Whoever Fears the Sea, Justin Fox [i love reading .TXT] 📗

they are all there for us. What do you think we could get for a tanker carrying half a million tons of oil?’

‘But those ships are enormous,’ said Paul. ‘How will you get aboard?’

‘Simple. Like we did with you, only on a bigger scale, maybe with two or three skiffs. We point an RPG at the bridge and order the captain to stop. The boarding skiff carries a long ladder or grappling hooks. We take the bridge and it’s all over in a few minutes. We bring the ship back here and wait for the ransom. The hostages are treated well. It is all very easy.

‘We are ready to take the fight further, into the Gulf of Aden. We will hijack dhows and turn them into mother ships. Then our marines won’t be stuck on the beach during the worst of the monsoons. We’ll operate throughout the year; our men will be able to spend months at sea. If we keep the crew hostage on board, we have a human shield. We’ll hit shipping as far as India and Mozambique, yachts and cruise liners in Mauritius, the Maldives. The potential is very great.’ Paul thought of his trip to the Seychelles and imagined modern-day pirates swarming aboard the Hispaniola, striking the Jolly Roger and running up the Somali flag. Just one such act could cripple the yacht-charter industry of the entire Indian Ocean.

‘Mr Mohamed, this is madness. Surely this will bring down the world’s vengeance?’

‘Listen to me, Paul, I do not like this picture of the future.’ His eyes were cold. ‘I do not want it, but the foreigners will not hear us. We will grow stronger. More and more young men are joining us. The volunteers get lots of money, they have power, they get the most beautiful girls, they build big houses, they drive new 4x4s. And so it grows.’

His hand lay on the woman’s throat as she rested her head in his lap. Her eyes were open. Paul couldn’t read the expression. ‘There are threats,’ said Mohamed. ‘Al-Qaeda is taking a cut of the ransom in the north. There are warlords from upcountry who want to be part of us. It is no longer just fishermen. Ransoms will not be met. Warships will come. People will die. Billions of dollars are already being wasted. Each step in the process gives the foreigners more reason to destroy us. They will say we are Muslim fundamentalists. They will come with their lies and their bombs, just like in Afghanistan.’

‘Your actions make it very difficult to see things differently.’

Mohamed brusquely lifted the woman’s head and stood up to pace the courtyard, circling Paul. ‘That is why we need people to publicise our situation, our legitimacy,’ said Mohamed. ‘We need the world media to know who we really are and what we are fighting for. We need international navies patrolling the Horn of Africa, but not to fight Somalis … to fight the real pirates.’

A man entered the courtyard and said something to Mohamed.

‘Enough,’ he said to Paul. ‘You do not understand yet. I have a meeting with my marines. Go!’

 

CHAPTER 28

 

Later that evening, Paul and Farid strolled down the road towards a building that issued the pulse of music. Drawing closer, he saw that it was a makeshift restaurant with a counter and a few tables. The interior was dark save for one bare light and a glass-fronted fridge emitting a blue glow. There were a few pirates slouched in plastic chairs and a handful of scantily clad women.

A man called him over from the corner table. Paul recognised him as one of the pirates who’d attacked Jamal. The teenager waved a beer bottle at him, pulled a garden chair closer and motioned him to sit. Old friends, it seemed. Farid stood at the door with a disapproving look on his face.

‘Sit. You want beer, my friend? I am Dalmar.’

‘I’m Paul.’

‘I know.’

‘I don’t have any money,’ said Paul.

‘I know.’ The teenager laughed. ‘No worry, I pay. Budweiser?’

‘Sure.’

Dalmar was dressed in camouflage cargo pants and a collared, pin-stripe shirt. The heavy chain around his neck looked like real gold. They sat sipping their bottles for a while in silence, regarding the room and its occupants, the girls mostly. Dalmar offered him khat.

‘You try miraa.’ He pushed the bushel across the table. ‘Make you happy.’

Paul took a couple of leaves, rolled them into a ball and began chewing. The leaves were bitter and after a while he spat them into his hand and on to the floor when his newfound friend wasn’t looking.

‘You like Ethiopian girls?’ asked Dalmar, sweeping the room with an unsteady arm.

‘Very pretty.’

Paul’s eyes fell on a young woman in skin-tight jeans — tall, slim, high cheekbones. Naomi Campbell’s sister.

Dalmar tracked his gaze. ‘That one I take tonight. Expensive, but she fuck like animal. Christian girl very good. They all want to ride pirates. We the cargo ships; them the skiffs.’ He guffawed. ‘Christian girl the best. With Muslim girl, we have to marry. Nikah misyar — a traveller’s marriage. Really, it’s a fuck marriage, no complication. Us pirates, we travelling men, just like you.’ He gave Paul a nudge.

The music had changed. George Michael’s ‘Careless Whisper’ wafted into the Somali night. A woman stood up and teetered over to sit on a pirate’s lap. The man was drunk and draped an arm over her shoulder, cupping a breast roughly with one hand. She looked uneasy, but didn’t remove it.

‘You want one?’ asked Dalmar.

‘One what?’

‘One pussy. I organise. Nice clean one. Mountain girl, fresh import from Harar.’

‘No, thanks.’

‘Come on, when last you fuck? You on that old jahazi with smelly fishermen for how long?’

‘I’ve got a girlfriend in Holland,’ he lied.

‘Bal, bal. But you miss out, man.’

Paul downed the beer, thanked Dalmar