“Now, let us talk,” said the captain. He briefed Opal exactly as Benny had told him on the secure line between the trawler and Tel Aviv. Word for word. Then he gave him a sheaf of papers and a red baseball cap.
“These are what the dying man gave you before he passed away. You did your best, but there was no hope. He was too far gone. Any questions?”
Opal shook his head. The story was feasible. He tucked the papers inside his windbreaker. The captain of the Sayeret Matkal held out a hand.
“We must go back to the sea. Good luck, my friend. Mazel tov.”
It took a few moments to brush the last footprints from the dust, all save those of Opal. Then they were gone, back across the dark ocean to the waiting fishing boat. Opal hauled his trail bike back to the road and continued to the north.
• • •
Those who gathered in the office of Chauncey Reynolds were all experienced at what, over a decade of piracy, had become a mutually agreed ritual. The pirates were all clan chiefs of Puntland, operating out of an eight-hundred-mile coast from Boosaaso in the north to Mareeg, just up the coast from Mogadishu.
They were in piracy for money and that was all. Their excuse was that, years ago, fishing fleets from South Korea and Taiwan had arrived and gutted their traditional fishing grounds, from which they had made a livelihood. Whatever the rights and wrongs, they had turned to piracy and since then made huge earnings, far more than those generated by a few tuna.
They had started by boarding and capturing merchant vessels steaming past their coast just offshore. With time and expertise, they had ranged farther and farther east and south. In the beginning, their captures were small, their negotiations clumsy, and suitcases of dollar bills were dropped by light aircraft, flying up from Kenya, at a preagreed drop zone at sea.
But no one trusts anybody on that coast. There is no honor among these thieves. Ships captured by one group were stolen by another clan while at anchor. Rival packs fought over floating suitcases of cash. Eventually, a kind of agreed-upon procedure prevailed.
The crew of a captured vessel was rarely, if ever, brought ashore. Lest an anchor drag in the pounding rollers, captured ships were anchored up to two miles offshore. The officers and crew lived onboard in barely reasonable conditions, but with a dozen guards, while negotiations between their principals—shipowner and clan chief—dragged on.
On the Western side, certain companies of insurers, lawyers and negotiators became expert with experience. On the Somali side, educated negotiators—not simply Somalis but from the right clan—took over the talking. This was now done with modern technology—computers and iPhones. Even the money was rarely dropped like bombs from on high; the Somalis had numbered bank accounts, in which the money would immediately appear.
With the passage of time, negotiators from the two sides came to know each other, each simply concerned about getting the job done. But the Somalis held the aces.
For the insurers, a cargo delayed was a cargo lost. For the shipowners, a vessel not earning was an operating loss. Add to that the distress of the crew and their desperate families, and a speedy conclusion was their pressing aim. The Somali pirates knew this, and they had all the time in the world. That was the basis of the blackmail: time. Some vessels had been moored off that coast for years.
Gareth Evans had negotiated ten releases of ships and cargoes of varying values. He had studied Puntland and its mazelike tribal structures as if for a doctorate. When he heard the Malmö was steaming for Garacad, he knew which tribe controlled that stretch of coast and how many clans comprised the tribe. Several of them used the same negotiator, a smooth, urbane Somali graduate of a Midwestern American university named Mr. Ali Abdi.
All this was explained to Harry Andersson as a summer dusk settled over London and, half a world away, the Malmö steamed west to Garacad. Takeaway dinners were nibbled at the polished table of the conference room, and Mrs. Bulstrode, the tea lady who had agreed to stay on, served relay after relay of coffee.
A room was set aside as operations control for Gareth Evans. If a new Somali negotiator was going to be appointed, Capt. Eklund would be told by Stockholm which London number to call to get the ball rolling.
Gareth Evans studied the details of the Malmö and her cargo of gleaming new cars and privately calculated that they ought to be able to settle for about five million dollars. He also knew that the first demand would be miles too high. More, he knew that to agree with alacrity would be disastrous. It would immediately double. To demand speed would also be self-defeating; that, too, would raise the price. As for the imprisoned crew, that was their bad luck. They would just have to wait in patience.
