The Drift (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 1) (21 page)

T
he
next day, as Penny made final preparations for her change of plan, Hans and
Jessica replaced
Future
’s worn fittings and took her for a sea trial.

A strong northeasterly carried them ten miles offshore in little
over an hour, the genoa billowing up front like a huge white kite. The sun lowering
to the horizon, Hans brought
Future
about, the impending darkness not
the only reason he looked forward to reaching port.

Jessica sat on the cabin roof whittling a piece of driftwood
into a point with her pocketknife, the gift from Old Bill.

“What’s the number one rule when using a knife, First Mate?”

“You must never hold the blade toward you, Papa.”

“Good! Now get ready for bed.” Hans took the knife and put
it in his pocket, lowering the junior officer into the cockpit and smiling as
she scampered inside.

On Cape Verde, Penny called her parents from a telephone in
the yacht club and checked her email and online bank statement. She stocked up
on toiletries from the marina’s convenience store, then headed for a nearby
bazaar, delighted to find a pair of leather sandals with soles fashioned from
used car tires for Hans – with his pragmatic nature, he would love them – and a
wine-red sarong printed with gold seahorses for Jessica.

With time to kill, she took a seat in Salgadeiras, a café
bar overlooking the marina, ordered a coffee and took up her book. Unable to concentrate,
she scanned the horizon every few seconds, a pleasant tingling sensation rushing
around her body.

Jessica played with Bear in the cabin, opening the emergency
ditch kit and pretending the teddy was lost at sea.

“In you go, Bear.” She popped him in a locker. “And you have
to take these so you can be rescued and make some water.”

She placed the EPIRB beacon, VHF radio and water desalinator
next to him, along with a packet of fishing hooks and a bundle of energy bars, letting
out a healthy yawn as she did.

Hans ducked into the cabin – “Bedtime for you, young girl” –
dashing back out as
Future
made impressive headway.

Jessica sighed and dragged the heavy bag back to the
companionway. Clutching Bear, she climbed into her bunk, the emergency
equipment in the locker no longer a concern in her tired mind. She tugged off
her sandals and pulled a blanket over the two of them.

“And Bear, you
always
gotta clip on your safety line.”

She fastened the aluminum G-clip to the bunk’s rail and
drifted off to sleep.

Hans prided himself on
Future
’s progress, her
replacement gear holding fast as she skimmed across the wave tops at eight
knots.

Container SIDU307007-9 floated at 16° 15’ north, 25° 40’ west,
directly in the path of the yacht.

At 1831 hours, Hans felt relaxed, content with the direction
his boat and life were heading, all the time looking forward to their reunion
with Penny.

At 1832 hours, with a sickening crunch Hans’ boat and life
ripped apart. Slammed face-first into the control panel, he knew instinctively
Future
was about to sink.

“
Y
ou’re
late, cousin!” Al Mohzerer snapped, as the leader of the four pirates staggered
from the beautiful boat and climbed the dockside ladder.

“What is an hour?” the man replied, spitting on the concrete.

In cutoff denim shorts and a dirty New York Yankees vest, he
was clearly drunk and unused to receiving lectures.

“Did you find the money?”

“Just the timepiece.” The pirate flashed the thirty-thousand-dollar
watch, which looked completely out of place on his skinny brown wrist. “We
searched the boat thoroughly and cannot find the cash.”

“Give!” Al Mohzerer took the Cartier. “We load, and we will
look again in the morning.”

On the Grower’s command, the boys sprung from the vehicle
and, with a cruel mix of relief and bitter disappointment, began peeling back
the tarpaulin. A second man passed a rope and bucket up the ladder, and they
commenced the soul-destroying task of transferring the golden blocks to the beautiful
wooden yacht.

“Now we drink,” announced the leader. “For we have business
and family to discuss.”

He barked an order at the youngest bandit, who would stay on
board to guard the product.

Now that the hashish was secure, Al Mohzerer lightened up,
becoming almost jovial as the prospect of looming wealth intoxicated him. There
would be no problem from the port authority, whose officials would all get a
cut, and, returning early the next day with crowbars, the gang would rip apart
the cabin’s exquisite cherrywood paneling and find the cash. Although with half
a ton of prime merchandise sold for top whack in the Canaries, a few thousand euros
going undiscovered was not a major issue.

S
itting
in Salgadeiras, Penny no longer nursed a coffee – her fourth cup empty bar
frothy brown dregs – but a double vodka and Coke. The previous shivers of
anticipation had turned to waves of stone-cold dread. It was dark, and Hans and
Jessica were four hours overdue.

She had been to the marina office twice to see if Hans had
radioed in to report a delay. He had not, only a brief transmission on
departure giving an approximate route and anticipated return time, and another providing
coordinates as
Future
swung about and headed for port. It simply wasn’t
like him. He and Jessica only took the yacht out for a short trip to test her
new fittings, and if there was one man in the world that arrived at a specified
time, that man was Hans Larsson.

Penny visited the marina office a third time, demanding they
alert the coastguard to initiate a search. Baba, the Senegalese manager, looked
relaxed in smart knee-length white chinos and a dark-blue polo shirt with the marina’s
tall ships logo on the breast. “Miss Penny” he said softly, placing a gentle brown
hand on her arm. “I have spoken to the coastguard, and both he and I have
alerted all the vessels in the area. But they will not commence a search unless
a Mayday has been broadcast or an EPIRB signal picked up.”

“May I speak with the coastguard . . . please?”

Baba tapped a number into a roamer telephone and, after a
brief discussion with a coastguard official, handed it to her, the ensuing
conversation only reiterating the futility of her request.

