Bait

by Nick Brownlee

  ‘Dennis?’ He looked across at Martha, who kept her eyes firmly on the ocean ahead of her.

  ‘Viljoen was offering him twenty-five thousand bucks per trip. Dennis was going bust. The money would have come in real handy.’

  ‘But trafficking kids?’ Patrick said. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘At first Viljoen would have spun him a yarn about a one-off shipment of drugs or guns or something else. I don’t believe for one minute Dennis would have done it if he’d known what Viljoen was really trafficking. But, once he was hooked, there was no way they could let him walk away. Now it’s Harry’s turn.’

  ‘Shit,’ Patrick said. ‘That’s fucking terrible.’

  Martha said nothing. A tear materialised from behind her sunglasses and rolled briefly down her cheek before the force of the wind obliterated it.

  Patrick blew out his cheeks and whistled loud enough for the sound to carry against the rush of the wind and the hollow boom of the speedboat’s hull against the swell.

  ‘So where do you think they’re headed?’ he said, still eyeing the AK-47 on Jake’s lap warily.

  ‘The goon I talked to seemed to think they were meeting up with another vessel. A freighter maybe. He said it was coming from the south. Yellowfin’s range is no more than a hundred miles.’

  ‘That’s a helluva lot of ocean,’ Patrick said.

  ‘Then maybe it’s time we used your state-of-the-art tracker system, Patrick.’

  Three coastguard helicopters roared low in formation over Nyali Bridge, then sheared away from each other and out to sea. Standing at the rail at the far end of the bridge, Jouma watched them go with a desperate sense of helplessness. He knew that the choppers could cover vast areas, far more than any boat, and in a fraction of the time; but he also knew from his own phobic aversion that there would always be swathes of ocean still to cover.

  He couldn’t help thinking that their inadequacy mirrored his own. For no matter how much corruption and stinking evil he uncovered, it seemed there would always be more.

  Somewhere out there, beyond the horizon, was a boat. A pinprick of such insignificance it might as well not exist. On it, a psychopathic monster and a cargo of innocent children bound for a life of unspeakable degradation in a land far from their own. And here he stood in useless isolation: a man who had once taken an oath to protect them.

  He had done what he could. Conrad Getty was crumpled in the back of Jouma’s Panda, his hands cuffed to the hand strap, and if there was any justice the hotel owner would never breathe the air of freedom again. But Jouma knew that there were a hundred, a thousand, just like him over that seemingly endless horizon.

  Yes, he had done what he could. It was up to others now. All he could do was wait and pray.

  They were maybe ten miles off the coast now, and on another day Jake might have marvelled at how quickly they had covered the distance. But Patrick was right. It was a big ocean. And, even if they found Yellowfin, he didn’t like to think what they might find on board.

  ‘There!’ Jake shouted. ‘That’s it!’

  A large distinctive silhouette had appeared off the starboard horizon, just as the tracker on the dashboard had predicted. It was a freighter, low in the water, ploughing a northerly course against the current.

  ‘You sure, Jake?’ Patrick said, turning the steering wheel so the Sonic was on an intercept course.

  Jake slung the AK-47 over his shoulder. ‘Is there a ship-to-shore on this boat?’

  ‘There’s a radio below in the cabin.’

  ‘Show me.’

  Two miles to the north-east, Viljoen had spotted the freighter too. He grinned and barked an order to Sammy. The boy brought the wheel round and Yellowfin began to loop back on itself.

  The Sonic’s cabin was accessed by a fold-down step at the rear of the cockpit. It was basic and functional, consisting of two narrow banquettes either side of a low folding table.

  ‘I don’t see your radio, Patrick,’ Jake said, stooping low as he entered the shallow space and laid the rifle on one of the banquettes.

  ‘That’s because there isn’t one, Jake.’

  A foot landed squarely between his shoulder blades and Jake sprawled forward into the cabin. His head struck the metal spar of the table and for a moment he saw stars. As his vision cleared, he heard the ominous clatter of the AK-47’s breech mechanism and saw Patrick hunched down in the cabin entrance, the automatic weapon in his hands.

  ‘Get up,’ he said, in a voice that was no longer Patrick’s.

  ‘Easier said than done,’ Jake said, as the Sonic pitched and swung into the waves.

