Pirate - Duncan Falconer [31]
‘A yacht,’ she said. It was as though she felt guilty about it.
‘You were sailing? Out there?’
She nodded.
It sounded like a pretty dumb thing to do. ‘A regular sailing yacht, with a sail?’ he said.
‘Yes. With a sail.’
Stratton could only wonder why.
She looked towards the water and the carriers in front of them. ‘I don’t know where it is now,’ she said. ‘My friend and I were sailing around the world.’
‘I guess it was just as risky going around the Cape?’ he said.
She shrugged. ‘Statistically we should have been OK. Something like seventy boats a day pass through the Gulf of Aden. Only a couple a week are attacked. Maybe one or two a month get hijacked. We were almost in the international transit corridor when they saw us. We were unlucky.’
Stratton sympathised. The international corridor ran east–west across the Gulf of Aden between Yemen and Somalia. It was a protected route patrolled by various foreign navies and regarded as the safest way to transit past Somalia. It obviously didn’t guarantee complete safety from hijacking but it increased the chances of a navy vessel responding to a distress signal. Many pirate vessels actually hunted the corridor, knowing that it improved the chances of them finding a commercial vessel somewhere along it. The risk of running into a navy boat was all part of doing business.
‘How long have you been here?’ Stratton asked.
‘It must be two weeks now.’
‘You speak good English.’
‘I learned in China. I spent six months in London. That was a year ago.’
She seemed intelligent and despite being petite, tough. She’d carried the boxes without complaint and wasn’t afraid to lay into the Somali guards. ‘Do you know what’s happening with your negotiations?’ he asked.
She glanced at him for the first time like she was finally interested enough to want to see what he looked like. ‘They have told me nothing.’ She looked away again. ‘I don’t even think anyone knows I’m here.’
‘These guys would’ve tried to make contact with someone. They’re running a business.’
She looked at him again. ‘You are English.’ It was more of a statement than a question.
‘Yes.’
‘What ship are you off?’
Stratton hadn’t prepared for the question, not in any great depth at least. The obvious story was that they worked for the local oil company that ran the terminal in Riyan, the company whose secur ity ran the semi-rigid they stole. They could sing that song all day, until Sabarak decided to tell his story. Once he found the right people to talk to he would sound a lot more convincing than Stratton and Hopper. Stratton had expected the pirates to ask. But then what did they care? As far as they were concerned they’d netted three more potential pay cheques. What else did they need to know? He looked for Sabarak. The Saudi was squatting alone on the edge of the group and looking out to sea.
‘They picked us up off the coast of Yemen,’ Stratton said. ‘We were doing a spot of sightseeing.’
‘That’s almost as bad as what I was doing.’
‘No one told us pirates operated that close to the Yemen coastline.’
They heard a commotion coming from the town. They saw a man marching down towards the beach at the head of a boisterous retinue of gun-toting Somalis. It took Stratton a couple of seconds to realise it was Lotto, wearing tailored military fatigues, a green beret at a jaunty angle and wrap-around sunglasses. He carried an ornate walking stick over a shoulder and wore a pearl-handled pistol in a holster at his side. The men immediately behind him, judging by their dress and bling, had been exposed to a higher class of contraband than the run-of-the-mill guards and townfolk.
The group reached the beach and turned towards the anchored carriers, walking past the prisoners, largely ignoring them. There came the sound of electronic chirping and one of the men handed a satellite phone to Lotto. The leader stopped to talk into it, looking skywards after a few