Stephen Coonts - Pirate Alley

“He says Ragnar has been planning the attack on the Sultan for over a month.”

“The question remains, What could he know?” Tomazic said curtly. “The son of a bitch has been locked up in the States for three weeks.”

“He knows that the Shabab plans to murder everyone after Ragnar collects his ransom.” The Shabab was the Islamic extremist organization that had been waging civil war with the Somali government for seventeen years.

“Does he have specifics?”

“His attorney says he does.”

“Oh, poop,” Tomazic said and raised an eyebrow at Grafton. He had learned through the years of their association that Grafton was a competent, levelheaded operator who never panicked. The retired admiral was at his best in high-pressure situations that called for Solomon’s ability to weigh risks and possible outcomes. On the other hand, as Tomazic well knew, Grafton was at heart a gambler, a man willing to stake everything to win everything. In fact, he was the exact opposite of Mario Tomazic, a career army officer who had risen to the top of his profession by avoiding risk with the fervor of a devout Baptist avoiding sin.

Still, the measure of Tomazic’s leadership ability was that he allowed a man like Grafton into his inner circle and listened carefully to his counsel. Mario Tomazic believed in winning. For himself, for his agency, and for America. And Jake Grafton was a winner. He made his own luck. Sometimes, Tomazic knew, the wisest course was to give Grafton his head and let him run while chugging Pepto-Bismol.

“We’ve passed this on to the White House,” the assistant U.S. attorney said. “It was too hot for us.”

Tomazic and Grafton traded glances. They knew precisely what the lawyer meant. If Justice discounted Ali’s tale and the Shabab did indeed attempt to murder the Sultan ’s people, they would be pilloried. Yet if Omar Ali sold them a bill of goods, they would be pilloried for being too easily manipulated. In other words, a lose-lose situation.

“We would need details,” Grafton said, “all we can get, and we’ll check out his story. Keep you advised. If he’s telling the truth, we’ll let you know. If he’s peddling bullshit, we’ll let you know that, too.”

“Off the record, have you guys heard anything about a planned mass murder of the Sultan ’s people?”

Tomazic’s bureaucratic instincts took over. “That’s something we would have to talk to the White House about. Not here.”

The prosecutor examined their faces. “No, you haven’t. I thought not.”

“So how does this work?” Jake Grafton asked. “We want everything this guy can tell us, and if it turns out to be true, you can do any deal you like. A light sentence, kiss his ass and send him home, or give him asylum and a job sweeping around here at night. Your call. But we can’t evaluate his story until we’ve heard it and asked questions.”

Tomazic nodded his concurrence.

“The White House told us to give you everything we can get.”

“Let’s get at it, then,” Tomazic said and rose from his chair. What he hadn’t told the Justice Department lawyers was that he had already had extensive conversations that morning with the president’s national security adviser and chief of staff. The credibility of Omar Ali’s story would determine whether the United States was going to pay the ransom Ragnar demanded or mount a military mission to rescue the Sultan ’s passengers and crew. Tomazic was not about to share those conversations with the lawyers at Foley Square, who didn’t need to know.

* * *

Two hours later, when Tomazic and Grafton got into the limo for the ride back to the heliport, they didn’t know a lot more than the prosecutors or the White House had told them. Ali said that he had told a high official in the Shabab about Ragnar’s plans to hijack the cruise ship. The terrorist had wanted to know everything Ali knew, and had a bunch of questions that Ali didn’t have the answers to. All these questions, about where the passengers and crew would be held, how many pirates would be guarding them, when the ransom exchange would take place, led Ali to believe that the Shabab was interested in a lot more than stealing the money from Ragnar. Or sharing a goodly portion of it. Ali thought the Shabab leadership would try for a terror event that would break the shaky truce between the terrorists and pirates, and reignite holy war in Somalia.

Tomazic was in a foul mood. “He doesn’t actually know anything,” he muttered.

Grafton held his tongue.

“There was not one single fact capable of being checked,” Tomazic added. “We don’t even know if he really met this Shabab dude, Feiz al-Darraji, or if he’s making it all up.”

It was still raining. Grafton sat looking out the window at people holding newspapers and umbrellas over their heads, trying to hail taxis.

“So what do you think?” Tomazic asked at last.

“I think Ali really believes what he is saying,” Jake said slowly. “At least, he thinks it is highly probable. He knows we’ll check it out. There is undoubtedly a guy named Feiz al-Darraji. We sure won’t get any answers out of him, if we can find him. If events turn out the way Ali tells us they will, he’ll get a plea deal. If they don’t, he’ll get a long stretch in a federal pen, which is precisely what he’s looking at anyway.”

“He’s just buying a lottery ticket,” Tomazic countered.

“Ali’s not the most sophisticated man I’ve met lately.”

Tomazic mulled it over for several blocks. “The White House meddled in Task Force 151’s efforts,” he said. “Arguably Admiral Tarkington could have forced the pirates to surrender and we’d have all the hostages back if the White House savants had kept their mouths shut and let Tarkington do his job. When the dust settles, Congress is going to have a field day investigating.”

“There’s that,” Grafton said dryly. “So far, the White House staffers haven’t covered themselves with glory.”

Tomazic grunted.

“Ali’s tale will force their hand,” Grafton continued. “They can’t pay the ransom and hope for the best. Shooting Ragnar isn’t going to solve their problem. They are going to have to send in the marines.”

“So what should I tell them?”

“Tell them they have run out of choices. No more hand-wringing and fretting about what the Europeans will think. No more sitting around worrying about all the things that could go wrong. It’s time to suck it up and fight.”

* * *

Captain Arch Penney watched from the bridge as a small armada of fishing boats and skiffs was overloaded with people and sent scurrying across the brown water toward the crumbling piers under the old fortress. Several times the boats were so overloaded that they shipped water over the gunwales, but he didn’t see any sink or overturn. A minor miracle, he thought.

Julie went below, presumably to pack a few things. Mustafa stood beside Penney watching and issuing orders on a small handheld radio. Actually, he seemed to have this evolution organized fairly well, because it came off without a lot of aimless milling around.

The key part of the operation was getting enough food ashore to sustain nine hundred people. The food and cooking utensils were being off-loaded onto skiffs through the port pilot’s landing. The chief steward was in charge of that operation and would undoubtedly do his best.

Penney knew damn well it took a lot of food to keep everyone eating for any length of time. Once food was removed from refrigeration, it wouldn’t last. Mustafa’s remark that Ragnar would sell them food had left him a little queasy. Nine hundred Western stomachs couldn’t make it on roasted goat.

Well, he thought, a little belt-tightening wouldn’t do anyone any harm. As long as they had adequate clean water.