The Devil's Waters

CHAPTER 13





Pirate skiffs

Alongside CMA CGN Valnea

Gulf of Aden

The cargo ship stopped swerving. Yusuf’s skiff closed against the great hull behind the long rope, jostling over foam.

Minutes later, the searchlight went out.

Yusuf and his gunner kept weapons in hand, sights on the rail above. The Valnea drove ahead, droning and deafening. Yusuf’s night vision, spoiled by the spotlight, reasserted itself. Stars emerged. He left his gunner to guard the skiff and admired the constellations.

The helmsman gunned the skiff’s engines, bending Yusuf’s knees to make him sit. The skiff angled away from the hull, away from the long gangway dropping where the boat had been. Yusuf moved to the skiff’s bow. With his onyx-handled blade he slashed the tow rope. Guleed on the other side would be cut loose. He would know they had taken the ship.

On the descending staircase Suleiman stood, arms raised in triumph. He looked foolishly pleased with himself after so much reluctance to take on this hijacking. When Yusuf stepped onto the platform, he embraced his tol.

“Are you all right?” he asked close to Suleiman’s ear.

“Yes, of course. Why?”

“All those teeth. I thought you might be in pain. I see it’s a smile.”

Suleiman shouted, “We did it, cousin.”

“You did it. All I did was hang on and ride.”

“We lost only one. There was shooting. It’s safe now.”

“What about the ship’s crew? Do we have them?”

“We have enough.”

On the black gulf, a white wake carved from behind the Valnea’s stern. Guleed’s skiff motored their way. The two waited on the platform for the third cousin, to circle him in their arms, then climb the stairs to the captured ship.

Yusuf led them up the gangway. The long walk winded him and amazed him, that they had taken this massive freighter. If she’d been steaming at flank speed, Yusuf might only be nipping at the Valnea’s heels right now, flinging grappling hooks that fell short, firing rocket grenades at her, and screaming threats over the radio. They might be drowned after flipping in the vessel’s much bigger wake. Maybe shot dead by her guards or a warship’s helicopter. Or fleeing.

Yusuf let the mystery of the Valnea’s speed go unsolved for now. He stepped onto the deck, out of his sandals, to feel her under his soles. She was his, if only until daybreak, when he anchored her off Qandala. Robow would be waiting there. The sheikh had his intentions for her, as well. But tonight, plowing the sea, Yusuf was her master.

Suleiman took him by the arm. “I have five men on the bridge. Guleed will turn us for Qandala. I have six others out searching. Someone’s loose on the ship.”

“Who, a guard?”

“I don’t know. So far he’s done nothing against us. We’ll find him. I have eight more waiting in the engine room.”

“Is the crew locked in?”

“Most of them.”

Suleiman sent Guleed to the pilothouse. Then he led Yusuf not to the engine room but into the accommodation. They stopped at a door with a red cross on it. Suleiman nodded to the guard he’d posted there.

Inside sat a raven-haired man. Standing, his dented face rose as high as Yusuf’s. The man winced; some pain shot through him. He seemed unhurt. Was it a thought?

Behind him on a cot lay a naked lad wrapped in bandages. The unconscious boy looked bad, cooked red and blistered. One bag of clear fluid fed into him, another, of dark urine, led out.

Suleiman motioned with the introductions. “Yusuf Raage, this is Captain Drozdov. We caught him carrying this boy to the elevator.”

Drozdov eyed Yusuf, pushing his tongue behind his lips.

“Yusuf Raage, the pirate. I recognize this name.”

Yusuf inclined his brow. “How do you know me, Captain?”

“How do the Americans say? This is not my first rodeo.”

“I am flattered.”

“Don’t be. You are svoloch’.”

Yusuf folded his arms, leaning against the infirmary wall to wait.

Drozdov translated. “Bastard.”

“Keep that in mind. Now come with us to the engine room.”

“No.”

Yusuf stepped closer, assessing the captain. Drozdov seemed of Yusuf’s age, a slighter build, but alcohol kept a man thin. Powerful hands, a dark eye.

“You have seen misery, Captain.”

“From the likes of you, yes.”

“Then you understand what I have to do. Suleiman. The boy.”

Yusuf’s kinsman stepped to the cot. Before he could slide arms under the young sailor, Drozdov shoved him away. Suleiman backed off and drew his pistol.

Drozdov asked, “Why?”

“My cousin here can put that gun against your head outside the engine room, or this boy’s head. I prefer the boy only because he will stay quiet. But you, we do not have to carry. Your crew will come out either way, and we can go about our business. Besides, one of your guards shot one of my men. It seems fair.”

Drozdov did not shift his defiant posture.

“It’s just a ship, Captain. Someone else’s ship, not yours. It’s not worth lives. Only money.”

Drozdov stormed past Suleiman’s outstretched gun, to fling open the infirmary door. In the hall, the guard jumped in surprise. The captain walked the length of the hall, headed for the stairwell. Yusuf kept pace.

“Captain.”

“What?”

“May I ask a question?”

“So polite. Where did you get manners, pirate?”

“In England. Where I grew up.”

Drozdov made a spitting noise.