Damn!

Penny hit the “Call End” key, feeling the way concerned
family members must do when, completely out of character, a loved one goes
missing and the police refuse to take action before forty-eight hours have
elapsed.

“Baba, may I use your Internet?”

“Of course, Miss Penny. Take all the time you need.”

He rolled back a chair at an empty desk looking out over the
yachts.

Penny flashed up Google and typed “Innes Edridge,” “Goldman
Sachs,” and “Boston” into the search bar, the inverted commas refining the
results.

Several hundred pages returned, many detailing Edridge’s
staff profile, achievements and accolades but none giving a direct telephone
number, only one for head office.

Penny opened her purse and pulled out a calling card,
wishing she had bought more credit or owned a cell phone, something she
previously prided herself on avoiding.

“Miss Penny, you wish to make a call?” Baba asked softly.

“Um.”

“Please, please.” Baba handed her the phone once more. “Just
type this account number followed by the hash key first.”

Penny could have hugged this sensitive man but instead
dialed the number in Boston.

“Goldman Sachs, Carole speaking. How may I help?”

“My name is Penny Masters. May I speak to Innes Edridge
please?”

“I’m sorry, Penny. Innes doesn’t take outside calls. Would
you like to leave a message or request he call you back?”

“Please, this is
really
important. Could you tell him
it’s a matter of . . .
Concern?”

Seconds passed, and Penny worried if she was doing the right
thing.
To hell with it!

“Innes Edridge.” The voice sounded courteous and British with
a refined Scots burr. “How may I be of assistance?”

Penny hesitated for a second, fixating on the small red
diamond in the Lexmark badge on the marina’s gray plastic printer before
playing what she hoped was her trump card.

“Muttley, Orion is missing.”

“Oh dear me! Now
that’s
not good news. Listen, Penny,
I’m going to ask you some questions. I need you to answer as accurately as you
can – no guessing. Do you understand?”

“Of course.”

Penny was impressed. In quick-fire succession Muttley
ascertained her personal details, including national insurance, passport and
driving license numbers, her possessions and funds and contacts on Cape Verde.
He then made a record of places, timings, communications, yacht specifications
and onboard equipment, Hans and Jessica’s moods, their last meal and drinks, any
medication or drugs they may have consumed, and recent events of interest, such
as disagreements with other sailors or unusual financial transactions.

“Listen, my dear Penny, we will be arriving at . . .” Penny
could hear Edridge typing while listening to a voice giving instructions via
loudspeaker on another line. “0800 hours at São Pedro airport. You can meet us
there, or we will come to you.”

“B-b-but, how will you know where I am?”

“My dear Penny, we know who you are and where you are. Don’t
worry yourself about that. Go back to Salgadeiras and wait for instructions,
and we’ll come and find Orion.”

Back to Salgadeiras?

As Penny thanked Baba, who held out a reserved hand that
immediately morphed into a bear hug, she wondered how Muttley knew about the café.

A double vodka and coke awaited her on the bar. “Er . . .”
She fumbled in her daypack for her purse.

“It’s okay, Miss Penny.” The barman’s eyes glinted. “It’s taken
care of. And a car will pick you up in twenty minutes.”

“A car?”

“Your hotel.”

“Oh.”

T
raveling
back to the mountain in the rear of the truck, Mohamed kept quiet, knowing
better than to bother Ahmed, who stared at his feet, trying to come up with a
plan. Instead he leaned against the rear window, attempting to eavesdrop on the
conversation inside.

As the city’s urban sprawl gave way to lush green
countryside and the Rif’s distant rock faces glowed pink in the sunset, the
first police checkpoint came into view, the officers searching for contraband
coming from Europe. Used to the police waving them through, the boys were
surprised when the Grower pulled over and struck up a conversation with the
senior rank. Mohamed saw a fist-sized nugget of hashish change hands, two
junior officers running over to place a box of Red Label whiskey in the back of
the pickup, along with a crate of beer and five cartons of Marlboro.

Naseem continued a quarter of a mile down the road and
stopped the truck again.

“Give.” He jerked his head at the box of whiskey.

Mohamed slid it across the cargo bed. Naseem ripped open the
cardboard and retrieved a bottle.

“Boy, he’s in a good mood,” Mohamed muttered, Ahmed still
lost in thought.

Halfway up the mountain, the men polished off another bottle
and opened a third. Laughter filled the cab as Al Mohzerer blasted around the
brutal bends, the boys grimacing and clinging on for dear life. On the final
left-hander it was obvious the boss was going too fast. The pickup’s six-liter
diesel revved ever higher, the cargo bed shuddering as the tires kicked up
gravel.

Misjudging the angle, Al Mohzerer attempted to compensate by
throwing the wheel over, which swung the back end out, sending the pickup into
a terrifying slide toward the cliff edge. Mohamed screamed and grabbed Ahmed’s
arm, both instinctively ducking and bracing for the roll down the mountainside.

At the last second the drunken Naseem wrenched the wheel to
the right. For an eternity a tire hung thousands of feet above the valley floor
before digging into the shoulder as the pickup straightened and Naseem regained
control.

Arriving at the farm, Ahmed and Mohamed clambered down from
the truck, both fearing their legs would give way.

“I’m going to be sick.” Mohamed clung to his friend.

Ahmed did not reply. He too had a metallic taste in his
mouth.

Never so pleased to see the hut, Ahmed slammed the door
behind them, muffling the sound of laughter echoing around the courtyard.
Mohamed lay down and was about to say something but drifted off to sleep.