‘Be good,’ he said, pausing in the doorway. ‘Everyone goes home if you are good. But we break legs and arms if you are not good,’ he added.
He left, his guards closing the door behind him.
Stratton studied the sullen faces that surrounded him. Four were white and European-looking. The rest appeared to be Asiatic, Filipinos and Koreans perhaps. The long-haired prisoner sat back against the wall. To Stratton’s complete surprise it was a girl. When she rested her head back, her hair parted to reveal her face. She was young, Asian and quite beautiful. Her expression was like stone as she glanced at him in response to his stare.
Stratton looked away at the walls and ceiling. Roughly hewn wooden rafters supported a corrugated metal roof. A metal pole in the centre of the room supported the apex. There was a single, narrow opening high on a wall that provided light and ventilation. He knew he could climb through it without much difficulty. He wondered if there was a guard outside and, if so, how attentive to his duties he was at night.
Hopper leaned close to Stratton. ‘Wonder how she ended up here.’
Stratton took another look at her. She was gazing at the floor.
He had heard of women being crew on commercial vessels, though it was more common in Asia than anywhere else. But she didn’t look the type to work and live on board a ship. Despite her appearance, there was something sophisticated about her. She looked educated. She looked delicate but exuded a kind of toughness. Stratton wondered what Lotto had said to her that had amused only him. He suspected it was something crudely sexual.
Stratton put his head back. London would by now know something had gone seriously wrong with the operation. Ramlal and Prabhu had hopefully escaped and informed them that Stratton and Hopper had looked for an escape option in a fishing village. They would assume a boat might have been involved in their escape. London would then have to examine the different scenarios. Stratton doubted anyone in MI6 would even consider they had been taken captive by Somali pirates. And if some bright spark did, it would hardly have been taken seriously. It was unusual for Somalis to operate so close to the Yemen mainland, but not unheard of. Yemeni fisherman had lost many of their boats to Somali raiding parties over the years. But even so, to suspect Stratton and Hopper had been victims of such an event was a stretch.
London would wait twenty-four hours after Stratton’s last communication before beginning an investigation. And then it would be little more than a discreet enquiry through established channels. The kidnapping had been a high-level task and not common knowledge beyond MI6 in London and their partners in the US – this was in general a joint interest programme, but the Brits headed up the Middle East side of the operation. The British Embassy in Yemen wouldn’t have known it was taking place for instance. But they would be alerted to the missing personnel and given the identities. The embassy would still not know what the missing personnel had been doing in Yemen. After several days of hearing nothing, investigators would be sent to the area where Stratton and Hopper had last been seen. They would find a way of including the Yemeni authorities in the search. A clever cover story would have to be created. And when that didn’t produce any results, MI6 might confront the Chinese Secret Service, since Prabhu and Ramlal would have informed them about the intrusion into the operation. A lot of suspicion would be directed towards the Chinese. That could get interesting in itself. The Chinese agent who Stratton had brought to the ground suggested that the British would soon know why the Chinese were interested in Sabarak. But that had probably been on the understanding that Stratton would get the Saudi back to where the British could interrogate him. If the Chinese suspected that hadn’t happened, they would go quiet.
Stratton wondered if London already had any clues as to why the Chinese would want Sabarak. The Chinese wouldn’t be able to shine any light on Stratton and Hopper’s disappearance anyway. The last they could possibly know of the British operatives was them riding out to sea in the boat. In the absence of any other explanation, London might well place a high priority on the suspicion that the Chinese were behind the disappearance of their people and the Saudi. The only other alternative would be that Stratton and the others had died at sea for whatever reason. Unlikely maybe but not impossible.
Stratton needed to let London know what had happened as soon as he could, not just to begin the process of his and Hopper’s repatriation. He had to prevent the wrong accusations flying in the wrong direction. That would waste time and draw attention from the important focus, which was Sabarak and the weapons.
If Stratton couldn’t get away himself, or get a message out of there by some other way, the first opportunity the Brits would have of discovering what had happened to them would be when the pirates eventually put out their identities and demanded a ransom payment.
Once that happened, MI6 would have to re-evaluate everything. It would be interesting to see how they would handle the ransom. Getting the men back would be a high priority because of the level of the task. They would want the men to be debriefed. They wouldn’t want anyone knowing about the snatch on the Saudi. They would have to explain it to the Americans. The SBS might be sent in to try a grab. Stratton guessed that would be the first plan on the board.
But that would all take time. And there was a significant obstacle that remained, one that could destroy all other plans and bring a sudden end to any hopes Stratton and Hopper might have of getting home.
Sabarak.
Stratton looked over at the man. He was resting his head against the wall and his eyes were shut like he was asleep.
A dark thought crept into Stratton’s head, and not for the first time in the last twenty-four hours.
Hopper whispered in Stratton’s ear again. ‘You know we have to kill that one, don’t you?’ he said.
‘And the sooner the better, I think,’ said Stratton.
Sabarak opened his eyes. It was like he knew what they had been thinking.
Sabarak wasn’t a fool. The Saudi was well aware of the threat he was to the two operatives. He couldn’t sleep because of it. But it was too soon to make his move. He still couldn’t fathom the group. They weren’t a devout bunch of Muslims, that much was for sure. He hadn’t seen any of them pray nor heard a call to prayer. So they didn’t take their faith seriously and neither did they care that he was a Muslim.
Telling them he provided weapons to Al-Shabaab might simply add a zero or two to his value as a hostage. And then what? They could sell him back to his family, to Al-Shabaab or barter him to the Somali authorities. Or try and sell him to the Western killers. But the way the Englishmen looked at him told him something: if he didn’t move soon, he would be dead. Of that he was sure. It was a difficult situation.
An engine gunned outside. It sounded big, like a large truck, and it was labouring. They could all hear the gears crunching. Whoever was driving it gunned the engine again. Then it stopped as if it had died.
Stratton went back to his thoughts. After about half an hour the door burst open and an old Somali walked in, a long knife in his belt beside a holstered revolver. He had on cleaner clothes than the others as if he were prouder of his appearance. He looked at the prisoners like they were livestock.
He planted his feet and put a hand on the gun’s grip. ‘Get up,’ he shouted. ‘Rouse!’ He kicked the nearest hostage’s foot. ‘Get to your feet, you lazy sailors.’ They obeyed swiftly. Stratton and Hopper eased up off the floor.
‘Out the door! Go!’ said the Somali.
The group filed outside into the sunlight. The Somali pointed them forward and they trudged up the street, turned the corner into the main street, back in the direction of the beach. As they walked four Somali guards, assault rifles slung over their shoulders, stepped up to follow. The heat and humidity had intensified while Stratton had been inside the hut. He felt his clothes sticking to his back. He wiped the sweat from his brow.
Up ahead, he saw a large flatbed truck resting at an awkward angle, squatting to one side like a wounded buffalo. When they got to it he could see its rear axle had collapsed. On the truck’s bed were dozens of green- painted wooden boxes, all the same size, about a metre and a half long. It was pretty obvious to Stratton and Hopper the possible contents of the boxes. For those who could read Russian, the black stencilling described what each of them contained. And for those who couldn’t, one of them had spilled on to the road and had broken open to reveal its contents: several PKM machine guns heavily greased and wrapped in brown wax paper.
The old Somali climbed up on to the bed and shoved one of the crates to the edge. He shouted at the nearest prisoners, pointed at the box, making them pick it up. Two stepped forward, dragged the heavy box off the truck, their hands still tied, and stood off awaiting instructions.
The Somali guards stepped into the shade of the nearest house and started smoking and talking.
The old Somali directed the first two bearers to wait to one side and ordered the next two men forward. And
