No Remorse

by Ian Walkley

  Wisebaum spoke again, his tone a little more conciliatory. “Look, of course we’re not going to abandon Tal or Rosco. We’ll get them back, don’t worry about that. I’m going right now to speak with the Director.”

  “What about Mai, Derek? She’s still at risk.”

  “You’re at Surrey County Hospital. I’ll arrange protection through my contacts at MI5. And I’ll sort out the police. Get on a plane.”

  “But Tally—”

  “Get on a plane.”

  Mac ran his fingers through his hair and breathed in hard. “Sure, okay.” He would get on a plane all right. He pressed the disconnect button and turned to Scotty. “What is it about that guy?”

  Scotty took him over to the cop. “Senior Constable York here has a cousin up at Hereford. He’s going to make a call. We won’t be delayed too long.”

  “That’s good. We need to get to Heathrow pronto. I’ll call Jog. This time we’re going to be better prepared when we get to Andaran.”

  ~ * ~

  75

  In the oppressive midday heat and chaos of Mogadishu port, day hires were loading by hand the last few cartons of fresh fruit and vegetables aboard the Princess Aliya. The provisions were being guarded by ten well-armed Pakistan Army soldiers to prevent looting by the locals, many of whom appeared to be on the verge of starvation.

  Watching from the main deck, Khalid was impatient to be at sea, where the breeze would signal freedom and they could leave behind the anarchy that was Somalia. Ziad was strolling along the deck with Captain Sandeep Khan, a hard-faced former SSG commando, discussing the deployment of weaponry and personnel on the vessel. They had recruited Khan to head up security at the Yubani Resort, now that it was fully operational and the Saddam treasure was safely inside the fortress.

  Khalid spotted his computer technician sitting in a deck chair chewing gum, a laptop on his knees. “Any success with the Israelis’ computers, Sergei?”

  “I’ll need more time, boss. Unless Ziad can persuade the woman to give you the correct password. The answer the woman gave last night destroyed one of the hard drives.”

  “So I’ve been told.” Khalid tolerated Sergei calling him boss because he was a computer nerd and his talent was extraordinary, and he also found it a little amusing. “I think you should be able to devise a technical solution.”

  They had punished both of the Israelis for the foolish lie, and Ziad would continue her interrogation as soon as the boat was at sea, where Jamila and Sheriti would not be able to hear her screams above the engine and the ocean.

  “Where’s the phone I asked for?” he asked, as Sheriti appeared on deck with Jamila, both dressed in colourful abayas. He told them to go to his quarters and prepare for him.

  Jamila grinned with anticipation. “We will be ready. Can I see your new phone? I need a new one too.”

  Khalid frowned at her teenage selfishness, but restrained himself. The bruising around her eye had almost disappeared, but the eyeball was still bloodshot. “Go, Jamila! This is business. We have three nights before we reach Andaran, and Captain Jergah has said there are likely to be rough seas. Take some tablets now.”

  “But husband, Dr. Gammal told me not to take any medicines.”

  Khalid waved her away. “We need to leave port soon. When are our Al Qaeda friends due to arrive for the transplant, Ziad?”

  “In four days, Highness. We should be there in time to welcome them.”

  “We must. I do not want them arriving without our full security team there. Make sure of that.”

  “Yes, Highness.”

  “The phone, Sergei.”

  Sergei had a cell phone and was punching in a long string of numbers. He passed it to Khalid. “There you are, Highness. This phone will now dial whatever number you type from a random exchange somewhere in the world. Even we won’t know from where. It will be impossible for anyone to trace. You will need to dial the number while we are here in port, within range of the Mogadishu cell phone network.”

  “Very good. Listen to this,” he said as Ziad and Captain Khan came level with them. He turned on the loudspeaker and punched in the number Ibrahim had sent him. The ring tone sounded twice. Then there was a long beep. Khalid turned to the others and grinned. “Ha! That was a hoot, as the English would say!” He handed the phone back to Sergei. “Destroy it. I will need another four.”

  “Sure, boss.” Sergei took the phone apart and threw the pieces overboard.

  “What was that, Highness?” Ziad said.

  Khalid laughed. “I just exploded a bomb, brother! The beginning of the downfall of the House of Saud! I wonder how long we will have to wait for it to be on the news.”

  ~ * ~

  76

  Sophia lay strapped on a gurney in her room, unable to move her arms and legs. Two male attendants in blue scrubs waited on either side of her for instructions. They’d been waiting for about ten minutes, jabbering away in Chinese as though nothing was wrong.

  “What’s going on?” Sophia said, straining her head to look over at the others. She was more frightened because of the waiting. Not knowing was about to happen.

  One of the attendants leaned over her and said: “Rehearsal. Uh... practice.”

  Moments later, a whoop whoop, whoop whoop sounded. Like a fire alarm.

  “Okay, I get it. Fire drill.” Sophia screwed up her face at the painful noise reverberating in her ears. “This is crazy! Can’t you just let me walk?”

