by Seeley James
Pia felt a hard tug at her ankle and looked down.
A slipknot in a rope led from her ankle to the outboard motor. The coxswain threw the motor overboard. The rope zipped over the pontoon. Pia reached for the fallen knife. The sinking motor pulled the slack out of the line. Her fingertips touched the knife. The knot tightened on her ankle and yanked her overboard.
No knife.
She flew into the water as the line went taut. She turned and dove straight down, swimming for all she was worth, trying to get ahead of the rope. If she could catch some slack, she could untie the knot before the dead weight dragged her to the bottom.
This far out, Pia figured the bottom could be anywhere from forty to a hundred feet. The motor hit bottom and the line jerked against her ankle. She was closer to the ocean floor than the air above.
Pia reached for her foot and felt the knot. She could see little more than light and dark at this depth. No detail at all. The surface above was barely visible through a brownish-green haze of water. The ocean pressed in on her from every angle. It pounded her ears and squeezed her body—her muscles felt the weight of a thousand tons of water. Already she longed for air.
She wrenched the rope. The knot had to be simple because the coxswain had tied it so quickly, yet she couldn’t figure it out. It was just a tangled clump of rope, swollen by salt water and yanked tight by the weight of the engine below. She cursed herself for not watching the man more closely. She drew on the knot—too tight. She’d need to use fingernails. She felt the shape of it, trying to imagine which direction she should pull each piece of rope. After some effort, she thought she had it right and dug her nails in.
Her lungs were complaining about the lack of oxygen, that same burning sensation she’d felt in Geneva—only this time she was in much deeper water with much greater pressure. She felt the knot loosen a hair and tugged with renewed energy. All her veins and arteries burned. The weight on her chest and abdomen squeezed the life from her. Even her spinal cord felt crushed. Her eardrums pounded. Fight the panic, panic burns oxygen. She felt the knot loosen another hair. She tugged harder. She kicked her foot. Bad idea—the knot pulled tight again. She tugged and regained the lost ground but precious time was slipping away. Then another piece of rope slid almost imperceptibly. Another loosening. How many more before she was free? She had no idea.
Her lungs demanded air.
Above her she heard a boat zoom away, leaving a wake behind it. Had one of the pirates survived and stolen her Zodiac? The coxswain. Tania had shot up his engine and he lost his gun. That’s why he tossed his motor overboard.
Pia’s hopes dimmed.
The knot wasn’t loose enough to free her foot.
Would the Major come looking for her? Was Tania up there somewhere? Had any of them even seen where she went under? She didn’t care. The only thing she wanted was air, just one sweet breath before she drowned.
The knot finally pulled loose.
She tugged her heel through the loop only to have it snag on the ball of her foot. Loosening the knot a little more, she pulled it free and began her awkward ascent. Above her, she could see a dim circle of light through the murky water. Or was tunnel vision setting in?
She swam, moving her arms with the efficiency practiced in Geneva. Yet the surface stayed far away. Too far. Her vision narrowed to a small spot. Swimming was an effort that required oxygen and she had none left. She’d spent it all fighting the knot. The water was heavy. Dense. She was much deeper this time, had been under much longer. Stroke after stroke, she headed to the top and yet the top was no closer than when she’d started.
The burning sensation in her lungs was replaced by a pleasant sensation. Being held tight in the ocean’s embrace seemed comforting, relaxing. Wonderful, now that she thought about it. She began to feel light. She could float the rest of the way up. Maybe even light enough to float into the sky. She felt sleepy. And the ocean made a soft pillow. She forgot about the surface. She forgot about al-Jabal and Jonelle and Dad and Tania and Alphonse and everyone else. She even considered forgetting about soccer. If she lived, could she play in the World Cup one more time? But then, nothing matters once life is over.
And there it was—a dim shadow crossed the light above her. A silhouette hovered, graceful and beautiful, like an angel swirling down into the depths to carry her home. Home to a better place.
“Mom?”