Tales from repatriated seamen related that as the weeks dragged by, the onboard Somalis, mostly ill-educated tribesmen from the hills, turned the once-spruce vessel into a stinking pesthole. Lavatories were ignored, urinations took place as and when Nature called. And where, inside or out. The heat did the rest. Oil to power the generators, and thus the air-conditioning, would run out. Unfrozen food would rot, putting the crew onto the Somali goat diet, slaughtered on deck. The only diversions were fishing, board games, cards and reading, but they held boredom at bay for only just so long.
The meeting broke at ten p.m. If set on maximum power, which she probably would be, the Malmö should enter the bay of Garacad around noon London time. Shortly thereafter, they should learn who had taken her and who the nominated negotiator was. Then Gareth Evans would introduce himself, if need be, and the intricate gavotte would begin.
• • •
Opal arrived in Marka as the town slumbered in the blazing post-noon heat. He found the compound and hammered on the door. This compound was not sleeping. He could hear voices and running steps, as if someone was expected but was late.
The latch door in the heavy timber gate flicked open and a face peered out. It was an Arab face but not Somali. The eyes scanned the street but saw no pickup truck. Then they settled on Opal.
“Yes,” snapped a voice, angry that a mere nobody should seek admittance.
“I have papers for the Sheikh,” said Opal in Arabic.
“What papers?” The voice was plainly hostile but with curiosity.
“I don’t know,” said Opal. “That was what the man on the road told me to say.”
There was a buzz of conversation behind the timber. The first face was pulled aside and another took its place. Neither Somali nor Arab, but Arabic-speaking. Pakistani?
“Where are you from and what papers?”
Opal fumbled under his windbreaker and produced a sealed package.
“I come from Marka. I met a man on the road. He had crashed his pickup truck. He asked me to bring these and told me how to find this place. That is all I know.”
He tried to stuff the package through the aperture.
“No, wait,” shouted a voice, and the gate began to open. Four men stood there, fiercely bearded. He was grabbed and hauled inside. A teenage boy ran out, seized his trail bike, wheeling it inside. The gate closed. Two held him. The man who might be a Pakistani towered over him. He studied the package and sucked in a deep breath.
“Where did you get these, dog? What have you done with our friend?”
Opal played the terrified nobody, which was not hard.
“The man driving the truck, sir. I fear he is dead . . .”
That was as far as he got. A right-handed slap with full force laid him on the ground. There was confused shouting in a language he did not understand, though he spoke English, Somali and Arabic apart from his native Hebrew. Half a dozen hands picked him up and hustled him away. There was a shed of sorts built into the compound wall. He was thrown inside and heard a bolt slam. It was dark, and the place stank. He knew he had to keep up the act. He sank onto a pile of old sacks and buried his head in his hands, the universal posture of bewildered defeat.
It was half an hour before they returned. The two or three of bodyguard stature were there, but also a new one. He was
indeed Somali, and with a cultured voice. Some education perhaps. He beckoned. Opal stumbled, blinking, into the harsh sunlight.
“Come,” said the Somali, “the Sheikh wishes to see you.”
He was marched under close escort into the main building, facing the gate. In the lobby he was given a skilled and thorough frisking. His tattered wallet was taken and handed to the Somali. He extracted the usual papers and scanned them, comparing the grainy photograph to the face. Then he nodded, pocketing the wallet, turned and walked on. Opal was hustled in his wake.
They entered a well-appointed sitting room, where a large fan turned from the ceiling. There was a desk with papers and writing materials. A man sat in a swivel chair, facing away from the door. The Somali approached and murmured in the man’s ear. Opal could have sworn he had switched to Arabic. He offered the seated man the wallet and identification papers.
Opal could see the package he had brought was open and several sheets lay on the desk. The seated man turned, lifted his eyes from the wallet and stared at him. He had a full black beard and amber eyes.
