The Devil's Waters

CHAPTER 18





CMA CGN Valnea

Gulf of Aden

Drozdov sat with his officers and the Filipinos beneath the long windshield of the darkened wheelhouse. Yusuf came for him, asking that he take the captain’s chair.

“Please,” Yusuf said.

“Spasiba. No. I will sit with crew.” Since Yusuf had come aboard twenty minutes ago, the Russian, already thin and angular, had grown more pallid. Duskiness deepened his eye sockets.

“But you are the captain.”

Drozdov mimed spitting on the floor. “And you are murderer.”

Suleiman was on the ship’s deck, putting guards in place. Guleed, younger and more hot-tempered, took a stride forward behind his Kalashnikov.

Yusuf said, “Then, with that in mind, please come to your chair.”

A chubby, whispering officer prevailed on Drozdov to rise from the floor. The Filipino crewmen approved with nods that he retake his place while they sat herded and hostage in front of Yusuf’s guns. Drozdov stood, and Yusuf ushered him around the wide dash to the leather chairs.

The two sat side by side. The bridge remained gloomily lit to preserve night vision, the only radiance coming from the gauges and radar screens. The ship coursed darkly across the gulf, save for red and green running lights fore and aft, and a white steaming light atop the bow mast. Amber glows off the dash made Drozdov appear even more cadaverous.

From the copilot seat, Yusuf surveyed the ship’s instruments. Compass heading 110º SE, engine turning rpms at twelve knots. The radar showed the Valnea with her naval escort Nicholas holding off the port beam. Eighty miles of empty sea stretched ahead to the Somali coast.

“Captain.”

“What?”

“I want to ask you for waawaan. A truce.”

“Not possible.”

Yusuf leaned into the space between the pilots’ chairs. He lowered his voice.

“I was not born into a violent world. I had parents who taught me stories and poems. I’m sure you understand, Africa is a changeable land. In the last twenty years, Somalia has changed more than others. We have seen civil war. We’ve been invaded by foreigners, driven them off, and fell again into civil war. We are torn apart. Little men have become lords of little lands. The greed of greater nations has made us beggars. Some of us cannot beg, so we chose instead to become thieves. I have no course but this, Captain. I cannot choose what I do, only how. I do not wish for more violence, but you must know it is a tool at my command. I want your cooperation to be willing. But I will force it.”

Drozdov listened without looking at Yusuf, fixing his gaze forward into the night.

“Yes, I know begging.”

“Do you.”

Drozdov nodded, solemn.

“Three years ago, I am captain of MV Stanislaus. Crew of twenty-two. Malta to Mombasa, five thousand containers, famine relief. We carry nothing but food for starving people. Somali skiffs came at dawn, rockets and guns. They took half hour to get on board, not so good as you. We were taken to Somali coast, to Eyl.”

Drozdov swung his head heavily, sadly, to Yusuf.

“We anchored there eight months. Pirates and shipping company, insurance, negotiators, all bosses, played games with ransom. The crew, we wait on Stanislaus with hunger, illness”— Drozdov tapped a finger into his temple—“a boredom that could kill a man. And the Somalis? Our hosts? They chewed qaat and slaughtered animals, entertained themselves by pretending executions of the crew. They said to me your company will not pay. We must convince them. A dozen times, I am put on my knees with gun to my head.” Drozdov set his finger to the middle of his forehead, crooking the thumb to mimic a pistol. “Click. The last few times I begged them to put a bullet in the f*cking thing. I could not stand another day. Then, surprise. I had to stand one more day. For eight months.”

Yusuf leaned onto his elbow, closer, eye to eye with Drozdov. “What kind of dogs do you have in Russia, that you can beat them for years and they will not bite you? We do not have those dogs in Somalia.”

“You have lost, Yusuf Raage? Yes? Eto mnye do huya. I have lost! Three years, I lose my family, job, my health. And never did the begging stop. I had to beg for this damn ship.”

Folding his arms as if closing a door, Drozdov sat back.

Yusuf leaned away, returning the span between them. He’d known of the Stanislaus. The pirates were Abgaal of the Hawiya clan from the south. The eight-month negotiation in Eyl showed that they were poorly organized; to Yusuf’s knowledge, that crew took no more ships. Yusuf believed Drozdov’s story, if for no other reason than the ruin of the man sitting beside him in the captain’s chair.

“Yes,” he said mildly to ease the temper of their talk, “this damn ship. In seven hours, you will be anchoring again, Captain, this time off the coast of my village, Qandala. You have my word the ransom will be arranged quickly. Under my orders you and your crew will be treated as misafir, guests, so long as your own conduct warrants. I promise you also I will not blink to execute you or anyone who challenges me. I will not apologize for the pirates of the Stanislaus. As you say, they were not as good as me.”

Drozdov glowered, silent and set against Yusuf. The dim wheelhouse was hushed, marked only by the drone of the engine and the hostages shifting beneath the windshield. Guleed paced their length.

“I want to confide something in you,” Yusuf said. The captain shot him a glance, keeping himself upright. “If you’d been going twenty-four knots, we might not have been able to board you without a fight. You should know I did not sabotage this ship. I had nothing to do with it.”

Drozdov’s head snapped around. “This is true?”

“Yes, Captain. I wish I could take credit; it would have been a brilliant move to have someone on board working for me. But I am not so clever.” Yusuf aimed an accusing finger at the sitting seamen but locked his eyes on Drozdov. “One of them is responsible. One of your crew wanted me on this ship.”

Yusuf pushed out of the copilot’s chair.

“I do not like being manipulated. You do not like being betrayed and hijacked. In this, we have a common interest. Stand up, Captain.”

Drozdov got to his feet. Silently, he moved around the dash to stand in front of his men. All of them had heard Yusuf’s words. On the floor, the Filipinos looked to each other, to find someone among them with an explanation. The officers shook heads at their wrathful captain glaring down on them; they all denied guilt.

Behind him, Yusuf said, “Let’s find out who is working against us. For this, again, I ask a truce.”

“Da.”

“Cousin.” Guleed stepped up. “Watch them.”

“Where are you going?”

“The captain and I are off to see why this damn ship is so important.”

Drozdov tried with his stare to burn a confession from the crew. Yusuf turned him away.

“We are going to have a look belowdecks.”