Chapter 25
* * *
Bight of Bonny, Cameroon
26-May, 2PM
The light stung Pia’s eyes. Her body rolled to one side and a hundred gallons of water spewed out of her. More water than one stomach could possibly hold. Nearby, noisy voices argued. Strong hands grabbed her, tugged her into the light. A figure blotted out the light for a moment—a familiar figure. Hair slicked back in a low bun, dark skin, penetrating eyes. Those eyes stared at her and everything in the world stopped for a moment. The voices stopped and the waves slapping against the boat stopped and the rocking sensation stopped.
Then they all started again, louder and closer than before.
The figure above her laughed, her mouth opened wide, showing white teeth, pink gums. Two hands clapped together followed by the roar of a “Hallelujah!” Someone else laughed long and honest and sustained. The laugh went on, stopped for air and continued. Other voices whooped and yelled. And when it finally ended, hands clapped again and again.
She knew the voices. She knew the laughter.
The Major looked down at her and smiled. Then she looked at someone else and said, “One more time, Miguel. Just to be sure.”
Miguel placed two hands on her abdomen and pushed down firmly, then rolled her onto her side. More water spewed out, a good deal less this time.
The Major stood, her arms outstretched to the blue skies above. “Thank God!”
“Thank…” Pia could only croak the one word. Her stomach flipped over. Speaking was not going to happen right now.
“Save your strength,” the Major said. “Besides, it was Tania who pulled you out.”
Tania’s face, hair dripping ocean goo, came into Pia’s line of sight.
“Yeah, you thought colored girls from Brooklyn couldn’t swim, huh. Well, this one went to the Y, baby. Brooklyn Mako Swim Team for eight stinkin’ years!”
“Thank…” Pia’s croaked again. Her hand flopped out weakly toward Tania but missed and fell back to her side.
Tania picked up her hand and squeezed it between both of hers. She said, “You saved my life twice in one day, girl, so I owed you one. I’m beginning to like you. Heck, Ezra only saved my ass once.”
Agent Marty leaned into view, his left arm wrapped in a bloody towel. He said, “Thank God you’re alive—I did NOT want to call your father.”
Pia smiled on the edge of a laugh. “Thank…”
“Don’t talk,” The Major said. “You drank half the Atlantic. You’ll be very sick this afternoon. You’ll have diarrhea.”
Pia’s eyes snapped to the Major and zeroed in.
“Just the messenger,” she said.
“Jacob and…” Pia struggled.
“We’re on our way back to Limbe now. Jacob caught a round in the hip during the first assault. The last bullet fired in this whole thing snapped one of the bones in Marty’s arm. Ezra … you know about Ezra.”
Pia shook her head, rolled onto her side, and threw up more sea water.
“The Coast Guard is chasing the trawler out to sea,” the Major said. “They’re in a race for Nigerian waters. They’ll try to make the open Atlantic. Try to get some rest.”
“Call … Yeschenko.” Pia gasped and gulped air. “He … has people.”
“Whoa. You want me to call in the Russians? You know that’s a death sentence for all of them, right?”
Chapter 26
* * *
Limbe, Cameroon
26-May, 5PM
Pia was full of saline, electrolytes, and soft foods when the hospital released her. Bishop Mimboe an
d his wife had come to visit. They prayed for her, invited her to the evening’s festivities at the school, and again offered accommodations at the old convent on campus. She took them up on it: with half her agents gone, the convent offered better security.
But first she had to interrogate Big-gut at her hotel.
Pia sat down in the bungalow with the Major, who filled her in.
“His name is Conor Wigan of Manchester. “Name checks out—prescriptions, papers, other places. Miguel has him fed and waiting outside. We told him he gets a sleeper dart every time he makes noise or pisses us off. We didn’t mention him to the Coast Guard.”
“And no medications?” Pia asked.
“Not yet. He’s overdue for the Lithium.”
“Bring him in,” Pia said.
“You sure you’re OK? You still look a little green.”
“Getting better.”
Miguel brought him in, checked his plasticuffs, and seated him. Miguel stood at ease next to Pia’s chair, the Major sat off Pia’s side, and Tania took the watch outside.
