by Daniel Diehl
While Meles Zenobi argued with the border guard, Jason tapped Beverley on the arm and pointed to the distant horizon. There, beyond a billboard proclaiming that they were about to enter Djibouti, was the jagged skyline of a real city. There were even a few tall buildings reaching skyward, their bases rooted in a landscape sprinkled with dots of green. Even the road improved dramatically; only a few hundred feet ahead of them the bumpy, rutted dirt road was again replaced by a smooth, black ribbon highlighted by cheerful yellow lines. Unfortunately, as had happened earlier, the screaming match between Zenobi and the guard took a turn for the worse. As the tension built, Jason patted his pocket, reassuring himself that the Urim and Thummim were safe but he remained ready to drop them on the floor of the cab again if necessary.
Within minutes negotiations broke down and the guard pushed the barrel of a shiny new AK47 through the open window and against the side of Meles Zenobi’ face. The instant the rifle came up to eyelevel, Meles, Jason and Beverley’s hands shot into the air signaling their surrender and compliance. For nearly half an hour a gaggle of guards swarmed over, under and around the lorry. They banged on the tires, examined the undercarriage, pulled the seat loose from the floor and inspected every corner of the cargo area, opening the half-dozen small boxes it contained and scattering their contents across the floor. Even the tool box was overturned, its contents kicked across the floor of the cargo compartment. Finally, when they were convinced that Meles and his passengers were not conspiring to bring down the government of Eritrea with a tire iron they allowed them to return to the lorry and handed their passports to the driver. With a loud sigh of relief Meles passed Jason and Beverley their passports, rolled up the window and pulled forward.
“What the hell was that all about, Meles? This morning they thought I was a spy, now they didn’t give a crap about me, they only wanted to tear your truck apart.”
“They thought we were smuggling people out of the country. You see, no one is allowed to leave Eritrea. The government does not trust the people but it cannot allow them to leave; for if there were no people, then they would have no one to hate and oppress. Escape from Eritrea is punishable by imprisonment – sometimes for decades – but no one lives that long in an Eritrean prison.”
“That is just so sick.”
“True, Mr Jason, but it is a fact. It is best not to dwell on such depressing things. Let us now continue on to Djibouti.”
The broad smile returned to Meles’ elfin face as they rolled past the brightly colored sign which welcomed them to Djibouti in six different languages. And the further into the tiny city-state they drove the more impressed Beverley and Jason became. Wedged between the lawless anarchy of Somalia to the southeast, the crushing police state of Eritrea to the north, the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean to the east and Ethiopia – its closest ally - to the west, the Republic of Djibouti was the most cosmopolitan seaport in all Africa. Shipping tens of millions of tons of goods into and out of the horn of Africa, the port of Djibouti gave the immediate impression of being a place where ancient Africa collided head-on with the twenty-first century but where each tradition maintained a polite respect for the other.
As Meles navigated his way smoothly through the suburbs and into the heart of the metropolitan area, he swerved and dodged, ducking donkey carts, Rolls Royce and Mercedes limousines, caravans of bleating camels, sub-compact cars, herds of goats, taxi cabs and everywhere hoards of people scurrying into, and out of, thousands of tiny shops that lined every street and roadway. Where no store fronts were available, merchants simply pitched a gaudy umbrella on the sidewalk and hawked their wares from the tiny patch of shade. Neither Jason nor Beverley had ever seen so much commerce being carried out on so many levels; on the sidewalk in front of the local headquarters of international banks, jewelers and spice merchants appeared to be doing every bit as much business as the conglomerates towering above their heads.
“Get a lot of smuggling here, Meles?”
Meles threw back his head and roared with laughter. “I see you have already discovered the key to Djibouti’s success, Mr Jason. Yes, yes, this is where the Somali pirates come to sell their booty. It is also Ethiopia’s only port and thousands of ships from every nation pass through here every year, so it is hardly surprising that sometimes little things fall out of the ships’ holds and end up in the market place. It is also a good place for those, like yourselves, who find themselves in a less than comfortable position with the law.”
