Pirate - Duncan Falconer [27]
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