Pompeii's Ghosts (A James Acton Thriller, #9) (29 page)

The man
nodded.

“Good,
just do what I say and you won’t get hurt.” He motioned in the direction the
van had just come from. “How far to town?”

“About
five kilometers.”

“Are you
healthy enough to walk it?”

The man
nodded rapidly, his eyes still bulging with fear.

“Do you
have any weapons?”

The man
nodded. “In my glove box. Only a fool travels here without a weapon.”

Dawson
motioned to where he thought the hostage takers had gone. “Where does that
lead?”

“To
town, but the north side. It’s rarely used, very rough.”

“The
name of the town?”

“Hamashkoraib.”

“How
big?”

“Not
very.” The man’s eyebrows narrowed. “Are you American?”

“I’m
asking the questions.”

“Sorry.”

“Are
there any Western representatives there? Government, embassy, church,
companies?”

The man
shook his head. “No. This is a very poor town, mostly controlled by gangs. The
government leaves us alone, we leave them alone.”

“Phones?”

“A few
of the warlords have satellite phones, but they won’t help you.”

“So
there’s no way to communicate with the outside world?”

The man
shrugged. “We have an Internet café.”

Dawson’s
head dropped slightly, his eyes rolling up. “You have no cellphone coverage,
but you have Internet.”

“It uses
satellite I think.”

Dawson
opened the passenger door, retrieving a piece of paper and a pencil from the
glove compartment, along with the gun, an old six-shooter Remington with four
bullets. He tossed the paper and pencil on the hood. “Draw me a map on how to
get to this café.”

The man
nodded and quickly mapped out the twists and turns that were necessary. Dawson
took the map, folded it up and put it in his pocket. He flicked his gun toward
the trail the man had just come from. “Start walking, don’t look back.”

“What
about my van?” asked the man, his eyes pleading, it obvious it was as precious
to him as any child.

Dawson
frowned, then took out the map. “Write your name down and your address. If I
can, I’ll get word to you where your van is when I’m done.”

The man
eagerly jumped forward, taking the pencil and paper. “Do you have email?” he
asked.

Dawson
chuckled. “Of course.”

“As do
I.” He quickly wrote down a Hotmail address. “Email me here when you are done.”

Dawson
smiled as he read the address. “Isn’t that The Camel Man 76 in Arabic?”

The
man’s head bobbed eagerly. “I started out selling camels. Now goats, horses,
you name it, I sell it.” He frowned. “I have deliveries in the back. What will
you do with them?”

Dawson
had visions of Noah’s Ark stuffed in the back of his commandeered vehicle.
“What kind of deliveries?”

“eBay
purchases. I buy for people and arrange delivery for a commission.”

Dawson
didn’t bother asking how this worked in the middle of nowhere, but with
families splitting up and immigrating around the world, he wouldn’t be
surprised if this man had a brother in New York handling one end of the
operation.

“I’ll
leave everything in the van unless I need something.”

The man
nodded slowly, not exactly pleased with the “unless” rider.

“Now
start walking,” repeated Dawson, flicking his weapon at the man, “and don’t
come looking for me or I’ll be forced to kill you.” Reluctantly the man began
to walk back to town, cresting a rise within minutes. Dawson jumped in the van,
fired up the engine, then turned the vehicle around, taking the left hand road
to where he hoped he might find evidence of the final destination of the local
criminals who had taken his friends and colleagues.

As he
followed the trail, there no indications of any vehicles having turned off it,
he was careful not to travel too fast; he could miss a turnoff, or worse, run
headlong into the dozen or so armed men holding the hostages, or into yet another
group that as of yet had no involvement.

His eyes
scanned the sky for any sign of a contrail, anything airborne, but again came
up empty. By now for certain the authorities knew the plane had gone down—it
had been hours. And with a carrier off the coast of Eritrea, sending in search
aircraft or even drones should have been an easy matter.

But
there had been nothing.

He could
have missed a drone, that he could accept, but not an aircraft. They were too
loud, and the billowing smoke, a hint of which had still been on the horizon to
the south before the sun began to set would have been visible for hundreds of
miles in the air. Even if they had gone off course, they couldn’t have gone
that far since he had only been out for about half an hour. That meant at most
three to five hundred miles from their intended course, and a wide search
pattern from altitude would have spotted the thick black smoke of aviation
fuel.

There
could only be one explanation.

Nobody
was looking.

Now the
question was why. If he had to guess, it was that the Sudanese weren’t letting
anyone in their airspace because they wanted the gold. The Sudanese should be
arriving soon, if they hadn’t already. When they did they’d discover the gold
was gone, and would hopefully at that point let the search begin since they had
nothing to lose and everything to gain through goodwill.

He came
around a bend and saw the town of what he assumed was Hamashkoraib before him,
lights just starting to dot the landscape, some electric, some natural fires
and candlelight. It was a quaint, peaceful sight from his perch, but somewhere
in the mix of this small town were almost a dozen Western hostages, including
two of his friends. With the dusk quickly settling in he decided to leave the
trail and find a place to hole up so he could renew the search tomorrow.

Parking
behind a large outcropping of rock carved out millions of years ago by a
forgotten river, he flicked the light on in the back of the van and started to
look through the goodies left behind by its owner. A grin spread across his
face when he found several boxes taped together—two Froot Loops and one Cap’n
Crunch.

And a
case of bottled water.

God
bless The Camel Man!