10
Hardly had the Malmö dropped her anchor in twenty fathoms of water in the bay of Garacad than three aluminum skiffs were seen heading toward her from the village.
Jimali and his seven co-pirates were eager to be back on land. They had been at sea for twenty days, most of them cooped up in the Taiwanese trawler. Their supplies of fresh food were long gone, and they had been existing on European and Filipino cuisine, which they did not like, for two weeks. They wanted to get back to their native goat stew diet and the feel of sand under their feet.
The dark heads crouching in the oncoming skiffs from the shore a mile away were those of the relief crew, who would guard the ship at anchor for as long as it took.
Only one of those approaching the Malmö was not a ragged tribesman. Primly at the back of the third skiff sat a neatly dressed Somali in a well-cut fawn safari jacket and trousers. He held an attaché case on his knees. This was al-Afrit’s chosen negotiator, Mr. Abdi.
“Now it begins,” said Capt. Eklund. He spoke in English, the language common to the Swede, Ukrainians, the Pole and Filipinos onboard. “We must be patient. Leave the talking to me.”
“No speak,” snapped Jimali. He disliked his captives speaking even in English because his grasp of it was not very strong.
A ladder was lowered over the side and the mainly teenage relief guards came up it, hardly seeming to touch the rungs. Mr. Abdi, who did not like being at sea, even a mile out, took his time and clung firmly to the guy ropes as he climbed. His attaché case was passed up to him when his feet hit the deck.
Captain Eklund did not know who he was but recognized from his dress and manner that this was at least an educated man. He stepped forward.
“I am Captain Eklund, master of the Malmö,” he said.
Mr. Abdi held out his hand. “I am Ali Abdi, the appointed negotiator for the Somali end of things,” he said. His English was fluent, with a slight American intonation. “You have never been . . . how shall I put it? . . . a guest of the Somali people before?”
“No,” said the captain. “And I would prefer not to be now.”
“Of course. Most distressing, from your point of view. But you have been briefed, no? There are certain formalities that must be gone through, then meaningful negotiations can begin. The sooner an accord is reached, the sooner you will be on your way.”
Captain Eklund knew that, far away, his employer would be in conclave with insurers and lawyers, and they, too, would appoint a single negotiator. Both, he hoped, would be skilled and experienced and would accomplish a quick ransom payment and release. He clearly did not know the rules. Speed was now the concern of the Europeans only.
Abdi’s first concern was to be escorted to the bridge to make contact on the ship’s satellite phone with the control center in Stockholm and then the negotiation office, presumably in London, the home of Lloyd’s, which would be the epicenter of the whole bargaining process. As he surveyed the deck from the vantage of the bridge, he murmured: “It might be wise to rig canvas awnings in the spaces left by the deck cargo. Then your crew can take the sea air without being roasted by the sun.”
Stig Eklund had heard of the Stockholm syndrome, the procedure whereby kidnappers and captives formed a friendship bond based on shared proximity. He had no intention of relaxing his inner loathing for the people who had seized his ship. On the other hand, the neatly dressed, educated and well-spoken Somali, in the person of Ali Abdi, was at least someone he could communicate with on a civilized basis.
“Thank you,” he said. His first and second officers were standing behind him. They had heard and understood. He nodded to them and they left the bridge to hang the awnings.
“And now, if you please, I must speak to your people in Stockholm,” said Abdi.
The sat phone had Stockholm on the line in seconds. Abdi’s face lit up when he heard the ship’s owner was even then in London with Chauncey Reynolds. He had twice negotiated, albeit for other clan chiefs, for the release of vessels through Chauncey Reynolds and each time they had been successful, with only a few weeks of delay. Given the number, he asked Capt. Eklund to raise the London lawyers. Julian Reynolds came on the line.
“Ah, Mr. Reynolds, we speak again. This is Mr. Ali Abdi on the bridge of the Malmö, with Captain Eklund beside me.”
