Stephen Coonts - Pirate Alley

When he wound down Grafton spoke in the same flat tone he had used before. “I told him I would speak to my government. Perhaps they will authorize more money. Perhaps not. In the meantime, he must show good faith. He must release Ms. Neidlinger and allow medicine, water and food to be brought in by helicopters. They can land on top of the fortress. The sickest people will be evacuated. Two helicopters. Only two.”

“No.”

Grafton found a chair and pulled it around and sat in it. He slouched and crossed his legs. Comfortable. “How do I know that Ragnar will release everyone and the ship after the money is paid?”

“You have my word.”

“How do I know that you have not made a deal with the Shabab to kill them after you get the money?”

“Do you take me for a fool? I know that once the hostages are gone, the Americans and Europeans can attack this town and kill everyone in it. What is to prevent them? Only my doing as promised. My good faith and honor keeps me alive. And all my men. The hostages have not been harmed. When the money is paid they will be released.”

“I have been told the Shabab wishes to betray you.”

“A lie.”

“You cannot spend corpses.”

“Your people will be returned alive.”

“We will not pay for dead people.”

Ragnar’s eyes became cold, hard. “I know about Osama bin Laden. I know your government can kill anywhere. Anyone. I need no threats.”

“The Shabab would like to see you dead.”

This comment went through the group like chain lightning. They snapped at each other, fingered their weapons; Ragnar shouted at one of his sons.

“Two hundred million American dollars,” Grafton said, “but only for all the hostages. Nothing extra for anyone.”

As Noon translated, Grafton walked over to the duffel bag that contained the money. It was still half full. He picked it up, turned it upside down and let the bills cascade onto the floor. He picked up a handful, looked at it, then tossed it down.

“Two hundred times this much,” he said, glancing at Noon, who translated.

Grafton took his seat again and slouched comfortably.

Three more minutes of thrust and parry, but Ragnar kept looking at the bills heaped up on the floor. I knew then he was going to surrender, and so did Grafton.

When the pirates quieted down Grafton returned to the subject of helicopters. More harsh words. Ragnar kept glancing at the money from time to time.

Finally Ragnar nodded. Grafton held out his hand to me for the radio. I pulled it from the backpack without letting my underwear or the Ruger fall on the floor.

He turned the thing on, fiddled with frequencies and volume, then made a call. It was immediately answered.

“This is Grafton.” He explained what he wanted. Two hours, he was told. He apparently knew the person on the other end, and they made a few personal remarks. Grafton closed with, “And I want you to send a message to the powers that be. Tell them Ragnar wants two hundred million and won’t take a penny less.”

“Wilco.”

“Thanks, Toad.”

Grafton put the radio in his shirt pocket, leaned back in the chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “Tell him two hours,” he said to Noon, then turned and glanced at Neidlinger. Motioned to her. She rose and came over, stood near him while Ragnar’s face flushed. He was one mean bastard; I could read it in his face.

“I may be able to get you out of here,” he said. “These people want money so badly that-”

“No,” she said softly, looking at him, not Ragnar.

A look of surprise crossed the admiral’s face, then disappeared. “Why?”

“I’m going to kill the son of a bitch.”

Grafton thought about that, studied her face for a few seconds, then said, “A better option would be to ride a chopper out of here and leave Ragnar to me. Take your daughter with you.”

“No.” The word came quickly.

Grafton seemed to be searching for words. “Revenge is a wonderful thing,” he said finally, “yet it comes in many varieties. There is something going on here I don’t understand.”

She shrugged. Walked back to the corner and resumed her seat.

Grafton glanced thoughtfully at me, and his mouth made a little O. Then he scrutinized Ragnar and his sons and lieutenants, taking a moment to examine each one, as if committing their faces to memory. He took his time, as if he had all the time in the world. It was Ragnar who got the fidgets.

Grafton wiggled one finger at High Noon. “Tell him I want the American television reporter and photographer released from that prison. As a sign of his good faith, his honor.”

Noon did so. Ragnar nodded once. One of the lieutenants left the room and started down the stairs. When his footsteps had faded, Grafton stood and shook out his trousers. “Mr. Noon, perhaps it would be best if we left before we wear out our welcome with the sheikh. Thank him for his hospitality. When I hear from my government, I will return for another negotiating session.”

Noon made this statement, drawing himself up as he did so. To my relief, Ragnar didn’t object. I got the impression that Grafton didn’t care one way or the other.

When we reached the bottom of the stairs and exited the building, Grafton had my arm. The reporters were out in the square and ready with cameras and lights. “We’ll get to them in a minute,” he said. He wrapped a hand around my arm and gently pulled me for a block or so, then into the doorway of a building so dirty and old that I looked for the sign DR. LIVINGSTON SLEPT HERE. With his mouth only six inches or so from my ear, he told me his plan, and my part in it. The exposition took fifteen minutes. I could feel the panic start way down inside me, well up like hot lava. The hairs on the backs of my arms and hands stood to attention.

I had objections, of course. What if I failed to achieve the results he wanted? What if the pirates killed me?

“They won’t,” he said dismissively.

There are some things about Jake Grafton that I am not skeptical about anymore. He is the coolest, most calculating gambler alive, he will stake everything on his ability to force events to unfold as he wills them, he has ice water in his veins and no nerves at all, and when he strikes, he does so suddenly, violently and ruthlessly, with devastating accuracy and effect. In truth, he is the embodiment of the perfect warrior.

There are days when I think he should forgo clothes and wear a steel suit, complete with helmet, chain-mail gloves, sword and lance. This was one of them.

“Sir Jake,” I muttered as he went into greater detail about my role in his drama.

“What?”

“Nothing. A brain fart. Forget it.”

Ten minutes later we went out into the square. Ricardo was getting set up. His photographer told me the generator would take a few minutes to get enough charge on his batteries to get him back in business.

Grafton wasn’t waiting. He was chatting with Sophia Donatelli and the BBC dude, Rab Bishop. The Brit was pretty buttoned-down, I thought. He wanted to know Grafton’s background, a subject the admiral wasn’t interested in throwing much light on.

In a few minutes, Ricardo was ready to go. As the three cameras focused on him, Grafton spoke easily, as cool as a congressman just reelected by a landslide.

“I have been having discussions with Sheikh Ragnar. The sheikh has agreed to allow two helicopters from Task Force 151 to provide humanitarian aid to the passengers and crew of the Sultan . They should land on the fortress in a little more than an hour. Meanwhile, I shall relay his ransom demands to my superiors, who of course have given them careful consideration, and will do so again. The British and American governments are philosophically opposed to paying ransom to pirates, yet there are humanitarian considerations here that must be weighed carefully. Sometimes public policy must bow to the sanctity of human life. We will know more in a few hours, I hope. If you have any questions, I will try to answer them within the scope of my authority, which, as you may suspect, is very limited.”