He tore
free one of the bottles and unscrewed the cap, downing as much as he could
before coming up for air. After a few more swigs he carefully refilled his
smaller bottles, those easier to carry on foot. As he made himself comfortable,
he realized the van had been tricked out by its owner to double as a mobile
home, most likely for when he was making distant deliveries. All the side and
rear windows were tinted a dark black and a thick curtain could be pulled
across the front seats blocking any light to the back seats. The driver side
seats in the rear, two extra rows, were already positioned down with fresh
linens, Camel Man’s wife obviously caring enough to keep him comfortable, and
he showing his appreciation by having a picture of her and several children in
a wood frame screwed into the roof.

You’ll
definitely get your van back, my friend.

These
personal touches humanized his “victim”. Though Dawson didn’t feel guilty—he
had done what needed to be done for the greater good—it simply reinforced the
need to make amends when it was possible.

A small
gas lantern hung from a rope strung across the back. He lit it and turned the
light up about halfway. A toiletry bag stood out and he took a bottle of water
along with the soap, toothpaste and shaving kit, and gave himself a quick bird
bath with the side door open and the lamp turned off so he wouldn’t be seen.
Refreshed, he climbed back inside, opened the windows enough to let a breeze
flow through, locked the doors, and lay down in Camel Man’s bed, the broken
satellite phone and his multi-tool lying beside him.

After
fiddling for half an hour, he decided it was beyond his ability to repair, and instead
put things back together, praying it still had the non-communications functions
intact.

It did.

As he
turned down the lamp and settled in for the night, his weapons and the handgun
from the glove compartment stripped and cleaned, he almost immediately fell
asleep only to be woken minutes later by gunfire in the distance. He jumped up,
grabbed the phone and exited the vehicle. Down below in the valley he could see
the muzzle flashes. He quickly snapped several photos then changed the phone to
low light mode and took several more as what he figured was celebratory gunfire
continued at the edge of the village for a few more minutes.

And what
better thing to celebrate than the capture of a dozen Western hostages?

Hamashkoraib, Sudan

James Acton jolted awake, gunfire erupting from outside along with
laughter and cheering. He looked around the plain room to find most of his
companions were awake as well, Reese frightened the most it seemed, the soldiers
all taking it in stride, quickly returning to their attempts at slumber. Reese
made eye contact with him and rose, taking her blanket with her as she
approached him. She knelt down in the empty space beside him.

“Do you
mind if I sleep here?”

Acton
shook his head, his mind immediately wondering what Laura would have to say to
that. Niner rolled over and gave him a quick grin and a wink as Reese lay down
her blanket then snuggled in with him. He realized—or at least hoped—she was
just terrified and was looking for comfort from the one person she had known
the longest—an entire 48 hours. She was flirtatious, but even the most
flirtatious woman wouldn’t try something in a room filled with a dozen
hostages.

Would
they?

He hoped
not. He had never been unfaithful to any woman in his life, and he wasn’t about
to start now. But she was pressed up slightly against his private bits, so he
let his right leg roll toward the floor some more, leaving him mostly on his
back—he preferring to sleep on his side—but at least he felt the situation was
a little more platonic this way.

“Thanks,”
she whispered in the dark, her body trembling in genuine fear as the gunfire
continued outside.

“Get
some sleep,” he said, closing his eyes and trying to shut out the racket from
their captors. He had noticed some of them eyeing Reese earlier, their
lust-filled stares mentally undressing the southern belle, the only other
woman, the androgynous looking Chinese observer apparently not catching their
eye.

No
wonder she’s terrified. She probably thinks she’s going to be gang raped at any
moment.

The
gunfire died quickly when someone yelled at those outside, the words eliciting
a few snickers from within the room, some of his fellow captives’ Arabic better
than his. Laura was the fluent Arabic speaker in the duo, his progressively
getting better, but not good enough to understand a Sudanese dialect.

Reese
seemed to sense his curiosity. “Someone told them to stop shooting otherwise
they’d give their position away since no one else in town had anything to
celebrate.”

More
snickers as the translation was heard.

“Let’s
just hope someone
is
out there to have witnessed the idiocy,” commented
the British observer whose name Acton had never heard. In fact, he had heard
hardly any of the names of his companions and most seemed content to keep it
that way, probably due to their “day jobs”.

Murmurs
of assent filled the room as Acton’s thoughts drifted to Laura. She would know
by now that the plane was missing, and with the message he had left her, which
he could only hope she had received, they would know it was a hijacking and not
a crash—even though that was how it ended. He had no idea how far off course
they were. He assumed they would have stayed on course until they left Eritrean
airspace, then after that they had been in the air less than an hour. He didn’t
know what the top speed of the Antonov was, but he had to assume it was around
500mph, which meant that in that hour they could have gone at least that
distance.

“How far
off course do you think we were?” he finally asked the room, his voice low, his
head turned toward Niner.

“The
cruising speed of an Antonov Ruslan is about eight-hundred kilometers per
hour,” came a whispered, heavily French accented voice.

“And
they wouldn’t have changed course until we were below radar,” added one of the
Italians, causing Acton’s heart to leap in hope, realizing that very little of
their journey was low to the ground.

“We have
to assume they didn’t change course until we leveled out after the
decompression,” added Niner.

“We
travelled for no more than half an hour after that,” said Lee Fang.

Acton
sighed. “So we could be as much as four hundred kilometers away from where
they’d start looking.” He felt Reese push closer to him, her trembling obvious
again.