In London, Julian Reynolds looked pleased. He covered the mouthpiece and said, “It’s Abdi again.” There was a sigh of relief, and that included Gareth Evans. Everyone at the London end had heard of the foul reputation of al-Afrit, the cruel old tyrant who ruled Garacad. The appointment of the urbane Abdi caused a flicker of light in the gloom.
“Good morning, Mr. Abdi. Salaam aleikhem.”
“Aleikhem as-salaam,” responded Abdi over the airwaves. He suspected the Swedes and British would happily wring his neck if they had a free choice, but the Muslim greeting was a nice attempt at civility. He appreciated civility.
“I am going to pass you to someone I think you already know,” said Reynolds. He passed the receiver to Gareth Evans and switched to conference call. The voice from the Somali shore was clear as a bell. It was just as clear to the ears at Fort Meade and Cheltenham, who were recording everything.
“Hello, Mr. Abdi. This is Mr. Gareth. We meet again, if only in space. I have been asked to handle the London end of things.”
In London, five men—the shipowner, two lawyers, an insurer and Gareth Evans—heard Abdi’s chortle over the speaker system.
“Mr. Gareth, my friend. I am so glad it is you. I am sure we can lead this matter to a good conclusion.”
Abdi’s habit of putting the “Mr.” in front of the given name was his way of landing between frostily formal and too intimate. He always referred to Gareth Evans as Mr. Gareth.
“I have a room set aside for me in the law office here in London,” said Evans. “Shall I move in there so that we can start?”
It was too fast for Abdi. The formalities had to be observed. One was to impress on the Europeans that the hurry was all on their side. He knew Stockholm would already have calculated just how much the Malmö was now costing them on a daily basis; ditto the insurers, of which there would be three.
One firm would cover the hull and machinery, a different firm the cargo, and a third would be the war risk underwriters holding cover on the crew. They would all have different calculations of loss, ongoing or pending. Let them stew with their figures a while longer, he thought. What he said was: “Ah, Mr. Gareth, my friend, you are ahead of me. I need a little more time to study the Malmö and her cargo before I can propose a reasonable figure that you can confidently put to your principals for settlement.”
He had already been online from his private room, set aside for him in the sand-blasted fortress in the hills behind Garacad, which was the headquarters of al-Afrit. He knew there were factors such as age and condition of the freighter, perishability of the cargo and loss of futur
e likely earnings to be computed.
But he had done all that and had decided on a starting figure of twenty-five million dollars. He knew he would probably settle on four million, maybe five if the Swede was in a hurry.
“Mr. Gareth, let me propose we begin tomorrow morning. Say, nine o’clock London time? That will be midday here. I shall by then be back in my office onshore.”
“Very well, my friend. I shall be here to take your call.”
It would be a satellite call by computer. There would be no question of using Skype. Facial expressions can give too much away.
“There is one last thing before we break for the day. Do I have your assurance that the crew, including the Filipinos, will be detained safely onboard and not molested in any way?”
No other Somali heard this, for those on the Malmö were out of earshot of the bridge and could not speak English anyway. But Abdi caught the meaning.
By and large, the Somali warlords and clan chiefs treated their captives humanely, but there were one or two notable exceptions. Al-Afrit was one, and the worst, a vicious old brute with a reputation.
At a personal level, Abdi would work for al-Afrit, and his fee would be twenty percent. His labors as hostage negotiator for pirates were making him a wealthy man much younger than usual. But he did not have to like his principal and he did not. He despised him. But he did not have a corps of bodyguards around him.
“I am confident that all the crew will remain onboard and be well treated,” he intoned, then ended the call. He just prayed he was right.
• • •
The amber eyes gazed at the young prisoner for a dozen seconds. Silence reigned in the room. Opal could sense the educated Somali, who had let him into the courtyard, and two Pakistani bodyguards behind him. When the voice came, it was surprisingly gentle and in Arabic.
“What is your name?”