The Drift (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 1) (8 page)

F
uture
’s
crew visited a hypermarket on the outskirts of Brest, to find the enormous
store, the size of several football fields, packed with aisle upon aisle of discount
food and drink.

“Chocolate, Papa!”

Jessica zeroed in on a shelf stacked with supersized bars.

“In the cart then, greedy pants.”

Hans smiled as she heaved a two-foot-long slab onto the
growing pile of beer, wine, coffee, canned meats and other treats. He picked up
a bulk pack of mini-firecrackers, figuring he would have a bit of fun with them
at some point.

“Say, is anyone else hungry?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Penny replied, her appetite boosted
by the surrounding delicacies.

“I thought you’d never ask.” Jessica stood mesmerized by a gigantic
stack of Toblerones.

They took up seats in what had to be the smartest restaurant
Hans had ever seen. Furnished in rich mahogany, with cream satin tablecloths,
mirrored alcoves and pastel-painted murals depicting folk scenes from all around
the world on every wall, it truly was a gem, the view of the Château de Brest a
bonus. Hans marveled at Penny’s competency in French as she ordered from the
menu, delighted to find out they shared an appetite for the exotic when frog
legs and escargot arrived for their starter.

“Escargot, Jess?” Gripping the mollusk’s shell with a set of
tongs, Hans eased the slimy morsel from its home with a cocktail fork.

“What is it?”

“It’s a snail, like we have in the yard at home.”

“
Urrrh
!”

No, this one’s real nice, cooked with garlic butter and
parsley.”

“Hmm?” She frowned, not convinced and looking alternately at
her father and Penny.

Hans popped the snail in his mouth, and Penny followed suit,
both making a pretense at enjoying the dish – although in truth escargot didn’t
taste too great. Never one to be left out, Jessica nodded her approval, but as
she chewed on the rubbery offering her grimace said otherwise.

After two days in port they got the five-day weather window, as Old
Bill had insisted. Hans and Penny were well aware that the Bay of Biscay between
Brest and La Coruña in northern Spain was not a body of water to mess with.
Storms out in the Atlantic sent waves barreling in to meet shallows created by
the continental shelf, forming mountainous breakers. Along with cargo ships and
cruise liners, the Biscay had claimed many a yacht with its cantankerous bent.
Keeping well out to sea, they agreed, would be the key to a successful passage.

On
Future
’s last night in the marina, Marcel invited them
aboard
Sietske
for a barbecue. By now this kindhearted Dutchman had made
quite an impression on them, so they happily accepted.

Having grown up on her parents’ wooden yacht, Penny was
thrilled to spend an evening aboard
Sietske
,
but as they stepped over
her coaming, the scene greeting them was something of a shock. Empty beer cans,
cup noodle pots and potato chip wrappers littered the cockpit floor, along with
valuable items of equipment.

“I guess each to their own,” she whispered to Hans.

Sensing their unease, Marcel made his excuses. “Ah! You know
us Dutch. Anything for a pardy!”

He shoveled a load of litter into a pile with his foot,
picked it up and disappeared into the cabin, reemerging with his mammoth grin
and a tray of Tequila Sunrises.

“So, princess, when you marry me, we can tidy this place up
together, you know?”

“Uh-huh.” She nodded, her little eyes sold on the idea.

As the sun dropped below the horizon and an amber blaze
spread out through burnt-red wisps tinged with pinks and blues, the evening
turned into one to remember, Marcel supplying them with copious drinks and
burgers and hilarious anecdotes from his experiences sailing the coast of
Europe and North Africa.

“So, I’m in the Casbah, right? And I got a liddle drunk and I
bought a monkey.”

“What’s a Cashbar?” Jessica asked.

“A Casbah . . . It’s like a marketplace, you know? In Morocco
they sell everything there – pots, pans, jewelry, carpets – and liddle monkeys
like you!”

“I’m
not
a monkey!”

