Pirate - Duncan Falconer [32]
A shrill shout went up from one of the men standing on the bridge wing of the Oasis. It was echoed by others on the beach. Stratton looked up at the clear blue skies, along with everyone else. He could see nothing other than the occasional gull. But his ears began to pick up a new sound. A distant hum.
An aircraft of some kind.
Lotto was still looking up and he was still speaking into the phone.
Then the aircraft came into view, about a thousand feet up, hugging the coastline. A small twin-engine propeller-driven craft. The sound got louder as it closed in. It was slowly descending, Stratton decided, as it approached them. Then the pilot adjusted its track and flew it over the line of cargo ships, then turned sharply away and began a wide turn out to sea.
It described a long, easy circle and it kept descending. When it reached the beach again, it turned sharply back towards the ships. But this time it came inland to fly over the sand. Right towards the pirate leader.
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