“Ask.”

“Why is your ship going so slowly?”

Drozdov stopped in the hall. Face to face, he growled. “You know why.”

“Tell me so I can see if you know.”

“Sabotage.”

“You’re sure of this?”

“Vali otsyuda sure. Positive! You have put someone on my ship! You are worse than bastard. You are govnosos. Shit sucker.”

Drozdov stomped away. Yusuf held his ground, gesturing for the guard to stay with the captain to the staircase. Suleiman sidled close.

In a low voice, he asked, “Do you have someone on this crew?”

“No.”

In a second, all the victory of the hijacking leaked out of Suleiman. His head sagged to his chest, gold teeth bared.

Yusuf asked, “What does this mean?”

“It means everything I was afraid of has happened. We are being maneuvered by someone. It means we are puppets.”

Yusuf set a hand to Suleiman’s shoulder. He recalled this narrow, older shoulder at his side fighting in Plumstead alleys, plucking fish from the Somali sea, shaking and angry at sickness and civil war. Suleiman had stood with Yusuf on the bridge of six captured ships, had divided millions of dollars. Both had put blood on their hands for each other and for their clan. At every step, they had never been puppets.

“Lift your head, cousin. We are kings of this land. Come.”




The window framed a blue-eyed face in earmuffs. The glass was shatterproof, the door a steel watertight portal. The crew behind this door was impregnable.

Suleiman pushed his pistol against Drozdov’s temple. The Russian set his mouth hard, staring into the window and the head gaping back. Believing his life was on the line, Drozdov seemed to will his crew to stay locked in the engine room. What sort of man was this? Yusuf put this aside, another mystery to be untangled later. He stepped in front of his eight pirates holding automatic weapons ready.

Yusuf waggled the walkie-talkie he’d taken from Drozdov. The man in the window nodded, then pulled aside one earmuff to press a similar radio to his ear. The noise in the engine room was surely intense.

“Can you hear me?” Yusuf called into his handset.

The face nodded.

“I do not need you to come out. I have my hostages. The captain and the burned boy. The warships will not come to your rescue. You may all stay in the engine room.”

The blue eyes widened.

“But hear me. If you touch the engine, if you disable one system on this ship, I will bring the captain back down here in pieces. Then the boy. Do you understand?”

The face licked lips. He turned away, glancing to someone behind him. It seemed he got no guidance. He looked back at Yusuf without defiance or strategy.

“If you come out, we will feed you and keep you safe. I know you have wounded with you. They will get care. Do you have weapons?”

The face nodded.

“I want every armed man to walk out first. Then the crew. I need an answer now.”

The man lowered the walkie-talkie. He turned his back to the window. Yusuf imagined him shouting to the gathered crew: They have the captain. They have the boy. What should we do?

The discussion inside the loud engine room concluded quickly. The blue eyes returned and bobbed agreement.

The steel wheel of the door turned from the inside. Yusuf’s pirates lifted their weapons. The locking chocks spun. The door edged open.

A swell of engine clatter emerged first, then the man in the window, sheathed in black. He offered his automatic weapon to Yusuf. At his back came another guard, also surrendering his arms. The third, the largest of them, dragged himself propped on the shoulders of two Filipino crewmen. Gauze wrapped the man’s bare torso, scarlet seeped through the layers. He carried no gun.

Suleiman stopped him. “You were the one shooting.”

The big guard shook slowly, his laughter agonized into a cough.

“So were you.”

“Where is your rifle?”

“I dropped it in the water.”

Suleiman pushed a finger against the bandages to hold the big man in place. The two eyed each other, stopping the line, scowling as men who had traded bullets.

“Do you mind?” the guard rasped. “I prefer to lie down.” The guard hobbled to the elevator. Both smaller Filipinos struggled to support him.

Yusuf counted the seamen leaving the loud engine room, all of them shedding earmuffs. Twenty-seven filed past, including one strapped to a backboard carried between a pair of Russians. Adding the captain and burned boy, that accounted for all the crew and officers, plus three guards.

One of them was the saboteur. Whose man was it? Al-Qaeda, CIA, Mossad?

When the last sailors had been escorted up the stairs, Yusuf and Suleiman were left with Drozdov. Suleiman sealed the heavy portal, restoring quiet.

Yusuf asked the captain, “Is that everyone?”

“Yes.”

Suleiman seemed more galled by the minute. He shoved his gold teeth close to Drozdov, holding the pistol high beside his own head to show that it was asking, too.

“Then who did my men chase?”

Drozdov gave no inch. “My passenger. Iris Cherlina.”

Yusuf eased his cousin back from the Russian. “A woman passenger?”

“Yes.”

“She is on the manifest?”

“Of course.”

Yusuf turned Drozdov for the stairs. The captain walked off, muttering in Russian, surly as Suleiman.

“Just a woman, cousin.” Yusuf linked his kinsman’s arm. “Let her go.”

“At this speed,” Suleiman whispered, “it won’t be four hours to Qandala. It’s eight.”

“I know. We’ll make it. We anchor at sunup.” Yusuf towed Suleiman to the stairs. “Then we get off this damn ship.”