  ‘You’re a seafaring man, Jake. You can do it. But do it slowly. Understand?’

  ‘Whatever you say.’

  Maybe he should have been shocked at Patrick’s duplicity, even outraged that Martha’s jet-setting boyfriend was suddenly pointing a gun at his head.

  Instead, it all made perfect sense.

  All along Jouma had been talking about pieces of a jigsaw, and slowly they had been coming together to reveal the truth. George Malewe, Dennis Bentley, Michael Kili, Tug Viljoen, the sickening traffic in human cargo. But until now there had been one question - one crucial piece of the jigsaw - that for Jake had remained tantalisingly elusive.

  Who was pulling the strings?

  That it should be Patrick Noonan - if indeed that was his name - did not surprise him. Why should it? Under the pretence of an international bonds dealer, he had carte blanche to travel anywhere in the world without raising suspicion. And as for Martha? She admitted they hadn’t seen each other more than a few nights since they met in New York. Patrick probably had a Martha Bentley in every city he visited. He was the consummate operator, invisibly controlling his empire through a network of cutouts and dupes. And it would have undoubtedly remained that way if it hadn’t been for a charred and mangled body washing up on a remote Kenyan beach, and the dogged enquiries of a Mombasa detective. Now the puppeteer had been forced into the open, and Jake knew time was short before he disappeared into the shadows forever.

  He grabbed the table with one hand and levered himself into a kneeling position. Something wet was sliding down the side of his face, and when he touched it his fingers came away covered in blood.

  ‘So how did you get involved in all this, Patrick?’

  ‘Like you said, it’s a long story.’

  ‘Does Martha know?’

  ‘Why let reality get in the way of true love? Now get on your feet and move slowly towards me.’

  Jake did as he was told until he was stooped at the bottom of the steps leading up to the cockpit. Patrick had edged backwards to the stern of the boat so that his back was resting against the engine bulkheads. The gun remained steady in his hands.

  ‘OK. Up to the front. I’m right behind you.’

  In the driver’s seat Martha steered the boat oblivious to what was going on behind her. Jake could see they had made considerable ground on the freighter. The Sonic was now near enough to see the name Medusa, Istanbul written in five-foot-high letters across the rusted metal plates.

  ‘Sit down next to Martha,’ Patrick ordered.

  Clinging to the safety rail, Jake carefully picked his way along the cockpit to the passenger seat and collapsed into its yielding white leather. Martha looked at him and her eyes widened as she saw the blood on his forehead.

  ‘Jake, you’re—’

  ‘I know,’ he said, nodding at Patrick.

  ‘Just concentrate on steering the boat, honey,’ Patrick said smoothly. He slid on to the couch seat behind them and jammed the barrel of the AK-47 under Jake’s left ear.

  Martha stared at him in disbelief. ‘Jesus Christ, Patrick!’

  She looked at Jake, whose expression told her everything.

  ‘Patrick?’ Her voice was a confused whimper, blasted by the wind.

  ‘He’s part of this whole operation, Martha,’ Jake said, his eyes fixed on the looming hulk of the freighter. ‘Running it, I’d say. Isn’t tha
t so, Patrick?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Whitestone emitted a hollow laugh. ‘But never delegate, Jake. Here endeth the lesson.’

  Martha’s hand reached for the throttles and the Sonic abruptly slowed in the water. She turned in her seat and her eyes were burning.

  ‘Tell me what the hell is going on here, Patrick. Right now!’

  Keeping the gun pressed to Jake’s head, Whitestone’s fingers closed around Martha’s hand and eased the throttles back up.

  ‘Move it again, baby, and I’ll blow his head off,’ he said matter-of-factly.

  ‘Do what he says, Martha,’ Jake said.

  Whitestone nodded. ‘That’s good. Now just keep heading towards that big ship over there and everything will be just fine. If you do as I say, I’ll be out of your hair and you can get on with the rest of your day.’

  Jake didn’t believe that for a second. He knew that, as soon as they reached the freighter, Patrick would kill them both.

  ‘Is that how it works, Patrick? You pick the clients while animals like Tug Viljoen do all the dirty work?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Presumably it was your decision to have Dennis killed.’