  It had been eight days since they’d taken her to the Kimba markets, and nothing had come of the note she’d left. And nobody had said anything about it or punished her for writing it, either. So maybe there was still hope it was still out there, sitting between the two compact disks just waiting to be found. But she couldn’t rely on that. She had to try and find another way to escape. The only opportunities she had were when they took her out for her daily exercise along the beach. They’d never had a fire drill before while she’d been held, and she wondered whether she’d be able to take advantage of it.

  They wheeled her out of her locked room and along the corridor. Lifting her head as far as she could, she noticed the other two kids ahead of her—a brown-haired girl about her age, head slumped forward in a wheelchair like she was drugged or something, and a short-haired boy, maybe about twelve, lying asleep or unconscious on a gurney. They both had fair skin. This puzzled her. Why hadn’t Dr. Xi mentioned these two? Who were these kids, and why were they both out of it?

  Outside the resort building, Sophia recognised some of the employees who had evacuated the building and were strolling along the path staff leading towards the resort’s small jetty. Some of the people she did not recognise. Were they staff, or guests? There were two adults lying on gurneys on the path, and several well-dressed types with Indian features were talking with Dr. Xi and two other medical personnel in blue theatre scrubs.

  A westerner couple appeared, and she could hear them speaking. English! They were Americans! They walked over to the girl in the wheelchair. Her parents, perhaps. The woman held her hand. The girl lifted her head, and it lolled to the side like she was drunk.

  “You’ll be much better tomorrow, honey,” the man said. A southern drawl. Texan?

  The mother leaned down and spoke loudly, over the noise of the alarm. “They’re going to start the operation as soon as the fire drill is over.”

  The girl nodded groggily and her head flopped back down.

  Sophia felt giddy. Americans here! They would help her. They were only about twenty metres away. Perhaps this was the opportunity she needed.

  The alarm stopped blaring. A short announcement was made over a loudspeaker, and people started walking back inside.

  “Help me!” Sophia cried out, and tried to sit up, although the straps only allowed a small movement. “Please help me! I’m American! My name is Sophia Bennett! They’re holding me hostage here! Please... tell the police they’ve kidnapped me!”

  The couple turned and glanced at her,
as one of the attendants shoved an injection into her neck. Her eyes locked with those of the woman, who looked terrified. No—not terrified. Ashamed. Like she knew, and felt guilty about it. The woman glanced at her husband, who shook his head. They both turned away as Dr. Xi hurried over to usher them back inside with the girl in the wheelchair. Sophia could hear him apologizing in English, telling them some story as the world became suddenly a watery blur.

  “Please...” she yelled, even though the drug they had injected had reduced her voice to a whisper.

  The couple knew. They knew she was a captive. And had refused to help. Now she knew her position was hopeless. There could be no escape. She let her head flop back down on the gurney, released a long sigh, and closed her eyes against the blinding daggers of the sun.

  ~ * ~

  77

  Their flight to Grand Comore went via Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris, where Jog joined them with a crate full of gear. Their plan was to hire a dhow and sail to Andaran to avoid immigration and Colonel Boroni. Jog had booked them in First Class, which had mostly empty seats. Fallout from the latest European financial crisis, the Air France flight attendant explained. The seats converted into full recliner beds, and Mac was looking forward to getting some shuteye for the first time in days.

  Dinner, three cans of beer and two crosswords later, he could feel the drowsiness that comes with low-pressure long-haul flights. The cabin lights were switched off and Jog and Scotty and the other two First Class passengers had their seats reclined and were asleep. Mac covered himself with the blanket and closed his eyes, letting himself drift away to the quiet hum and the gentle rocking.

  He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept when a harsh whisper woke him.

  “Move over.”

  “Excusez-moi?” he mumbled, half asleep, thinking it strange that a flight attendant wanted him to move. A sharp jab just below his sternum jolted him awake. A pair of blazing eyes was centimetres from his face.

  “Shhh. Move over. I won’t ask again.” The woman pushed the sharp point hard against his gut, just under his ribcage.

  “Hey, if I’d wanted this level of intimacy, I’d have travelled Economy,” he whispered back, shifting his body to allow her to lie beside him. He was still confused and lightheaded.

  The woman squeezed under the blanket, her body tight against his. He could smell wine on her warm breath. What did she want? If she had really wanted to kill him she could have done that easily enough as he slept. She must want to talk. Or...?

  “Look, I’d be happy to volunteer if you want to join the Mile High Club. But your technique needs a little polishing. You might introduce yourself first.”

  “You don’t know who I am?”

  “Not a clue. Shall we play twenty questions?” He was slowly shifting his hands towards her so he could prevent her shoving the point into his heart.

  “My name is Anastia Slabekova. And keep your hands off me if you want to live.” She pressed the tip to emphasize the seriousness of the threat.

  He flinched. “Jesus!” She was serious. He was a short thrust away from a quick and unpleasant death. “Okay, stay cool. What is that thing?”

  “It’s a ceramic stiletto. Does not show up on metal detectors. It will not take much pressure to kill you,” she whispered, her face only centimetres away.

  “I believe you. By the way, did you by any chance have the garlic shrimp for dinner?”

