIB, Simon gathers, met with the Sa-baah in darkness the previous night, removing the three females and all the owners. Before they left, someone opened the diesel tank drain cocks and left the vessel without fuel and therefore power, as well as damaging the radios. Though the long-range HF set had proved impossible to repair, the engineer had managed to patch up the VHF and send out the Mayday.
Simon bends almost double to navigate the narrow corridors below the tug’s deck, careful of pipes and bunched wires. He thinks of how Hannah, particularly, must have hated it here — she of the bright open spaces and sunshine. An iron door creaks open to reveal a cabin that consists of four walls with a pair of portholes, firmly closed. On the floor lie three filthy foam mattresses and a mess of sheets and blankets.
Simon sinks to his knees on the scattered bedding, flaring his nostrils as if he might detect the scent of innocent girlhood beneath the harsher scents of rusted metal, engine oil, and bilgewater. Frustration builds in him. Frances and Hannah have been here, slept here — wept here. He falls to his knees and begins to search. There is nothing obvious, nothing in the open.
Hannah and Gretel. Hannah and Gretel. Clever girl. Where did you hide it?
Under the filthy blankets, and into the dark corner. Running his hand over the greasy flaked steel plate. Something sharp butts into the heel of his hand. He holds it up to the light.
Another charm, this one the grisly visage of a skull. He remembers how Isabella did not want Hannah to buy it, calling it macabre. The child, however, prevailed, and it was hers. Simon lifts it to his lips and kisses the cold surface.
Day 4, 19:00
Dusk. Travelling at speed on a smooth section of road, head lolling with the curves, the crackle of automatic gunfire jolts Marika awake. Sitting up, she sees two or three brilliant muzzle flashes from broken cover on the left-hand side of the road. The technical ahead lurches and stops, steam jetting from under the bonnet. Her own vehicle swerves to avoid the other, losing grip and sliding for one terrifying moment before scudding to a halt.
Someone swears, already returning fire, the DShK machine gun stuttering from above, seeming to rob the air of oxygen. Bullets thud into the doors and chassis of their vehicle. Marika hears shouted instructions. One of the men grabs her arm, dragging her out of the vehicle into the swirling dust and smoke outside.
Even as she follows the crouching gunman across the road, Marika studies the mechanics of the ambush. As far as she can see there must be only a handful of attackers, yet they show signs of training, conserving ammunition and preventing their weapons from overheating by firing short, controlled bursts.
Behind a small hillock, Marika’s guard urges her to the ground, his rifle held flat. Her breath comes hard, even though they have run just a short distance, and she knows that this is one of the debilitating effects of being under fire, what some of her instructors called the adrenalin factor — a feeling that cannot be simulated under training conditions.
One vehicle has been destroyed, decimating their complement and perhaps compromising their ability to win through to the mountains. Her hand curls in annoyance, reaching down to press against her aching bladder. Just a short time ago things were proceeding well. Turning to the guard, who has a rudimentary grasp of English, she asks, ‘Who are they?’
‘Shifta. They … after the guns, may God … curse them.’
Marika thinks back on Dalmar Asad’s conviction that the shifta would not dare attack them. Maybe they’re not such bloody cowards after all.
The wooden stock of a rifle appears out of the darkness, swinging in a wide arc as if of its own volition, smacking into the side of the guard’s head with the crack of a breaking tree branch. He utters no sound, falling almost gently to the earth.
Already she is responding, reaching for her sidearm, rolling onto her back to clear her field of fire. She brings her gun hand up, staring at the killer, expecting him to attack her before she can get the shot away.
‘Stop, do not shoot! It’s me.’
Marika blinks, as if to clear a vision. ‘Bloody hell! Madoowbe, is that you?’
‘Yes, now hurry. Follow me.’
‘What in Christ’s name do you think you’re doing?’ She struggles for breath, indignation building.
‘Nothing in Christ’s name. I do not act in the name of religion.’
‘Good for you. I had a freaking escort ten minutes ago in case you didn’t notice what they were doing before you decided to kill half of them.’
‘Leave it. We must hurry — already they are regrouping.’
Marika, seeing no alternative, follows, her voice louder now, muffled by the firefight occurring around the vehicles. ‘By morning I would have had her, you interfering idiot.’
Madoowbe turns, and she sees that one eye is still swollen, the socket dark with bruises. ‘What should I have done — stopped your friends and asked them? How was I to know that they were not taking you out to kill you?’
Marika is about to offer a reply when she sees the outline of a motorcycle under the tangled canopy of a thorn tree. ‘You want us both to travel on that?’
‘It is all I have.’ He hurries to the machine, straddles it and kicks the starter several times before the engine fires.