“Monkey-funky-hunky-bunky-honey!” Marcel wetted a forefinger
and shoved it in her ear.

“Urrrh
. . .
yuck!”
She punched his enormous
stomach.

“Anyhow, where was I? Oh yeah. So I got this monkey back to
the boat, and he ran away. So the next day I’m in the Casbah again and I see the
same guy selling the same monkey. And I say, ‘Hey! Why you selling my monkey?’ And
the guy says, ‘Sir, iz not yurr monkey. Iz
twin
brother’!”

Chuckling as Marcel cracked them up for the umpteenth time,
Hans wondered why this larger-than-life character never talked about anything
closer to home. Picking his moment, “What about
The Card Players
?” he asked.

“Cards?” Marcel replied. “You wanna play some cards? Oh, I don’t
got any cards.” He frowned and shook his head, looking upset he couldn’t oblige.

“Never mind,” said Hans.

Jessica let rip a monster yawn.

It was getting late, so Penny seized on the opportunity for
them to say goodnight. Throwing a mock-seductive look at Hans, “
Voulez-vous venir
avec moi
?” she asked, fluttering her eyelashes.

“Huh?”

“It’s French. It means, ‘Would you like to come home with
me?’”

“Oh! Er . . .
oui
, madam.”

“Madam!”
She feigned outrage. “
Mademoiselle
,
if you please!”

They thanked Marcel for his hospitality and, following hugs
all round, climbed back aboard
Future
.

“I hope you find your monkey, Marshell!” Jessica shouted.

“Hey! Monkey-funky-hunky-bunky-honey!”

After sending Jessica to sleep with a tale of mermaids and
dolphins, Penny joined Hans in the galley as he boiled water for a nightcap.

“You don’t trust him, do you?” She ran a hand down his back.

“Don’t trust him? What gives you that idea?”

“The card players thing. You weren’t suggesting we play
Texas Hold’em, were you?”

“No, I wasn’t. It’s a series of paintings by Cézanne. One of
them went at auction last year for two hundred and fifty million. I saw a
Discovery on it. Anyone with an idea of art would have known what I meant.”

“So you don’t believe his story.”

“Listen” – Hans put his arm around her – “the guy’s real
nice. Look at the way he treats Jess. She adores him.”

“She’s a liddle princess!”

“Ha! It’s just that he ain’t no retired art dealer. Look at
the garbage can he lives in –
stinks
of pot! That’s not someone who
knows how to make a million bucks.”

“You can say that again.”

“I just have a feeling there’s more to this guy than he’s
letting on.”

“I think you’re right.”

W
ith
their newfound status as gang leaders, life became slightly more prosperous for
Ahmed and Mohamed, who imposed a modicum of tax in return for protecting the
other members. It was far from enough to live off, though, and their hustling
continued, always scheming and every day dreaming of the Big Out.

Sniffing around the medina one afternoon, they came across a
battered orange pickup parked in the courtyard behind Old Man Ali’s carpet
shop.

“You go,” said Ahmed, spying a tarpaulin covering goods in
the back of the truck. “I’ll keep watch.”

Mohamed dashed forward, intent on taking a quick peek and
retreating to make a plan. But the goods were heavy, the tarpaulin folded tightly
around them.

Seeing his friend struggle, Ahmed ran over, and together
they managed to loosen the canvas enough to expose its contents.

“Wow!” He shot a look at Mohamed, who stood mouth agape in a
trance. “No way!”

Spilling onto the truck’s rusting bed were bars of the
finest hashish, likely a hundred or more, all carrying a stamp in the form of a
monkey.

“We’re rich!” hissed Ahmed.

“We’re rich!” Mohamed replied.

“You’re dead!” A sinewy arm locked around Mohamed’s neck.

Ahmed was off on his toes, but turning to see Mohamed held
captive, he slowed to a halt.

“If you run, I will kill him,” the man said, and both boys
knew he meant it. The cruel scar running from eye to chin spoke for him.

