The Devil's Waters

CHAPTER 29





On board CMA CGN Valnea

Gulf of Aden

Yusuf and Suleiman spoke to every man on the starboard rail. They handed out cigarettes and talked disparagingly of the American warship tracking them. Yusuf did not know these men well; Suleiman had been in charge of picking them. From each Yusuf collected name, village, subclan, and family. The pirates bowed to him when Suleiman shared the news of extra shares for all from the ransom.

Reaching the bow, four men gathered in the white glow of the steaming light. Yusuf leaned over the rail to look down at the bulbous bow skipping over the sea, carving the great crest that had almost thwarted them four hours ago. The frightened helmsman, the one who’d grabbed Yusuf’s feet to steady him in the skiff, came forward sheepishly. Yusuf shook his hand.

“Mahad sanid.”

The pirate lowered his forehead to touch Yusuf’s knuckles.

All four were grateful for the quiet of the night and the ease of the hijacking, though one of their original number had been shot during the boarding. While they appreciated that man’s sacrifice, he was not of their village. When Suleiman mentioned the added shares, they asked if the dead pirate’s family would also benefit from the bonus. Suleiman asked what they thought about it. They said no.

Yusuf kept his face to the wind. The horizon lay bare, with no trace of land. He wished, only for a moment, his destination was not dark little Qandala but Mogadishu, Jeddah, Aden, some city with lights visible from fifty miles out. He wanted a glow earlier than the sun, something to see and push for, some bit of this night finished. The freighter’s bow heaved forward into blackness, toward more blackness.

Yusuf led Suleiman into the passage along the port rail. In the east, the moon had not yet risen. They stopped to talk with the pirates on guard there, each forty meters apart. Yusuf learned more names and homes. He gave out his last cigarettes.

They strode the rail to speak with the pirate stationed beside the superstructure. Halfway there, from behind, Suleiman asked, “What are you doing?”

Yusuf stopped. “Speak.”

“You’re nervous. I haven’t seen you like this.”

Yusuf wished he’d kept a last cigarette for himself. Lighting it would settle him.

“Perhaps. I don’t like so much unexplained. The woman, the cargo, Robow, Iran, all of it. And I don’t like waiting. If they’re coming, I want them here. Let’s fight.”

Suleiman nodded in the dimness. The older cousin took a grip on Yusuf’s arm firmly, to anchor him.

“I have little to tell you. Except this. If you are going to be frightened, do it privately.”

Suleiman turned away to have Yusuf follow.

At the superstructure, no pirate stood along the port rail. A cigarette stub and matches littered the deck. Suleiman walked alone to the stern, then returned with no information about the guard who should be posted here.

“What do you think?” Yusuf asked.

Suleiman’s gold teeth clenched before speaking. “This is Farah’s post. I know him. I’ve fished with him. This is strange.”

“Is he off somewhere sleeping?”

“Not this one.”

The two poked around, turning up nothing. If Suleiman was wrong, if the man had wandered off, then he’d gone far from his station. Had he sneaked up on the cargo deck to curl up out of sight?

Suleiman continued to poke in the shadows. Yusuf stopped at another cigarette butt lying beside the stairs.

Was Farah the fisherman napping somewhere up the stairs, on one of the landings? Was he inside the superstructure, tucked into some crewman’s cot?

Yusuf set his foot on the bottom step, to climb and search after him.

A stain, like rust, blemished the tread before Yusuf’s next stride. Odd. Drozdov kept an immaculate ship.

Yusuf dipped a finger to it. The blot had dried. It was not corrosion. Rust would not drip. Yusuf backed away to peer beneath the steps.

“Come here.”

Suleiman hurried over. He scratched a nail through the dark mark under the stairs, then tasted it.

“Blood.”

Both took Kalashnikovs in hand. Instinctively, the way they had done as younger men, the cousins put themselves back-to-back.

Yusuf whispered, “What does this mean?”

“Quiet.”

Suleiman tuned his senses to the night. Yusuf could not silence himself enough to hear or see beyond what he conjured out of the blood. An enemy was on the ship. Where? How many? When did they board? How?

“Quiet,” Suleiman repeated.

Yusuf took hold of his breathing.

Over his shoulder, Suleiman muttered, “It might have been a quarrel. Among the men. Farah was a gambler.”

“Who did this? Why didn’t someone hear it?”

Suleiman pivoted to face Yusuf. “Listen to me carefully.”

“Yes.”

“I know you rely on me. And I would repay that reliance with my life. But you’re making it very difficult. I am not confident right now. Do you understand? ”

Yusuf pulled his eyes from his kinsman’s slim face. Out to the sea, into the steel passageway left and right, the dotted dark sky, even below his feet into the hold, in every direction lay the threat of an enemy. Who had spilled this blood? A pirate, a commando? What could Yusuf do? Raise an alarm? Run around the ship shouting a warning, about what? If raiders were here, he had no idea where they were; he might run into their guns yelling the alarm. Then what could the pirates do—fight phantoms? How could the commandos have gotten on board? No one had seen a boat, helicopter, plane. If Farah had been killed over a debt, it could be dealt with better in Qandala than here and now. Above, six stories tall, the white superstructure remained silent. On top, inside the bridge, Guleed and his gunners held the hostages. Not a sound or flash had come from up there, no battle to free them. The great ship continued to plow at twelve knots toward the coast and sunrise.

What was going on?

Yusuf had one course open to him. He turned again to lay his back to Suleiman’s back, and aimed his weapon into the dark.