Stephen Coonts - Pirate Alley

“When is the ball going to open?” Bullet Bob asked.

“Ahh … don’t know. We’ll pass that date and time along when we receive it.”

Quinn turned off the radio and looked at his team members. “Heavies are still cogitating,” he reported.

“They do that.”

“They are slow cogitators.”

“Old and decrepit.”

“Not young and virile and handsome, like us.”

“Amen.”

* * *

The news of our arrival spread quickly. Sophia Donatelli from Mediaset, her photographer and a reporter/photographer team from the BBC were waiting in the square. Grafton graciously granted an interview. Noon and I stood to one side watching.

The questions came thick and fast. Grafton was here on behalf of the ship owners, he said, and at the request of the British and American governments. He had begun negotiations with Sheikh Ragnar for the release of the ship Sultan, the crew and the passengers. When an agreement had been reached, he would hold a press conference and inform them of the terms.

Needless to say, Sophia Donatelli had my attention. She wasn’t a raving beauty, but she had presence. She glanced at me and I gave her a grin, and got a flash of one in return.

That warmed me right up, and I was beginning to feel better about this Somali gig when I happened to glance up. Ragnar was leaning over his balcony watching.

That did it for my bonhomie. I looked around, taking in the half-starved women and kids, the men with guns, the grungy boats on the beach, the brilliant sun, the empty sea, the hot wind off the desert, the derelict ships …

Maybe we are all coming to this, when there are too many people, not enough resources, people don’t care about decency or their fellow humans or … Or maybe I’m an idiot.

One thing for sure: The CIA doesn’t pay me to philosophize.

I made sure my pistol was riding properly, within easy reach, and concentrated on the interview. There were the usual questions trying to drag specifics from him, but Grafton deflected them all, smiling at everyone. As he made his escape, he nodded his head so I would know to follow. Noon was waiting to escort us up the hill.

* * *

We walked to the fortress. Noon was willing to drive, but Grafton refused. He said he had been sitting too much the last few days. Through the square, through a neighborhood of shacks and outdoor restaurants-maybe they served liquor-and past a couple of shacks with partially clad women sitting out front. Looked like whorehouses to me, but I have led a sheltered life.

Up the hill. Grafton and Noon were in an earnest, quiet conversation. I wondered what that was all about but was too conventional to ask. When Grafton wants me to know something, he tells me. Got that habit in the navy, I guess, and his wife never broke him of it. As we approached, I could see a lot of people on the roof, trying to get a bit of fresh air and sun. Got glimpses of them through the gun cuts in the wall, which as I knew was about six feet thick.

So we walked into the fortress, which stank despite the desert wind coming through the door and flowing out the gun ports. People packed in there like it was a Japanese railway car. I thought I could smell diesel fuel, but maybe not. Sure got a good whiff of human excrement and unwashed bodies.

Noon introduced Grafton to the captain, I think. He was wearing what had once been a white uniform and had four stripes on his shoulder boards. He and Grafton had another quiet conversation. The captain did a lot of talking and Grafton listened. When the admiral spoke, the captain listened carefully.

Those two were still at it when some television guy who said his name was Ricardo came blasting in, talking loudly. “You’re with the American government,” he said to Grafton. “We’re the press, and that pirate has imprisoned us. You must get us out immediately.”

“All these people have the same problem,” Grafton said mildly. “Why don’t you go sit down and let me finish my conversation with Captain Penney?”

“But we’re the press,” he howled. “Television reporters.”

“And these people are consumers of your wonderful product. Sit down, please.”

The fellow looked as if he needed a more forceful argument to persuade him, so I latched onto the back of his neck with one hand and squeezed a little. Marched him into the next room and found a vacant spot to drop him. He spluttered all the way.

Two women buttonholed me before I could get back to Grafton. “You’re with the American government?”

I admitted it.

“They took a woman from here. Nora Neidlinger. She’s-”

“She sorta slim, brunette, short hair, tan, with a nice figure?”

“Why, yes.”

“I’ve seen her.”

“Is she okay?”

“She’s alive.”

“Her daughter is beside herself.”

“I see.”

Truly, I didn’t know what else to say. I went on, saw an Arab in there, Atom something, some Italians, Brits, Americans from all over. All of them were in bad shape. Most of them seemed to be suffering from dehydration. All of them were dirty … they told me of dysentery, of the people that had died the previous night.

By the time I got back to Grafton I was ready to strangle some pirates. Grafton must have seen it in my face. He led me outside to where Noon was waiting.

“Mr. Noon, we’ll be down the hill shortly. Would you meet us in the square?”

Noon set forth down the hill. Grafton looked around, then faced me. “I see the wires going up the building. You were right-those are antennas. We can’t dig the batteries and capacitors and detonators up, so we must find the radio controllers.”

“You know there are more than one.”

“Your job tonight is to find them. Start with Ragnar’s hotel. I’ll tell you when.”

“How are we going to know if we got all of them?”

“We’ll have to ask Ragnar, of course.”

He started walking. I caught up with him, matched him stride for stride. He walked with his head down, looking at the road, lost in thought.

“Those people are sick,” Jake Grafton said to Ragnar. “Seven dead of dysentery already, and more will die today and tonight. They need medicine and clean water, and the sickest ones need to be evacuated.”

Grafton sounded like a man ordering a pizza. Didn’t raise his voice, didn’t look nervous or flustered, looked like a man in perfect control of himself and the situation. He looked like a man used to command.

High Noon translated that bit while I glanced around. The woman was still there, sitting in the corner. Obviously American or European, well-endowed, tan, nice set of legs and arms, a face that showed nothing. I suspected she wasn’t having a pleasant time of it. Ragnar had her sitting there to show her off, his trophy, to his men and Grafton and me.

Before Ragnar could reply to Noon’s translation, Grafton started talking again. “Nora Neidlinger”-he gestured at the woman-“was a passenger on that ship. She is an American. I want her released right now.”

Ragnar’s face darkened as he listened. I glanced at Neidlinger, who was wearing the best poker face I had ever seen. I wondered if she was sedated.

The pirate chieftain erupted. Words poured forth, plus much gesturing. He was nervous, couldn’t hold still. He looked at his men as much as he did Grafton, and I realized he was playing to them. He had to hold on to their loyalty no matter what. If he lost it, the gig was over. Nothing was more important than that.

Noon started talking, even though Ragnar didn’t even pause. “Two hundred million American dollars in old bills. Three days from now. Friday. At noon. Or we kill them all. Everyone. Old, young, men, women, sick, healthy, all of them. No medicine. No tricks. No one leaves. Pay the money!”