Instinctively, Ahmed sized the man up. Dressed traditionally
in a dark-brown ankle-length djellaba and maroon skullcap, he was by no means
an imposing figure, but there was something in the way he held himself – perhaps
the cold, confident eyes – that said he was not a person to mess with.

“If you pull that, I’ll snap his neck,” the stranger warned,
reading Ahmed’s mind.

Reluctantly, Ahmed reached around, removed the knife from
his waistband and threw it onto the pickup, a curt look signaling Mohamed to do
likewise.

“
Shemkara
?” the man asked, releasing his hold on the
boy.

“
Sayyid
.” Ahmed nodded, staring at the dusty,
grit-strewn ground.

“Then I have a better offer for you.” He flicked his head toward
the door of the truck.

The boys obliged, climbing in the passenger side.

The man drove out of the city for an hour and up a steep and
winding mountain pass, Ahmed and Mohamed spellbound by the open countryside yet
terrified of the dirt road’s sheer drop, which had doubtless claimed the
occupants of many a carelessly driven vehicle. On the approach to the village
of Azila, the man stopped the truck on a particularly vicious bend. He killed
the engine and lit a cigarette.

Ahmed looked to his right to see the scrubland falling away
hundreds of feet below. A small stone plaque sat concreted to a rock in the
hillside.

My beloved Safiya, Amir and Hassan. Though you fly with the
angels, your memory forever sings in my heart. Saleem.

“I will make it simple for you,” the man began, looking dead
ahead. “I am Naseem, son of Saeed.” He paused to let his words register, the
boys instantly recognizing the birth name of the one known throughout the land as
Al Mohzerer,
“the Grower.”

“The product is the best, and you will work hard to keep it
the best. There will be no drugs, no pilfering and no shirking. In return you
will not have to live as excrement in the city’s asshole. You will have a roof
over your heads, food in your bellies, and no one will touch you.”

Ahmed and Mohamed shifted uncomfortably on the truck’s bench
seat.

“But do not cross me . . . if you value the air in your
lungs and wish to see tomorrow’s sunrise.”

I
n
the morning, as Hans and Penny readied
Future
for departure, Marcel
emerged from
Sietske
’s cabin clutching a scuba mask and a pint of black
coffee laced with cognac. With his still-in-bed hair and dumpling eyes, he
looked on the delicate side of fragile.

“So you guys leaving now?” he asked, his voice as rough as sandpaper.

“Yeah, see you in La
Coruña!” Penny blew a kiss and threw
off the mooring line.

“
Ja
! I see you guys there.”

“See you there, Marshell!” Jessica waved Bear in the air.

“I’m following you, princess!”

They chugged out of the marina in conditions the bulletins
had promised, but as Penny cut the engine and Hans made good the mainsail,
something of a commotion broke out on the dock.

“
Attendez
!
Attendez
,
s’il vous plaît
!”

Running along the pontoon toward
Sietske
were two of
the marina’s officials, looking as though they wanted a word with her skipper. But
as Marcel swung the yacht around in a frantic reverse arc, the scuba mask
resting on his head and water dripping from his shaggy mane, he didn’t appear
keen to oblige, leaving his pursuers lurching over the dockside waving their
fists like extras in a Bond movie.

“What was all that about?” asked Penny. “And what was with
the diving mask?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say it might be the little matter of
mooring fees.” Hans chuckled. “The mask, I have no idea.”

At one point it looked as if Sietske would catch up with
Future
,
but eventually her serene pace proved no match for the modern yacht’s racing
line. With clear sky and fair northerlies as predicted, the first part of the
crossing went smoothly. Hans and Penny made a great team. When it came to seamanship,
both instinctively knew each other’s strengths, Hans trusting Penny’s superior
knowledge and she his scrupulousness and pragmatism. Penny’s bond with Jessica
made the whole deal tighter.

“Crew briefing of the century!” Hans announced.

“Crew briefing of the century!” Penny echoed.