‘You weren’t alone back there,’ Marika observes, crossing her arms and making no move to follow him. ‘Your friends — where the hell did you find them?’
‘After I saw your column leave the compound I went to a cafe in Bacaadweyn. I made a deal with some bandits. They want the guns and vehicles. If they can get them.’ He lifts his head and appears to listen, even over the rattle of the motorcycle engine
. ‘They have stopped fighting; we had better hurry. Get on.’
Shaking her head at her own bad fortune, Marika sits on the hard and narrow pillion, tense with anger, bladder pain, and the after effects of being shot at. ‘Jesus Christ, I hate you.’
‘Will you please stop saying that?’
‘Only if you stop being such a pain in the arse.’
‘Put your arms around my waist, and hurry.’
‘Do I have to?’
‘If you do not want to fall off, yes.’
As soon as her fingers link together the machine roars off over the sand, overloaded and unsafe, it seems to Marika. ‘Next time you want to rescue someone, ask them first, for God’s sake,’ she says into his ear. The road looms ahead, and the bike crests a hillock on the verge before gathering pace on the loose dust of the road surface. A pale crescent moon is out, along with a multitude of stars in an otherwise jet black sky.
‘Next time I will not bother.’
They ride in silence for a minute or so before she speaks again. ‘Where did you get this piece of shit from, anyway?’
‘I stole it.’
‘Where from?’
‘Out the back of a repair shop.’
‘That’s stupid — how do you know it’s not totally stuffed?’
‘She is running, is she not? And has started every time. Eventually.’
As Madoowbe increases speed, Marika looks back, noting the vehicle headlights not far behind. ‘Bugger. Looks like they’re back on the road.’
Marika wonders if Captain Wanami will have the stomach to return and tell his boss that they have lost her. No, he will do everything in his power to get her back. This thought is shattered by a burst of heavy machine-gun fire as the technical accelerates.
‘Don’t just sit there,’ Madoowbe cries. ‘You have your gun. Shoot them.’
Unclipping the Glock from the holster she pulls back the slide to push a round into the chamber, then turns to aim at the pursuing vehicle. When she pulls the trigger there is a click as the mechanism slides through, but no discharge. She tries again. Nothing.
‘Damn it!’ Bringing the gun back she works the action and tries again. Still nothing.
‘What’s wrong?’ Madoowbe shouts.
‘My gun,’ she cries. ‘Dalmar Asad must have taken out the firing pin. Damn the bastard.’
With an angry flick of her arm, Marika throws the useless weapon out into the night.
‘The rifle on my back,’ Madoowbe urges. ‘Unstrap it.’
‘How am I supposed to do that?’
The back wheel of the bike hits a powderpuff of dust and wriggles across the track. Recovering from the momentary lack of balance, Marika lifts the weapon over Madoowbe’s shoulders, gripping the machine with both knees like a rodeo rider while she does so. ‘Lift your arm, for God’s sake, it’s in my way,’ she calls, risking a glance back, seeing the headlights of the technical gaining, another behind it. A burst from the MG sees tracer rounds arc towards them through the darkness.
Now the weapon is free, however, and even as it comes into her hands Marika recognises the familiar balance, the user-friendly feel of the most popular small arm in the world. Designed by Mikhail Kalashnikov, and designated the AK47, for seventy years it has been beloved of terrorists, mercenaries, Third World armies, reactionaries and screenwriters the world over. This one is well worn, with a wooden stock polished from constant handling over many years. Someone has carved words in Arabic on the stock, like school children might on a desk.
Drawing back the charging handle, she feels a round click into the chamber, then moves the selector to the lowest position, knowing that there is no point spraying rounds all over the place. Turning, bracing herself against Madoowbe’s back, she lifts the weapon to her shoulder and lines up the peep, attempting to focus on the windscreen.
Both vehicles move so erratically it is possible only to draw a bead in the general direction and wait for the target to bounce into view. About to pull the trigger, she stops, lowering the weapon.
‘Hold on,’ she says, ‘these guys were helping me not long ago …’
‘Trust me, we have no choice. Do you really think Dalmar Asad is going to hand Sufia Haweeya over to you? No, he will use her as a bargaining chip with the West. That is how he operates — I have found out much about him. Besides, these three technicals would never have got you through the mountains. People hate Dalmar Asad. By tomorrow you would be dead.’
‘Even so, I don’t know. If we surrender now, I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t kill me.’
‘No,’ Madoowbe cries, ‘but they will kill me. Worse. They will roast my testicles before my eyes. I am fond of my testicles. Shoot, and hurry, before it is too late.’
Machine-gun fire stitches its way across the road ahead of them. Passing bullets whip through the air.
‘Hurry.’