Jason shifted awkwardly in his seat before answering. When he finally spoke it was with an obvious effort to divert the subject from his fugitive status. “Yeah, well, umm, they must be doing something right here, because it sure looks happier than anyplace else I’ve seen in Africa.”
“Oh, my, yes. The people of Djibouti have very great success. And because Somalia and Eritrea both rely on Djibouti’s shipping port they do not attack it and keep away anyone who might interfere with Djibouti’s unique trade policies. This may be the safest place in the world.”
“I can see that” Jason said as he stared out the window ogling a sidewalk vendor standing next to a display of shimmering gold jewelry. With thousands of dollars in wares spread across a brightly stripped blanket the man was apparently unconcerned that he might be robbed by any casual passersby.
Meles gestured broadly toward the bright array of shops and stalls lining the streets in every direction for as far as the eye could see.
“I would love to take the time to show you around. I have a cousin here who could get you the very best deals on almost anything your heart might desire, but we must get to the sea front. My friend’s boat will be leaving with the evening tide and the next ferry to Yemen will not leave until the morning after tomorrow. If you do not go now you will be forced to remain here for another full day.” Then, after a pause “Of course, it is up to you.”
“No. No. We need to leave before the Ethiopian police decide to extend their search into Djibouti.”
“And of course, the ferry port would be the first place they will look. Which is why I arranged alternative transportation with my friend, Pierre.”
“Ok. So let’s go meet this friend of yours.”
The section of Djibouti’s harbor front allocated to the local fishing fleet stood only a fraction of a mile north of one of the vast, sprawling container yards where thousands upon thousands of twenty and forty foot shipping containers stood stacked in neat rows, towering four, five and six containers high, for as far as the eye could see. Now and again, a four-story-tall crane could be seen lifting a brightly painted container from the endless pile, swinging it out over the edge of a dock and lowering it gently into the hold of a waiting ship. Beyond the last crane, and the last row of containers, the paved road gave way to a wide gravel lane running parallel to the rocky shoreline.
Less than a mile from the container yard, jutting outward into the bay, pointing their slender bodies toward the late evening horizon, floated rows of wooden docks; and to each of these were tied several dozen small boats, some no more than a twelve foot motorboat and some as large as sixty feet in length. After pulling his lorry off the road, Meles jumped down from the cab and called for Jason and Beverley to follow. Minutes later they halted near the far end of a hundred-foot-long pier that bobbed and dipped with the gentle movement of the water. In front of them was a sixty foot wooden craft painted in the most tasteless combination of blues, greens and yellow that Jason could possibly imagine. From the rear deck sprouted two, thirty foot booms designed to lower fishing nets into the water.
Meles stood on the dock and called out a greeting once, and then a second time, before a head appeared in the pilot house towering high above the main deck. Following a quick wave, the man climbed down and marched across the deck to the railing, calling and motioning them to come aboard. As the distance between them closed, the man bounded down the gangplank grinning, before grabbing Meles in a massive bear hug. When Meles finally extracted himself from the embrace he stepp
ed back and motioned Jason and Beverley forward.
“This is my friend, Pierre Omar Ismail, the owner and captain of this fine ship. Pierre, this is Miss Beverley and Mr Jason; they will be making the crossing with you tonight.”
The tall, strikingly handsome man who smiled, bowed perfunctorily and shook their hands could not have been more than thirty years old and looked more Caribbean than African. His chiseled features and long, straight nose were set off by a massive mop of shoulder length dreadlocks that bounced and bobbed with the slightest movement of his head. When he spoke his accent held more than a trace of French.
“Welcome to my humble boat, Mademoiselle and Monsieur. Please to come aboard.”
“Pierre, I must leave now and I entrust these nice young people’s wellbeing into your care.”
Only one step onto the gangplank, the skipper turned around and stared at Meles. “You do not even stay long enough to share a cordial drink with us, Meles?” Clutching a hand to his chest in mock pain, he groaned “You strike me to the heart mon ami. What have I done to offend you so?”