  Whitestone grimaced with feigned affront. ‘Oh, that’s a low blow, Jake. A really low blow bringing that up with Martha sitting here. For the record, honey, I was pissed that they killed your daddy. From what you say, he was a really nice guy. But that’s the way it goes sometimes.’

  ‘And what about me, Patrick?’ Martha said, and from somewhere there was steel in her voice. ‘What was I? A perk of the job?’

  Whitestone shrugged. ‘You might not believe this, Martha, but I really had a thing for you. Chico, I never liked too much, I have to admit.’

  ‘You bastard,’ Martha hissed.

  ‘Oh, come on, baby. Don’t tell me it wasn’t fun.’

  Jake saw Martha’s knuckles whiten on the Sonic’s steering wheel. The boat was now close enough to Medusa that gesticulating figures could be seen milling against its stern rail.

  ‘Remember Howard Miller, Jake?’ Martha said suddenly. ‘The insurance guy from Nairobi? You know - the day my daddy let me drive Martha B for the first time?’

  Jake blinked, then understood. ‘Yeah. I remember Howard Miller.’

  The instant he finished speaking, Martha slammed the throttles forward as far as they would go. In that same instant the massive Cobra 1100-horsepower engines engaged fully and Jake clung on to the forward safety rail as the boat shot like an arrow straight towards Medusa’s hull.

  Behind them, Whitestone was caught unawares by the sudden forward movement and he reeled backwards and sideways on the slippery leather couchette. The gun clattered under the front seats and Jake heard cursing as Whitestone scrabbled for purchase.

  ‘Turn it! Now!’ Jake yelled, and then held on for dear life as Martha yanked the wheel to the left.

  The Sonic slalomed between the two lips of Medusa’s wake and then took to the air as it crested the swell left by the huge freighter. Jake whirled in his seat and saw that Patrick was crushed up against the starboard rail. There was a look of impotent rage on his face as he battled the sudden debilitating G-FORCES.

  ‘Never were a sailor, were you, Patrick?’ Jake said, then punched him in the face with all his strength.

  The American’s head fired backwards and his limbs went slack. Then the Sonic weaved back into the freighter’s wake and Whitestone was flung up and over the side like a gutted fish. One hand gripped the rail, and Jake met the American’s eyes as the boiling bow wave buffeted him against the side of the boat.

  ‘Turn it again, Martha,’ Jake said calmly.

  As Martha whipped the boat round, the thin metal rail first buckled then popped from its securing bolts. For a moment Whitestone clung to it as it swung out like one of Yellowfin’s outriggers, then the immense vortex generated by the Sonic’s propellers dragged him under.

  ‘Jesus, Jake,’ Martha said. ‘Is he . . .?’

  ‘He’s gone,’ Jake said.

  ‘Looks like we got company, Harry,’ Viljoen reported from the flying bridge.

  But Harry had already seen the Sonic appear from behind Medusa’s superstructure like a tiny exotic bird buzzing around a hippopotamus. Now it was heading towards them, closing the gap rapidly.

  Viljoen was chuckling as he climbed unsteadily down the ladder into the cockpit. ‘What do you reckon?’ he said. ‘The cavalry?’ He reached to his waistband and produced the Glock. ‘That’s a pity.’

  ‘Why don’t you let the boy go, Tug?’ Harry said. ‘You said it: it’s none of his business.’

  ‘I dunno,’ Viljoen said, rubbing his chin theatrically. ‘He’s a good-looking kid. Strong. Good teeth. Folks’ll pay a lot for him, I reckon. And I’m damned if I’m coming out of this little escapade empty-handed. I’ve got overheads to consider.’

  ‘Please, Tug.’

  Viljoen looked at him contemptuously. ‘It’s the English way, isn’t it, Harry? Let the women and children go first. Well, I’ll tell you what - let’s see just how much your friends think the boy’s worth, eh?’

  From two hundred yards out, Jake could see that Harry was tied to the fighting chair and that Viljoen had a gun pressed against his head. In that instant he was transported back to an East London post office, and a scared-eyed kid with a handgun and a hostage. But, as Martha brought the Sonic alongside Yellowfin’s stern, he saw there was nothing in Tug Viljoen’s eyes but cold murderous intent.

  ‘Jake! What a surprise!’ the South African called out. ‘And the lovely Miss Bentley, I take it.’