“You can’t hold me here,” Conor said.
Pia pushed a pill halfway across the small table. Lithium.
“I don’t want you going nuts while we’re trying to reason with you,” she said. “Now, the Dantrium is another story. Tell me what happens to you if I toss the bottle out in the ocean.”
“You’re not that kind of person.”
“Normally, no. But a few days ago I watched a friend of yours kill a friend of mine. I followed him to Cameroon, and right when I was closing in on him, you came out of nowhere and tried to kill me. So tossing your medications in the ocean and leaving you tied up somewhere for forty-eight hours isn’t going to keep me awake at night. Knowing your nervous system is locking up is not my problem. Knowing you can’t eat or drink, much less walk away from the police, isn’t going to keep me up at night either. See, if I was a mean person, I’d call your enemies and tell them where to find you.”
Conor’s lips trembled. He clenched his fists on the table.
“Could I have a glass of water to take my pill?”
Miguel handed him a paper cup half full of water. Conor took the cup in one of his cuffed hands, tossed the pill back and drank.
Pia said, “We have to help each other, Conor. You tell me a few things and I’ll help you get what you want. That is, if you want Calixthe, your son, and your medications. Do we have a place to start negotiations?”
In a quiet voice, he said, “You planning on turning me over to the bloody police?”
“Depends on how much I like you in the end. Right now, I’m thinking that would be the best thing for society. The idea of having you locked up for life in a nice jail cell where you can’t kill anyone has its appeal.” Pia leaned across the table. “If you help me, I might consider turning you over to the Swiss. Their jails are clean and tidy. You might even get a fair trial. If you turn out to be really nice and you give me information that leads to al-Jabal and whoever paid him to kill my friend, well, I might give you a five-minute head start before I call the police.”
Conor stared at her, his droopy red eyes pleading, his mind working hard. Pia tapped her fingernail on the table between them.
“All right,” he said. “We have a deal. But who is this character you’re looking for? The killer.”
“He used a fake passport with the name of a long dead Syrian poet, Badawi al-Jabal. He’s about this tall, had a trimmed beard but shaved it, and mean-looking eyes.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Too bad. Looks like you have nothing to give me then.” She rose, turned to Miguel, “Call the police. Let them know we found one of the—”
“Hang on! Let’s not be hasty. Syrian, you said?”
“He used the name of a dead Syrian. Said he was from Tangiers. He had a friend who ran a dress shop in Geneva called Marrakesh. Anything ringing a bell?”
Conor pursed his lips, shrugged, shook his head.
“Did I mention the Zorka Moscoq is owned by a friend of mine?” Pia said. “Mikhail Yeschenko. He’s Russian. Owns an oil company. Hired a bunch of Russian sailors to look for the people who stole his ship. One phone call and they’re here, Conor. Word is the Russians are old-fashioned about piracy. You know what I mean? Ropes and yardarms, that kind of thing. So, last chance, I’m looking for a mean-looking guy from Morocco, used to have a beard. Seen him?”
“You must mean Mustafa Ahmadi. Stupid twit, that one. Crazy, too.”
Pia stayed still.
“He jumped into the business with too much cheek and not enough sense, got us all into this mess. Stupid little suck-up.”
“Start at the beginning,” Pia said. “We know you’ve been commandeering oil tankers and selling them. We know your outfit worked pretty well for the last eighteen months or so, a clean operation for the first three ships. Then things started going wrong. Second ship, three sailors died. On the last couple ships, murdering sailors seems to be the new rule. Then my friend was murdered by one of your crew. Fill in the blanks here. Who runs the operation? How many are involved? How did the killing start? Why kill Clément Marot and Sara Campbell?”
He shook his head. “No, you got that all wrong, mate. Uh, ma’am. See, I’m not involved with those people. I’m not one of them. I’m just a poor working man living in Limbe with my wife, raising our son best we can. I worked the oil rigs in Nigeria before my health got me in a bit of trouble. Then this old mate of mine from the Army comes to town, has a crew and some big plans—”
“Name?” the Major asked.