While Jason and Beverley turned back to say goodbye to the man who had escorted them through the hostile wastes of Eritrea, Meles smiled, waved and nodded his head.
“I am so sorry, Pierre. I truly am, but I must return home and I want to stop at the cloth market and make purchases to pay for my trip.” Nodding and winking, he added “And I think a bolt of nice cloth for my wife would be a wise investment, as well.” Shifting his gaze to Jason and Beverley he winked again. “But I think I shall return home by way of Addis Ababa, don’t you agree?”
Remaining on the gangplank of the trawler until Meles retraced his steps halfway along the length of the floating dock, Jason and Beverley were prompted back to reality by Pierre’s voice descending from the deck above.
“Come, please. Allez, allez viens.”
Pointing to a cluster of folding lawn chairs scattered around the rear deck as he moved away from them, heading toward a low door beneath the pilot house, the captain instructed his passengers to make themselves comfortable. By the time he returned a few minutes later the ship’s engines were thrumming steadily, making the wooden deck vibrate gently.
“We will be leaving in a few minutes; I want to catch the crest of the evening tide.” Then, pointing toward a built-in bench along one gunwale he grinned and said “Under that cushion you will find many refreshing drinks; beer, wine, whatever. Help yourself, S'il vous plaît. I will join you once we are at sea.”
Grinning and nodding, Jason sprang from his seat and dove toward the cooler, extracting a beer for himself and a split of sparkling wine cooler for Beverley. Turning his head toward Pierre Ismail’s back as it descended the stairs, he shouted “Thanks much, captain, you’re a life saver.”
Twenty minutes later, after the sun had descended below the western horizon in a blaze of scarlet and orange fire, the boat backed out of its mooring and slipped alongside a rusty old freighter as it pulled out of the harbor, heading into the Gulf of Aden. Nearly an hour later the freighter started into a long, gentle turn to the south and the trawler separated itself from its escort, adjusting its course slightly toward the east-northeast. Now, traveling in almost total darkness, Captain Ismail turned on a small map light in the pilot house and a low wattage floodlight aimed toward the rear deck; a very small island of pale light in the immensity of a very dark ocean. After checking his watch, Ismail turned around, backed down the ladder and strode across the deck, extracting a bottle of dark red wine from the cooler and flinging himself into a deck chair with an audible sigh.
“So, Mademoiselle Beverley and Monsieur Jason, my dear friend Meles tells me you are having quite the adventure. Police chasing you, some secret dealings with the Coptic Church, dead bodies in hotels. Is this so?”
“Yeah, I’m afraid so.”
“Tres bienne. How MARVELOUS” Pierre shouted. “You must tell me all about it. I want all the details. But first, I see that the Mademoiselle’s drink is empty. Here, let me refresh you both and then you must tell me all of your great adventures.”
Over the next hour, with many diversions, switchbacks and sidetracks, Jason and Beverley offered a heavily expurgated version of how they came to be fugitives from the Ethiopian police. The disk and the Urim and Thummim were carefully left out and the gaps in the story did not fool their skipper for one minute.
“That is not, I think, quite all of the story, but I understand and respect your discretion.” Throwing his hands in the air in a sign of surrender and cocking his head to one side, he continued. “But, still, I think it must be a wonderful story if it put the much esteemed Fr Marcos so much into your debt that he arranged your escape.”
“You know Fr Marcos?”
“Let us say that I know of him. He is a Copt and I am Roman Catholic, but his reputation is known by everyone in the horn of Africa. He sees almost no one and grants favors to even fewer, so if he has helped you elude the police and smuggle you out of the country, you must be very important people, indeed.”
“Oh” Jason almost shouted, his mind spurred suddenly to action. “Excuse me for a minute, captain. I have to make a call to a friend.” Hoisting his tired rump from the chair he extracted his phone and switched it on, scrolling through his speed dial, searching for the land line at his flat.
“That will do you no good out here, Monsieur. There are no relay towers on the sea.”
“Damn.”
