Pirate

As he looked at it, Stratton noted something else about the aircraft had changed. Its baggage door was open. Just as it passed the bridge of the Oasis, a bundle the size of a laundry bag came tumbling out attached to a small parachute. The bundle hit the sand about twenty metres from Lotto and somersaulted along the beach, chased by half a dozen of Lotto’s men. He followed them casually.

Stratton couldn’t see the bundle because the group crowded around it but he had a good idea what it was.

They’d just witnessed the paying of a ransom.

‘Hopefully some of these poor bastards will get to go home now,’ Hopper muttered.

As they watched, a canvas-covered flatbed truck drove easily down from the town front on to the beach behind them and headed across the sand towards the Oasis. The driver pulled it up just short of the soft sand and a man got out the passenger door. He was Somali but he looked different from the others. He had a big dark curly beard, a white skull cap on his head and he wore a long white shirt, like a dishdasha, over baggy cotton trousers and sandals. A brown leather weapons harness tightened up the whole look. The man was an Islamic warrior.

He stood and looked at Lotto, the bottom of his shirt moving gently in the breeze. The driver stayed in the cab, his hands on the steering wheel. It was like they were waiting for something. Lotto said something to one of his men, a bespectacled and well-dressed individual who appeared to be employed in an administrative capacity. The man took several bricks of American hundred-dollar-bills from the ransom bundle. He handed one to each of the five hangers-on around Lotto. They all bowed and smiled and acted subservient. The bespectacled assistant tied the bundle back up and lifted it from the sand, eyes on Lotto.

Lotto left everyone and walked over to the Islamic warrior. Stratton detected a hint of distaste in the way the leader approached the Islamist. They had a brief exchange of words. Then Lotto signalled to one of his men, who in turn ordered a couple of the guards to go to the rear of the truck.

The warrior walked around with them, drew aside the canvas flap and indicated for the guards to go ahead. The men dragged a long, green-painted wooden crate out by a rope handle on its end. It was one and a half metres end to end and narrow, and whatever was inside was heavy – the Somalis strained to take its weight.

Stratton got to his feet. Once again, the shape, size, colour and construction of the box gave it away. It was another piece of military ordnance. But this one was different. The stencilling was in Far Eastern calligraphy. It wasn’t a box of PKMs.

Stratton looked at Sabarak. The Saudi was also on his feet and staring intently between the Somali fighter and the box.

Stratton’s interest went up a couple more notches.

The guards carried the crate down to the water’s edge to a waiting skiff. The Islamic warrior followed them. The Somalis climbed into the small boat with the box, leaving the warrior on the sand watching as the coxswain backed the boat away and steered into the lumpy waves towards the centre of the Oasis and a staggered gangway that had been lowered to the water line. A couple of Somali men headed down the gangway to meet them. Between the four of them, they hauled the box out of the skiff and carried it up the gangway to the main deck.

The warrior walked back to the truck.

Stratton looked over at Sabarak again. The Saudi had focused his attention on the bearded warrior, who was climbing back into the cab. The driver backed up the truck and drove further down the beach. Several of Lotto’s guards followed at a jog. The driver pulled up opposite the Greek carrier and the warrior climbed out again. The guards went to the back of the truck and heaved another long wooden crate from its bed. They carried it down to the shore and waited for the skiff. The boat took the crate to the carrier and then the warrior went back to his truck again. The driver drove him down the beach to the East Asian vessel. It all happened again, one final time.

Stratton looked back towards the deck of the Oasis. The men carrying the crate had gone along the side of the ship, past the huge storage bays to the very front, where they disappeared.

‘What was all that about?’ Hopper asked in a voice too low for the Chinese girl to hear.

‘All very odd,’ Stratton said.

As they spoke, the warrior’s truck came across the hard-packed sand and headed for the town. Lotto, his man with the bundle and the rest of the Somalis came back up the beach towards the town, passing the prisoners. Lotto glanced towards them.

He stopped and lowered his sunglasses to take a better look at the girl. She was looking back at him, her expression cold.

He remained smiling. It was a knowing smile. He kept on walking towards the town and she lowered her head.

Stratton couldn’t think of anything to say to help her. Perhaps if their leader himself fancied her, the others might leave her alone. But that wouldn’t solve her problem.

‘Up! Up!’ the old Somali shouted.

The rest of the prisoners got to their feet and they were herded back to the town, past the broken truck, along the road to the hut. They filed in through the door, starting a line for the water buckets. After each man took a drink he went to sit back in his original place. The girl did the same.

A Filipino prisoner got to his feet, stepped to the door and tapped it with the toe of his boot. ‘Toilet,’ he called out.

He waited for about half a minute. He kicked the door again and repeated his request.

They heard the Somali on the other side unbolt the door. The Filipino stepped out into the sunlight and the Somali closed and bolted the door behind him.

It was only then that Stratton realised the Saudi was missing.

‘Where did Sabarak go?’ he asked Hopper.

‘He was with us when we came back,’ said Hopper. ‘I saw him. He must’ve held back and asked to get put in another hut.’

‘He’s made his move,’ Stratton said. ‘That jihadist character who arrived in the truck. Sabarak was very interested in him and those crates. Maybe something about that episode gave him the confidence to reveal himself.’

‘He’ll tell them who he is?’

‘He’s a jihadist. The warre bugger who turned up in the truck was too. Lotto has some kind of relationship with him. That would suggest that Sabarak could at least get an audience with Lotto. Once he did that he would begin the bartering game. And we don’t know what he has to barter with.’

‘He has us for a start.’ That was very true. ‘What do you think was in those crates?’ Hopper said.

‘Not sure. Weapons of some kind. At least that’s what the boxes were designed for. But why were they taking them on board the hijacked boats?’

The Filipino returned and went back to his place.

‘I don’t think we should hang around here too long,’ Hopper said. ‘If Lottto lets Sabarak make contact with the jihadist, we’re in the shitter.’

Stratton agreed, in principle. But there was something else on his mind.

They heard the bolts on the door go again and watched as a man walked in carrying a large cooking pot, followed by a filthy-looking boy with a stack of battered aluminium bowls. The cook filled one from the pot, handed it to the boy and the boy stepped to the nearest prisoner and gave it to him. He went back to the cook and took another bowl to the next person in line.

When Stratton was handed his, he studied the contents of the bowl in his tied hands. It looked like some kind of fish stew, with more bones than meat. But he was hungry. He crunched down on a fish head and chewed the bones to a pulp and swallowed. Someone in the room choked violently as he struggled to extricate a bone from his throat. The man beside him slammed his back repeatedly. The choking man managed to cough it up.

‘It’s Saturday,’ Hopper said, eating his food as if it were an everyday meal. ‘The wife would have expected me back by now. She won’t be worried of course. Not if I’m late by a few days.’

Stratton sympathised. But it only reminded him once again of why marriage wasn’t the wisest choice for someone in their business. Close relationships were almost as bad. Something Stratton had managed to avoid for the most part. And times like this proved him right. He wasn’t missing anyone. And no one was stressing over him because he hadn’t come home when he should have.