He glanced at Pia. She shook the Dantrium bottle at him.
“Elgin Thomas was his name in the Army. He’s going by something else now, passport and everything. I forget his new name. Anyway, he has these plans—”
“You forgot his name?” Pia said. “You expect me to believe his name was Elgin Thomas and you forgot his new name?”
Conor blinked his big red-rimmed eyes.
The Major said, “OK, let’s go with Elgin Thomas for now. Go on.”
“Well, Elgin has the crew and the boats. He’s funded by le Directeur. Don’t ask, ’cause I don’t know. Neither does Elgin. Just a voice on the other end of the phone.”
“Le Directeur sounds French,” the Major said. “Is it?”
“Yeah, yeah, they were always talking in French, le Directeur and Elgin. I never took to the frogs, you know. Bloody awful language by my reckoning. Anyway, Elgin had this plan and he wants me and Calixthe to watch the coast for him. He never told us what he was planning but we figured it out easy enough. Limbe’s only business is filling up tankers and sending them on their way. One of them gets nicked and Old Elgin’s been asking about it for a week, well, we get the picture pretty quick. So we ask him for a bit more … consideration, if you will. He gets snotty and takes our boy. Puts him on the crew. Just a lad. Now Calixthe and me’s got to do whatever he asks.”
“He kidnapped your son?” Pia asked. “And you let him?”
“Well, he did give us the extra consideration. Wasn’t all bad. It’s not like we’re rolling in cash, though. Me outta work a couple years and all. Anyway, Elgin ropes us in—”
“Yeah, awful,” Pia said. “But I don’t care. Elgin runs the show. Le Directeur runs Elgin. Who has the money? How does Elgin get his hands on it?”
“Just want you to know how hard it’s been, what with—”
“Just answer the questions,” the Major said. “Our sympathy for you ran out when you started shooting.”
Conor let out a long sigh and slumped in his chair.
“Le Directeur has the money. Elgin meets him, comes back with it. Cash. Lots of it. No one ever sees it all. He only comes round when you’re alone. All he carries is your pay, not a dime more. You couldn’t even rob him—”
“How much did he pay you in cash?”
“Me?” Conor said. “He’d give me about sixty million CFA every trip.”
Pia exchanged glances with the
Major. Conor smiled.
“What’s that, about a hundred thousand Euros?” Pia asked.
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Where does he meet le Directeur?” the Major asked.
“Europe somewhere. Never told me nothing.”
Pia shook the bottle of Dantrium.
“You don’t have to threaten me, ma’am. You got one of your people killed today. That’s not my fault. No reason to take it out on me.”
“It is your fault,” Pia said. “You set the trap. Your people fired a grenade. Remember, your medication is on the line here. Where does Elgin Thomas meet le Directeur?”
“Don’t go on like that about the medicine, love. D’you know what happens to me?”
“I saw it happen once. The man almost died before the doctors figured out what was wrong with him. I don’t care if that happens to you, Conor. Your little trap killed Ezra Goldstein.”
He sighed. “Seemed like a German country. Austria, maybe.”
They waited.
“Might have been Vienna. He’s always talking about a place called Kaffehandels near the Vienna Opera. He’s an opera man, that one. All that bloody shrieking.”
The Major typed away on her pad and nodded at Pia.
“You finally told us something we can believe,” Pia said. “There are coffee shops near the Vienna Opera house. We’ll come back to that in a minute. Now I want to know what happened over the last few months. Why did Elgin’s crew start killing people?”
“They’re all a bunch of wild kids. Thought they were getting away with it, they did. Could do anything they bloody well pleased and no one would mind. Then the Malaysians were waiting for them. Turned into a bloody riot. Second go-round for the Malaysians and they were out for revenge. Hid in the holds. Battled it out below decks. Elgin’s boys got pissed. Bloody shame.”
“How many boys does Elgin have?” the Major asked.
“Enough, I guess. I’ve seen six or eight.”