For the first time since Ismail rejoined them, Beverley spoke. “Just out of curiosity, how far out do you have to be before you start fishing, Captain Ismail?”
“S'il vous plaît, call me Pierre.” Offering a smile followed by a long pull on his bottle of wine, he added, almost as an afterthought. “And the answer to your question is that it depends upon what it is that I am fishing for.”
“And what are you fishing for tonight?”
“Tonight, Mademoiselle Beverley, I already have my catch.”
Now confused, Beverley looked at Jason who just shrugged and turned to stare at Ismail.
“I see you do not understand. My cargo tonight is you - both of you.”
As their host offered a toothy grin, tiny alarm bells started going off in Jason’s head. Was this man somehow one of Morgana’s agents? Were they being Shanghaied or kidnapped? Jason could feel his muscles tense, ready for whatever weird turn the situation might be about to take.
Laughing, Ismail raised his hands in the air, waving them back and forth.
“Please, Mademoiselle and Monsieur, do not be alarmed. Possibly you do not understand. Did Meles not explain to you?” Then, shaking his tousled head and rising from his seat, he continued. “Here, follow me, S'il vous plaît.”
Walking across the deck a few paces to a large hatch cover, Ismail raised the lid to expose the depths of the gaping, black hold of the ship and the first few steps of a ladder leading downward into the darkness. Stepping onto the ladder and descending a few steps he reached out and flipped a switch, illuminating the sixty-foot-long cargo hold.
“Come, come.” Not waiting for a response, he descended to the deck below. Hesitantly, Jason followed, determined that if he was forced to fight it would be a lot safer in an enclosed space where he could at least be assured that he wouldn’t wind up being pitched into the depths of the Indian Ocean. As his head descended to deck level, he whispered to Beverley. “You stay here. If this goes bad, you slam that hatch lid and don’t let him out.”
Below decks, the hold was lined from bow to stern with twin storage bins, one attached to each side of the ship’s hull. Between the bins ran a walkway just wide enough for a man to move the length of the ship. Each bin was piled high with ice packed tightly around thousands and thousands of fish.
“I don’t understand.” Jason looked up and down the hold. “Why didn’t you unload your catch in Djibouti?”
Smiling, Ismail pulled one of the fish out of the ice and tossed it to Jason. The fish had no weight and only a cursory e
xamination showed that it wasn’t a real fish at all, but a plastic stage prop.
“What the hell is this?”
Pierre Ismail chuckled and kicked the side of one of the bins which should have been filled with ice and fish. At the touch of his foot the sidewall of the bin popped open to reveal a vast, empty storage compartment running the length of the ship. While Jason stood staring in confusion, Ismail took the plastic fish from his hand, jammed it back into the ice and pointed toward the ladder.
“Please to proceed. I will follow.”
When they were back on deck and Ismail had refreshed their drinks, he explained.
“You see, like many men in Djibouti, I am a smuggler. Sometimes I move one thing, sometimes I move another. It all depends upon what is available and what needs to be moved from one place to the other.”
A small light bulb came on inside Jason’s head.
“Oh, now I see. The fake fish makes it look like you have a catch and you use the bins to hide your real stuff.”
“Close. You see, I never use the storage compartments either. They would be too easily discovered, n'est-ce pas? When the naval patrol stops me, the first place they search is the hold; they see instantly that the fish are not real, so then they look for secret compartments. So that I do not make them disappointed, I provide secret compartments for them to find. When they see that the compartments are empty, they go away and leave me in peace.”
Beverley’s brow wrinkled in confusion and Jason rubbed his temples. “Now I’m completely confused. So where do you put your real cargo?”
“In the fishing nets, but of course. That way I can haul my cargo beneath the boat and if I am intercepted I simply cut it loose and let it sink to the bottom rather than risk being arrested and possibly going to prison.”
“And they’ve never caught on?”
Ismail shrugged a great, Galic shrug. “It is a game. They play their part, I play mine, everyone is happy. The crime is not so much in smuggling, but in being stupid enough to get caught. So that is my story, and tonight you are my cargo. N'est-ce pas?”