Marika raises the rifle again, first settling the peep on the driver, and then the man beside him, waiting for the aim to come true. It seems to her that the passenger must be Captain Wanami — surely he would have changed vehicles and this is where he prefers to sit. Her finger tightens on the trigger. This is a cruel man, one who hurt her physically more than once. Surely he deserves to die? Still she cannot bring herself to kill him, switching her aim to the front passenger-side tyre. She fires twice. The reaction is immediate — the vehicle swerves towards the road verge, where it stops. The other vehicle pauses beside it for a moment, then continues on, now staying back a respectful distance.
‘Good shooting,’ Madoowbe shouts.
‘Thank you, just one of my many talents. You know … a modern girl and all that.’ In an effort to mould her body to the fast moving bike she feels her ankle contact red-hot metal and stifles a yelp of pain.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yeah, just the exhaust pipe. They’re gaining on us. Can’t this thing go any faster?’
‘I’m trying. Stop chattering and let me concentrate.’
The motor, however, is erratic, racing one moment and dawdling the next. The remaining vehicle surges closer, and Marika takes the opportunity to lift the rifle to her shoulder. She fires two short bursts, aiming at the engine block, a much clearer target at a distance than tyres. Despite seeing sparks as bullets strike in the correct area, her efforts seem not to impede the vehicle’s progress.
‘You were just now boasting about your marksmanship,’ Madoowbe complains.
‘Shut up, damn you. If it wasn’t for you I’d be half asleep, on my way to pick up our target.’
‘If it wasn’t for me you would be dead on the side of the road when Dalmar Asad’s thugs decided they didn’t like where they were going.’
‘That’s your opinion. Anyway, you’re the big SAS man. Why don’t you stop and shoot them yourself?’
‘What I told you about being in the SAS was not strictly true,’ he grunts. ‘I was in the infantry for a time, but I have never been SAS.’
‘You lied to me?’
‘Yes. I wanted to come with you.’
‘Have you ever parachuted before?’
‘Never.’
‘You seemed to know what you were doing.’
‘I Googled how to do it before we left. There is a Wikipedia article that goes into great detail …’
‘Shit. There’s three billion men in the world and I had to get lumped with you.’ Marika lifts the assault rifle and fires again, this time rewarded with a plume of white steam from the vehicle’s radiator.
‘That’s better,’ Madoowbe offers, ‘but it does not seem to be slowing them down.’
‘No? Look.’
The vehicle appears to falter, but remains on their tail, spewing steam like a fountain.
‘It can’t last — they’ll overheat, surely.’
As if in response to that observation, the machine begins to fall back. Marika’s last glimpse is of men tumbling from the vehicle, one lighting a cigarette, another gesticulating wildly.
Marika needs al
l her self-control to wait until they have put the technical several kilometres behind them. ‘Stop the bike now, please,’ she says.
‘Why? We should travel as far as we can while we have the opportunity …’
‘Shut up, Madoowbe. If you don’t stop you’re gonna get a wet arse, and I’m going to need a change of underwear. Get it?’
The Somali says nothing, but swings the bike over to the verge. Marika steps off and, hobbling like a cripple, ducks behind the nearest bush, just managing to get her trousers off in time to enjoy the most beautiful relief she can remember.
Lubayd agrees to pump two hundred litres of diesel into the other boat’s tanks — enough for them to reach the Somali port of Raas Binne — only when Simon offers to pay for it. The refuelling process requires a long black hose snaking between the two vessels, thirty minutes of intense manoeuvring and men standing by with boat hooks. Finally, the Sa-baah steams away, manned by a somewhat more cheerful crew. When they have gone, Simon sits in the saloon, head in his hands, knowing that now, on the cusp of finding Hannah and Frances, the search has become more difficult than ever.
Ishmael disappears into his cabin, and when he returns the smell of hashish smoke wafts up behind him. Eyes red and pupils tiny as pinpricks, lips puffy and motionless, he broods over a mug of mint tea for some minutes before lifting his head to speak to Lubayd as if Simon is not present. ‘At last, that foolishness is over. I say we drop the Englishman on the main island as was the original plan. We owe a man who pulls a gun on us nothing.’
Lubayd, ignoring his brother, fixes his eyes on Simon. ‘You heard the crew of that tug. Your daughters’ captors took a fast boat. There are many islands — we cannot search them all. They could have met a float plane, a tanker. Anything.’
‘No. If they were going to rendezvous with another vessel or aircraft, why would they have sailed so far? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Lubayd! Think straight!’ Ishmael cries. ‘Do not listen to his clever fabrications. Take the money now and set him ashore. Anywhere. There has been nothing but risk for us since we brought him aboard. Let that be the end of it.’