The Drift (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 1) (15 page)

“Amateurs,” Hans muttered, and went to grab his girls.

Jessica broke away and ran over to the police officer who
lay on his back clutching a broken nose and kicked him in the shin.

Back aboard
Future
, Penny still trembled, her face
pale.

“Hans, those policemen, they would have beaten us up.”

“Beaten on us, thrown us in jail and placed Jessie in the
care of social services until a court date came around – finally came around,
that is.”

“But we’d done nothing.”

“Doesn’t matter. Give young men weapons and put them in a
position of authority, and the power goes to their heads. Wearing a uniform
doesn’t make you the smartest cookie in the jar. Think how it is in war.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Listen” – he put his arms around the two of them – “I’m
never gonna let anything happen to you. Okay?”

“Bear too?” Jessica waggled her furry friend.

“Bear too, honey.”

As Jessica tucked Bear into the bunk beside her that evening,
she repeated the sentiment.

A
l
Mohzerer’s pickup rolled down the rocky track out of Azila. Stacked under a
tarpaulin were two hundred blocks of prime merchandise destined for small-business
owners in Tangier, who jumped at the chance to supplement meager incomes by
peddling Golden Monkey to tourists and other customers.

Dark clouds gathered around the mountain peaks as
long-awaited rain looked set to bless the fertile plains once more. Local
urchins ceased playing games in the road and scurried off to the side, for
young and old knew better than to get in the way of the Grower.

One of the village’s flea-ridden mutts was not so lucky. Too
fixated as it gnawed on the remnants of a road-killed macaque, the puppy looked
up just as the truck bore down on him. Al Mohzerer had no intention of
swerving. Displays of kindness to humans were rare; an animal had no chance.
Under the darkening sky his ugly scar could easily pass for a grin as the
little dog yelped and a rainbow of intestines spewed across the dirt.

Naseem encountered numerous checkpoints on the mountain pass,
but the police waved him through, for they would never question the Grower.
Besides, cigarettes, alcohol and other contraband coming in the opposite
direction from Europe formed the focus of their searches, not an innocent weed
boosting the local economy. Still, it didn’t hurt to tip a token amount of baksheesh
to some of the more senior officers, many of whom Al Mohzerer had known since
childhood.

As the pickup neared Tangier, the weather cleared and
minarets and sparkling white roof terraces came into view. The familiar stench
of rotting food and sewage spiked with frying meat and vehicle fumes permeated
the afternoon heat. Al Mohzerer threaded his truck through the city’s maze of backstreets,
past peeling pastel-painted premises – butcher’s shops, hardware stores and other
family-run businesses – and under crumbling archways, narrowly missing the
multitude of street vendors crowding the route.

Upon reaching the old town, he pulled into a walled
courtyard and stepped out to the more inviting fragrance of exotic spices
blended with caramel, almonds, perfume and incense. His customer, Old Man Ali,
had owned a carpet shop in the medina as far back as Al Mohzerer could
remember.

Old Man Ali’s shrewd character and keen business acumen,
combined with a genuine interest in people, put Al Mohzerer on edge, despite
their lengthy relationship and a family connection spanning generations.
Altruism was not a concept the Grower understood. For him, you were only nice
to others if you stood to gain something, the carpet seller’s near blindness
doing nothing to diminish his mistrust.

The old man’s partisan approach had seen him through
ninety-plus years, good times and bad, conflict and upheaval, his milky eyes
not a barrier to selling the carpets for which he cared passionately. A simple
smell and touch told him all he needed to know – weave, dye color, manufacturer
and whether the product was handmade or machined.

Al Mohzerer parted the beaded fly screen to find the
proprietor drinking tea with a large European man wearing garish yellow shorts,
a vest and flip-flops and sat sweating profusely atop a pile of intricately
woven prayer mats. The Grower’s antennae pricked up. He took an immediate
dislike to the infidel, yet years of cunning saw him hide his suspicion,
leaving only a hint of contempt in his reptilian gaze.

Following introductions, Al Mohzerer took a backseat,
feigning disinterest in the English banter yet taking in every word, noting the
fat man was drunk and that the flashy timepiece on his podgy wrist was worth
ten times the Berber’s own salary. The carpet seller took a long pull on a
hookah pipe, the apple tobacco smoke bubbling up through water trapped in its cherry-red
glass bowl.

“So how is the boat?” he asked gently.

“
Sietske
’s fine,” the fat man replied. “My savings,
plus the money I make when I off-load this in the Canaries” – he patted the
plastic bag at his feet – “should pay for some repairs, you know?”

It was an unusually large purchase for the Dutchman, but he
had a plan.

“Six kilos of Golden Monkey will bring you a fine price, my
friend – far greater than in our poor land. And when do you sail?”

“In the morning. With any luck I will be in Las Palmas for Wednesday.”

“May Allah bring you fair winds and blue skies.”

As the European walked back to his boat that evening, having
sunk several more beers in his favorite restaurant, he did not notice a man with
a cruel facial scar following him.

M
arcel
tied
Sietske
up in the marina in Las Palmas, not bothered who occupied
the berth or – more to the point – who had paid for it. He didn’t intend to
stay long nor report his arrival to the harbormaster. His sole concern was
handing over the consignment of pot to his trusted source and setting sail for the
nearby island of Tenerife to catch up with Hans, Jessica and Penny. The mere thought
of seeing them again filled him with the warmth of acceptance.

Rather than walk out of the marina’s main gate and risk a
confrontation with officials, he unstrapped
Sietske
’s tender, dropped it
over the side and transferred the all-important contents of the rubber fender
into a white plastic bag. With a set of oars retrieved from the cabin and
clutching his shipment, he lowered himself into the tiny dinghy, which immediately
threatened to sink under his weight.