  He could feel wet, sticky blood under his shirt where the stiletto had pierced his skin. If she thrust it to kill him he’d have just enough time to retaliate. He would wrap his left hand around the back of her neck, and with his right forearm under her chin he’d push back and sideways to snap her skinny neck. They’d both be dead. Lose/lose. He moved his hands away.

  “A stiletto doesn’t exactly make for polite conversation,” he said. “We could hit turbulence at any moment.”

  “Then you’d better pray that we don’t.” She thrust her knee into his groin.

  “Ugh, where’s in-flight service when you need it?”

  She frowned. “You think I won’t kill you? I have no fear of being caught.”

  “Why would you want to kill me? I don’t even know you.”

  A flight attendant pulled back the curtain. He glanced back at her, but she misinterpreted his pleading look, responding with a knowing smile and quickly retreating.

  Damn.

  “My partner was Anton Nastayev.” She was watching his reaction.

  “The famous ballet dancer?” He couldn’t help himself. He felt the stiletto pushed harder and became serious. “Okay, I’m sorry. But I still don’t understand. Was?”

  “You were one of the people Anton was hired to kill in England.” There was a righteous anger in her voice.

  “Oh.” Now he understood. He tried to remain calm. How had she ended up on this same fucking flight? “I’m sorry for you. But your partner was trying to kill a woman on the day of her husband’s funeral. She had done nothing to deserve that.”

  “Nothing? You call kidnapping Sheik Khalid’s son nothing? The woman was the child’s nanny. They trusted her.”

  “What? Who told you that load of horse crap?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And you, and the blonde woman. You helped. You collected the ransom. Two thousand kilograms of gold. You are just as guilty. And I want you to know, I will kill you for what you did to Anton. A time, a place of my choosing. You will live the rest of your short life in fear of my bullet.”

  With a final hostile glare at him she eased off the pressure of the stiletto and made a move to leave.

  Mac had a wave of indignation wash over him. “For professionals, you don’t research your targets very well, do you? You are so far off the facts, it would be laughable if it wasn’t so sick.”

  “I have no desire to listen to your lies.”

  “No? I think you don’t want to hear the truth. It would be inconvenient, wouldn’t it? It might undermine your warped sense of honour. Killing women and children. You enjoy that, don’t you?”

  Anastia pursed her lips. “I do not accept contracts to kill women or children. Anton was by himself because he did not have such constraints.”

  “Then perhaps, as you aren’t going to kill me now, you might have the decency to allow me to explain.”

  A pause. Then, “I will listen. Your lies will not save you.”

  He told her from the beginning, leaving out only mention of AST A and the nuclear materials Khalid was supposed to have. From time to time Anastia shook her head, saying nothing, as she studied his face closely.

  “And now Khalid has kidnapped Tally and Rosco, and we’re on our way to try and get them and the girls back.”

  “We?”

  “Me and the two men standing right behind you.”

  She didn’t turn to check, but instead leaned close to his face. “I’ll consider what you have said. But if I find you have lied, there will be no refuge for you. Anywhere on the planet.”

  She climbed out from under the blanket and returned to Economy.

  ~ * ~

  78

  Khalid left Ziad supervising a rehearsal of the new security team to defend against attacks by pirates. With the additional weaponry and men taken on board in Karachi, he felt more secure now than ever and could relax with his women and wait for news of the bomb. Climbing the stairs, he smiled. Sheriti had promised that tonight she would give him an answer to his proposal of marriage. Last night they had introduced Jamila to the tantric yoga sessions. She had caressed Sheriti’s breasts with youthful eagerness as Sheriti straddled him and demonstrated the techniques, then after twenty minutes Jamila took Sheriti’s place on his lap.

  Entering his quarters he heard a retching from the bathroom. Sheriti was in bed. “She has the sickness, Khalid.”

  “But surely the ocean is not rough yet.”

  “She is pregnant.”

  “Ah! About time. We must celebrate, then.” He undressed and slipped between the sheets and
began to fondle Sheriti.

  Jamila returned a few minutes later looking pale. “I’m sorry, husband. I am not well. I may not be able to fully pleasure you tonight.” She put her hand on her belly and smiled. “I have some wonderful news.”

  He beckoned her over. “You are with child. I know, my love. That is indeed good news. I will have Rubi arrange a celebratory dinner tomorrow evening.”

  Jamila groaned and excused herself as she ran to the bathroom.

  ~ * ~

  79

  As the sun rose behind the mountains of Andaran, the dhow Rabi cruised along, the engine humming an accompaniment to the gentle rhythms of taarab songs, mostly in Swahili. Mac and the other three passengers lay on blankets below the gunwale, out of sight. There had been little to do once the ship was underway except eat, catch fish, tell stories and sing. Their captain, Sammy, a jovial Comorian fisherman—and, Mac suspected, also a smuggler, given the cigarettes and alcohol aboard—had a huge double chin and a nose so wide his mouth seemed like a button hole. Yet his voice was as smooth as Ronan Keating’s. Scotty, who could impersonate Tom Jones better than anyone, and had won numerous karaoke competitions, harmonised and competed with improvised lyrics as he and Sammy crooned through the overnight journey to Andaran, to the delight of the crew.