  ‘You all right, Harry?’

  ‘Never been better,’ Harry said with a weak smile.

  Jake saw that his friend’s skin was bright red and his lips were cracked. The bastard had clearly kept him out in the chair without water or shade since they had left the mainland. Up on the flying bridge, he saw Sammy peering anxiously out.

  ‘It’s over, Tug. Your boss is dead. So why don’t you let them go? You don’t need them any more.’

  Viljoen grinned. ‘Whitestone’s dead? That sure is a weight off my mind, Jake. Trouble is, there’s a seaplane waiting for me about eighty clicks north of here at Sabaki river and it sounds like I need some insurance to get there safe and sound.’

  ‘Let Harry and the kids go, Tug. I’ll take you to Sabaki.’

  ‘That’s very noble of you. But I don’t think so. I’d have to have eyes in the back of my head all the way, and I don’t fancy that. I’m all for the quiet life, see. No, I’ll just take Sammy here. He seems to know one end of the ocean from the other. Oh - and I’ll take your boat too, if you don’t mind. Can’t see too many people catching me, can you?’

  As Viljoen talked, Jake could see the snout of the AK-47 peeking from underneath the Sonic’s front seats. He knew that the only hope of stopping Viljoen now lay with the automatic weapon. But how to get it?

  Viljoen’s thumb caressed the safety of the pistol that was still pressed hard against Harry’s head.

  ‘Throw the keys across, Jake. Nice and easy.’

  Martha tensed, but Jake nodded. Reluctantly, she removed the keys from the ignition and handed them to him. Jake tossed them on to Yellowfin’s cockpit.

  ‘That’s good,’ Viljoen said. He clicked the safety back on the Glock and lifted it from Harry’s head. ‘I really do appreciate what you’ve done for me, Jake, and I’m sorry to leave you and Miss Bentley in the lurch - but you’ll understand that I’ve got a pretty good hand here.’

  Jake inched his foot slowly towards the AK-47. But, as he did so, the Sonic was hit by a wave and the gun slid agonisingly out of sight. With it, he knew, was their last chance of stopping Viljoen.

  ‘Now I want you and the little lady to move to the stern,’ Viljoen ordered. ‘Then I want you to jump off and start swimming away from the boat.’ He cackled. ‘You see, Jake, I’m not the monster you think I am. I only kill people when I have to.’

  Jake looked at him
with pure hatred. ‘If anything happens to the boy, I’ll track you down, Viljoen. Wherever you are in the world, I’ll hunt you until I find you.’

  Viljoen nodded impatiently. ‘I’m sure you will, Jake. Now get in the water before I change my mind.’ Then, without bothering to look up at the flying bridge, he said, ‘Get down here, Sammy, and say your kwaheris. We’re leaving.’

  Something silver glinted in the sunlight and Viljoen stiffened, his eyes wide with surprise. He staggered slightly, then turned to peer quizzically at Sammy, who stood at the rail above him with the harpoon gun in his hands. A taut rubber cable connected the barrel of the gun to a foot-long spear that now neatly bisected the South African’s skull an inch below the brim of his cycle cap.

  Viljoen’s mouth moved silently, then his eyeballs rolled up into his head and he sank to his knees on the deck before pitching forward on to his face.

  ‘Sammy!’

  Jake’s shout snapped the boy out of his stupor.

  ‘He say he kill Tigi, Mr Jake,’ Sammy said, looking down at him vacantly. ‘He say he killed my little brother.’

  Day Twelve

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Four miles due east of Flamingo Creek, the land mass of Africa disappears beneath the horizon and you are suddenly alone in an expanse of water that seems to have no end whichever direction you look. It is a good place to have a beer. An even better place to start smoking again.

  ‘How long has it been?’ Martha asked.

  ‘Two years, eight months and two days,’ Jake said.

  ‘What a waste.’

  ‘What a waste of two years, eight months and two days. Think of all the cigarettes I could have smoked.’

  He went into Yellowfin’s cabin and raided two Tuskers from the chiller. When he came out again, Martha was sitting in the shade of the cockpit awning staring out to sea as the boat idled in the swell without engines.

  ‘Surveying your new empire?’

  She shrugged. ‘Just thinking about what changes I’m going to make. Who I’m going to fire.’