Stephen Coonts - Pirate Alley

“Fertilizer-ammonium nitrate. They captured a ship full of it two months ago. The crew was ransomed, but the ship is sitting on a sandbar just under the fort. Old tramp, rusted. The owner decided to let the insurance company buy it, and they left it right there in the mud. The pirates could have off-loaded some AN, stuffed it in the bottom of the fort, made a bomb out of it.” He tossed a couple of satellite images at the two guests.

“Will that work?” Schulz asked as he examined the first one.

“It’ll go boom,” Jake answered. “If they did it right. It’s not TNT or plastique, but a couple hundred tons or so of the stuff laced with diesel fuel, set off with a proper detonator, will make a hell of a bang. They’ll hear it in Cairo and Mecca.”

“What about his deadline?”

“What about it?”

“Can we get those people outta there by then?” Schulz demanded.

Grafton eyed the three of them. “We’ll do the best we can. How we doing for money?”

Sir Ronald spoke. “The cruise line is insured by Lloyd’s. They have decided to pay the ransom. They are scrambling to assemble the cash. They can fly it to the Middle East as early as tomorrow.”

“Has there been any announcement about Lloyd’s being willing to pay?” Jake asked.

“That’s what we’re here to talk to you about. The families are raising hell and pledging money to ransom their loved ones. It’s all over the press.”

Jake twiddled the pencil between his fingers, then tossed it on the desk. “I suggest you announce that Lloyd’s has decided to post the money, but delivery methods are still under discussion. Have someone figure out how much all that cash weighs, how bulky it is. Make a big deal about it. Anyone who wants to contribute money to buy out his family members should write a check to Lloyd’s. We’ll make sure Ragnar gets the money.”

“Really?” Dahl inspected Grafton’s face. “You Americans are going to do a military assault to get those people out, aren’t you?”

“That’s a secret,” Jake replied.

The British ambassador said a dirty word.

Sal Molina threw up his hands. “Okay, okay. Treasury is printing bills. This is a couple of tons of paper, by the way. The lawyers still don’t know if it will be real money or not. The money is just a stage prop for Jake. The president said no ransom, although if the British wish to provide tons of real currency, we can probably deliver it.”

Now Schulz said a dirty word. Two, actually.

Jake waved away the subject of filthy lucre. “MI-6 says Feiz al-Darraji, the Shabab general, is dead,” he said. “Murdered by Ragnar. They can’t confirm that, but they think it’s solid.”

“So?”

Jake shrugged. “I don’t know if that is a good or bad thing.”

“One less terrorist in the world is always a good thing,” Jurgen Schulz intoned.

“Righto,” said the ambassador. “Is there anything I can pass on to my government?”

Grafton stood. “Sir, we’ll do our very best to get every man, woman and child who was aboard Sultan out alive. Whatever it takes.”

Schulz popped up and walked out. Sir Ronald shook Jake’s hand, muttered, “Good luck,” and followed him.

When the door was closed and Sal and Jake were alone, he said, “Okay, you pissed Schulz off. Now, what the hell are your plans? What do I tell the president?”

“Sit down and I’ll brief you.” Grafton reached for a map of Eyl.

Thirty minutes later Schulz scratched his head and eyed the admiral. “Think it’ll work?”

“It should. The only question is how many Sultan people or marines get killed.”

“I know you’ll do your best.”

“Every man in uniform will. Tell the president that.”

“Okay,” Molina said.

“Tell me about the money.”

Molina took a bill from his pocket and passed it to Grafton. A century.

Grafton rubbed it between his fingers, held it up to the light, then put it on his desk and used a magnifying glass to study it. He looked at the serial number, the little curlicues, all of it.

Finally he said, “Looks real to me as if I’d know.”

“Oh, it’s real as a heart attack. Right paper, ink, plates, secret marks, consecutive serial numbers, everything. Except I am named as treasurer of the United States, and I signed my name on it.”

Grafton used the glass to look again. There it was. Sal Molina. He passed it back to the president’s man. “Congratulations on the promotion. I hope the pirates don’t have an expert inspect the bills. Why did the flaw have to be so obvious?”

“The treasury secretary had a conniption fit. This was the best I could do.”

“Okay.”

EYL, SOMALIA

High Noon drove an ancient Chevrolet station wagon. The seats were tattered, two windows were missing, and a cloud of blue smoke followed it everywhere. He parked it beside the airport terminal in the last of the daylight and managed to extricate himself from the vehicle.

He adjusted the gin bottles in his coat pockets, then walked unsteadily into the terminal. To his amazement, he found nine men and a woman sitting there on silver aluminum cases. Lots of them.

One of the men approached him. “Mr. Noon?”

“That’s right. Who are you?”

“We’re newsmen. Some of these men are photographers, and this is our equipment.”

Noon took off his coat and arranged it on the back of the chair behind the only desk. Then he sat in the chair and looked at them. It was obvious who the photographers were. They wore jeans and had unkempt hair, several had tattoos, and one wore a muscle T-shirt. The well-dressed ones looked like they got their clothes from some sort of safari outfitter and were on their way to assassinate elephants.

The man in front of him wore a button-up shirt and had a colorful handkerchief wrapped around his neck and arranged just so. A full head of curly hair and a huge mustache. He said his name as if Noon should recognize it. Ricardo Something.

Noon just nodded. Settled himself comfortably in his chair and scrutinized the woman. She was slim, wore her hair in some kind of flip and was striking. Not beautiful, but striking. She held his eyes. “I am Sophia Donatelli,” she said in English, “with Mediaset.” Mediaset was, Noon knew, an Italian television network.

“We need transport to the hotel in town,” the man standing in front of him said. “For us and all our gear. And we need the services of translators. Three, at least. And if someone could arrange an introduction to this pirate, Ragnar? You know him?”

“You have been misinformed, sir. Eyl doesn’t have a hotel.”

“Well, where do people stay when they visit?”

“Don’t get many visitors around here since we are infested with pirates and Shabab holy warriors. They don’t like visitors. Rob and kill them. Most unpleasant.”

Ricardo Something rubbed his hair. “We’re the press,” he explained.

“I got that.”

“Television networks. Fox, the BBC, and Mediaset.”

“No television around here. We get a few radio stations, but they’re down in Mogadishu. One from Mombasa.”

“Ragnar. You know him?”

“Oh yes. Difficult man. Doesn’t speak English. Shy, retiring. Doesn’t give interviews, I don’t believe.”

“Can we get in to see the Sultan passengers? The ship’s officers?”

Noon tore his eyes off Sophia Donatelli and looked Ricardo up and down. “Are you crazy?”

The reporter pulled a wad of bills from his pocket. “I saw you drive up. We can pay for a ride to town.”

“Perhaps I could take Ms. Donatelli.”

“No doubt.”

Noon sighed. He uncorked a gin bottle and took a little tipple.

“A hundred dollars a trip.”