Stephen Coonts - Pirate Alley

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At seven that morning he made a telephone call to the Israeli embassy. At eight o’clock he entered a breakfast joint for working men and women in a strip mall shopping center in Silver Spring, Maryland. There was an empty booth in the back of the row, and he asked the woman at the register for it. He ordered coffee, eggs, bacon and dry wheat toast. He was sipping his second cup of coffee and waiting on the eggs when a man walked in wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and sat down across from him.

The man’s name was Sascha Meissl; he was the Mossad liaison officer to the CIA. His official title at the embassy was something else; Grafton didn’t know what it was, nor did he care. Meissl was a short, heavyset man with a square jaw and a head of curly, wire-density hair. He and Grafton conferred about once a week, on average. Grafton suspected Meissl had other espionage duties at the embassy, but he never asked and didn’t want to know what they were. The FBI could worry about Mr. Meissl’s extracurricular activities, if any.

After the usual pleasantries, Grafton got right to it. He explained that he had been appointed to be the chief negotiator for the Sultan hostage crisis in Somalia, and wanted whatever help Meissl’s agency could give.

Grafton explained his theory that the pirates must have a deterrent to military attack already in place. “They have planned this for at least a month. And they are not stupid.”

“A bomb,” Meissl said, then watched the waitress approach. He ordered coffee and orange juice and a short stack of pancakes.

When the waitress was gone, Grafton resumed. “I need all the information that you can give me, and I need it yesterday.”

“I thought you might call,” Meissl said with a grin.

“I’m too predictable.”

“We don’t really know anything about Somalia. However, we think one of Hamas’s head bomb makers went to Africa for a working vacation about six weeks ago. He went to Cairo, then disappeared. We think he’s probably in Somalia.”

“Name?”

“God only knows what his parents named him. He goes by the nom de guerre of Al-Gaza. About thirty to thirty-five, technically astute, believes in jihad, has built and exploded bombs in Iraq and Afghanistan and Palestine. His specialty used to be bus bombs, but he’s branched out into bigger and better things.”

“Could he work with ammonium nitrate? Fertilizer?”

“Sure. Detonators, radio controls, all of it. Rather good at what he does. Not suicidal himself, but he likes to help martyrs start their journey to Paradise. Or wherever in hell they end up.”

The coffee and OJ came. Meissl sipped the juice, then attacked the coffee. The waitress brought Jake’s breakfast and filled his coffee cup. Jake dawdled over the eggs.

“You got any guys who know this dude?”

Meissl nodded.

“I’d like to borrow them, if I could. For a couple of weeks, no more. Give them a free trip to Somalia. If they can spot this guy or whoever their bomber is, lend us some expertise, I’d really appreciate it.”

“Al-Gaza might not be there.”

“Someone there knows explosives. As a rule, pirates don’t have much experience building bombs. The Shabab in those parts doesn’t blow stuff up, either. Just shoots people, rapes women, steals food and fuel and weapons and anything else they can physically move.”

“I’ll talk to Tel Aviv. If these guys find our man, we don’t want him walking away.”

“Something can probably be arranged,” Jake said dryly. His eyes crinkled and the corners of his lips turned up slightly. That was his smile. Sascha Meissl smiled back, showing his teeth.

EYL, SOMALIA

The fortified lair of Sheikh Ragnar, the big banana of piracy, Somalia-style, was an old hotel right on the waterfront in Eyl. Six stories high, from the upper story it had a fine view of the harbor created by the two small promontories. Ragnar had knocked down superfluous walls on the top story to create a penthouse. His men were on the floors below, and he had four machine guns mounted on the roof, one on each corner, just in case.

From time to time Ragnar glanced at the captured cruise ship anchored in the river’s channel and permitted himself a smile. Ragnar was not his real name. He wasn’t a sheikh either; he was a vicious, amoral sewer rat who shot first and asked questions later. With his greed, sewer smarts, violent disposition and respect for nothing, Ragnar had what it takes to succeed as a pirate.

So far he had done very well at the trade. The ransoming of Sultan of the Seas and her passengers and crew would be the capstone on his career. He intended to retire and live like a pasha on his ill-gotten millions. He would have all the good food, liquor, women and drugs he could possibly want to eat, drink, screw or snuff up his nose-yet, in truth, Ragnar had that now. Still, like humans everywhere, he wanted more.

More.

He wondered if there were any attractive women in the fortress. Might not a new one be a delicacy in bed tonight? Young, white, with dark hair and shaved legs and big, luscious tits. Ragnar liked big tits and tight, wet pussies with a triangle of curly dark pubic hair. White skin made the dark pubic hair vivid, irresistible. He would ask Mustafa.

FORTY MILES SOUTH OF EYL, SOMALIA

I lay there in the dirt/sand mix of Africa trying to get comfortable. I was on my stomach, with my head resting in the crook of my arm, trying to ignore the hot sun slowly baking me and the itch that had developed on my right ankle. I didn’t think the ants had gotten that far, not yet, anyway, but no doubt if I lay here long enough they would. Ants that would disassemble me piece by tiny piece and carry me away to Ant City to feed the little ones. I was in no mood to be recycled just yet.

It was quiet. Peaceful. Like everyone else on the planet was dead and I was the only one left alive, listening …

As I lay there I thought about many things. How Mrs. Carmellini’s only boy, Tommy, wound up in the African dirt. She wanted me to be a professional something, work in a nice office, marry a nice girl, have 2.5 kids and invite her to visit for the Christmas holidays. I even got a law degree along the way. However, certain character flaws reared their ugly heads and the CIA latched on to me … so there went the nice wife, the kids, and Mom’s Christmas vacation.

An ant crawled up onto my hand. I decided to risk it. I squashed the little bastard with my other hand, moving as little as possible.

I started out in the Company as a burglar and wish I could have stayed at it. Gadgets, bugs and safecracking were my Company specialties, although in the last two years Grafton has sent me to every military and Company school he could think of to teach me tradecraft and unarmed combat. Armed combat, too. I knew how to recruit and run agents, set up drops and lie convincingly. I also knew how to jump out of a plane, kill people with knives, garroting wire and high explosives, could tear down, repair, clean and shoot any weapon in any military arsenal, and could even swim fairly well, although the SEALs refused to certify my swimming skills. Said I wasn’t proficient enough.

I didn’t care: I didn’t want to be a SEAL. What I got out of SEAL training was an abiding loathing of water-I limit myself to showers and an occasional glass of water between meals.

Another school he ran me through that I didn’t do great at was Marine Corps sniping school. Oh, I could shoot fairly well, but I refused to get with the program and commune with blood-sucking insects and lizards, become one with the dirt and sweat, which is what marines are all about. Lying motionless under a bush for days at a time, pissing and shitting in an adult diaper, just to pot someone if he or she happened by was a skill set that I decided I could probably do without. Grafton knew the marines also sent me home without a graduation certificate, although he pretended he didn’t.