Singing to himself as he rounded the harbor’s protective
wall – “
Marshell rowed the boat ashore, ha-ley-
luuuuu
-yah
!” – he’d
never felt so on top of life, yet to anyone witnessing the spectacle of a twenty-stone
man in a yellow vest and shorts crammed into a yellow inflatable with toy-sized
paddles, he looked like a rubber duck with issues – issues observed through
binoculars ever since
Sietske
arrived in port.

Marcel dragged the tender above the high-tide mark on the
shore and set out to find a pay phone.

“
Quieres comer comida del norte de África
?” he asked.
“
Voy a traer seis amigos
.”

The invitation to eat “North African” food with “six companions”
was all that needed to be said.

Bar Macondo was half-full at this time in the morning, a mix of Canary
islanders and tourists enjoying seafood platters to the sound of Spanish romantic
pop serenading in the background. Yellow-and-blue umbrellas pinned round tables
to a large wooden deck surrounded by date palms, the view across the promenade taking
in golden sand and the inviting blue water beyond.

After ordering a beer from a bartender in siesta mode,
Marcel sat opposite a local man so engrossed in his Wi-Fi connection he didn’t bother
looking up. Coincidently, he too had a white plastic carrier at his feet.

The big man sunk his Dorada Especial in three gulps, swapped
bags and left the bar’s congenial atmosphere, the alcohol dulling the
possibility their transaction might not have been hush-hush. He rowed back to the
yacht and stowed the best part of twenty thousand euros, along with the rest of
his savings and party drugs, in the keep-safe rubber fender, which he left lying
innocuously on deck.

Filled with bravado, Marcel went to pay the mooring fee and
present his paperwork to the harbormaster, knowing he needed to fill up from
the marina’s diesel pump and take a cab from the main entrance to go food shopping.

“Did you radio ahead, señor?” The official’s eyes narrowed.

“
Ja
! Sure did, man. I spoke to . . .
Miguel
?”

“Miguel doesn’t work here anymore.”

“Oh!
Miguel
. . .
Manuel
. . . Er, I had a few
beers, you know?”

The harbormaster was further unimpressed to learn that
Sietske
occupied
Growing Old Disgracefully
’s berth – but fortunately for the
Dutchman, retirees John and Margie Grenson had decided to spend the week anchored
off Lanzarote.

E
njoying
fair winds,
Sietske
made good progress northeast to Tenerife the next
morning, but an afternoon lull saw her sails flapping back and forth with
indifference. Never one for passing up the chance to relax in the sun, Marcel
went below to roll a couple of doobies and mix a jug of his preferred potion,
whacking up the volume on Led Zeppelin’s “Heartbreaker”
as he did
.

As Marcel prepared his vices, pausing regularly to slug Havana
Club, he heard the sound of an outboard engine grow louder. He assumed it was
local fishermen, who bravely – or foolishly – thought nothing of motoring ten
miles offshore in their aging skiffs to secure a catch. With the booze taking
hold, cradling him in a sentimental caress, Marcel fell into a daydream. He pondered
where to head after his stop-off in Tenerife. Ordinarily, he would return to
the Dam and spend chill time with friends before sailing
Sietske
south
to commence the hash run once more. But there was something about the Larsson
family and the delightful Penny he had not experienced in a long time.
They
make me feel good about myself. Hell, Hans even invited me to visit them in the
States.

Marcel sparked one of the blunts, took a long pull and was
halfway through exhaling when his musing hit home and he came up with an idea.

“Huhph!” he coughed. “
Sietske
, my dear, we are going
to Maine!”

It made perfect sense. Hadn’t Penny said she would love to
visit too? Perhaps he could buy her an air ticket, or better still, she would meet
him in South America after skippering for the Parisian couple and they could
sail north together.

Yes!

He started putting a plan together, shaking and sweating
more than usual.
How about spending time in the Caribbean en route?
They
could stop off at his hero Bob Marley’s birthplace – wasn’t it Jamaica where
the weed was so strong it rendered you incapacitated?

Marcel rifled through his CD collection, interrupting “Bring
It On
Home” to play “Buffalo Soldier” at full volume.

And Cuba –
Cuba libre
! – Che Guevara sailing from
Mexico in 1956 on the leaking cabin cruiser
Granma
with only eighty-two men
to overthrow the puppet Batista and his corrupt regime. The place where
Hemingway wrote
The Old Man and the Sea
, the lonely fisherman finding
inner peace battling his demons, along with a mighty marlin, on a mightier
ocean.
Now there was a guy who could write! Could drink his weight in rum
and still knock out a literary classic!

Marcel had dreamed of visiting El Floridita, the bar in
Havana where Hemingway knocked back glass after glass of mojito while
discussing the Great American Novel with friends. From there they would travel
to the Florida Keys and up the Treasure Coast, taking care
Sietske
did
not join the numerous Spanish galleons that had foundered on the perilous reefs,
their holds weighed down with doubloons still searched for by fortune seekers
today.

And how about pulling in to Sebastian in Florida to meet his
old mailman chum who now owned a skydiving center there? Plummeting through the
air from fifteen thousand feet was on his bucket list – actually, the only item
on the list, but that was about to change.

It has to be done!
Marcel screwed the cap back on the
bottle of rum.

Above the sound of “Redemption Song,”
the noise of
the once-distant outboard engine became too loud to ignore. Marcel felt a bump against
Sietske
’s hull. He grabbed the schooner of cocktail and went up through
the companionway to investigate.

A dark-skinned man, barefoot and dressed in ragged denim
shorts and a filthy New York Yankees vest, stood in the cockpit pointing an AK-47
at him.

“I don’t suppose I can offer you a mojito?” were the Dutchman’s
last words.