“Crew briefing of the century, Bear!” Jessica grabbed her furry
companion and joined them on deck.

Hans addressed the issue of abandoning ship, explaining how
the life raft worked and why it was important to don survival suits in an
emergency. He showed Jessica how to set the handheld VHF radio to the correct
frequency and broadcast a Mayday, and how to deploy the EPIRB should they have
to leave the yacht.

“What’s the emergency channel, First Mate?”

“Sixteen, Pap— er, skippa.”

“Well done.”

For a bit of fun they each had a go at operating the
hand-cranked desalinator. Working on the principle of reverse osmosis, the pump
turned salt water into fresh, but as Jessica found out, it took significant
effort to produce even the slightest trickle.

The next day’s weather bulletin dampened their spirits with a
report of the Azores High moving off toward the Eastern Seaboard, leaving
choppy conditions and variable wind in its place. Over a late lunch they
discussed their options, Penny serving up chunky slices of whole-wheat baguette
laden with French pâté and potent-smelling cheese.

“Papa!”
Jessica shrieked as she gazed over the
coaming.

“Dolphins, sweat pea.”

“Porpoises,” Penny corrected him.

Six gray friends zipped through the water at
Future
’s
bow, flashing white bellies as they turned on their side every so often to fix
a beady eye on the spectators.

“That one’s looking at you, Jess!” Hans put an arm around
his daughter.

“Heeee!”

So enchanting were their companions,
Future
’s crew
watched mesmerized for over an hour, until a rumble of distant thunder sent the
porpoises shooting off. Penny looked up to see a bank of dark cloud moving in
from the west.

“Too late to turn back,” she whispered.

Hans nodded as a gentle swell erased the cat’s paw-print
effect on the sea’s previously polished surface.

By late afternoon a force six headwind slowed
Future
’s
progress. The barometer plummeting, Penny furled a third reef in the mainsail.

“It’s going to be a long night.” She smiled. “Will Jessie
need a seasickness tablet?”

“Please, Penny. If you can keep her
occupied below, I don’t mind taking the first couple of watches, and we better
close the companionway.”

“Aye aye, captain,” Penny replied,
deploying the “last-chance” line abaft before disappearing inside.

True to its name, the hundred-yard-long rope
knotted at three-foot intervals offered a last chance to stay with the boat should
one of them fall overboard while alone on deck. Grabbing it would trip the
self-steering mechanism, slewing the yacht into the wind and bringing her to a
standstill.

While
The Lion King
played on DVD, Penny
fetched an ornate wooden box from her kitbag, opening it up to reveal a
veritable Aladdin’s cave of
colored
beads, gemstones, leather
thongs and silver chain. Great fun, her jewelry making generated a significant
second income as she
traveled
the marinas of the world,
hawking her avant-garde trinkets to rich and often bored yachting wives. She stripped
wire from a spool and, using a pair of needle-nosed pliers, twisted the end
around the eye of a small metal clasp. Having measured the bracelet for size
around Jessica’s wrist, she snipped the wire to length and let the little girl
choose which beads she wanted on it.

Delighted with her gift, Jessica snuggled
up against Penny to watch the movie.

“JJ loved
Lion King
.”

“Did he?”

“Hmm. Mommy called him Simba.”

“Really?”

“Hmm . . . but they got dead.”

“Oh, honey. Daddy told me.” Penny welled
up, putting her arms around the little girl, wishing she could do more.

“A bad man hurt them. But Papa says it’s
okay because they will always be with us when we look at the flowers and the
trees and the sea.”

Jessica looked up at Penny, tears pouring
down her cheeks as she sought affirmation.

“Oh, sweetheart.”
Penny pulled
Jessica close as her tiny shoulders shrugged up and down.
“Papa’s right.
They’ll always be here. You know those porpoises that visited us today?”

“Uh-huh, uh-uh.”

“They came to tell us that Mommy and JJ are
happy and smiling, and everything is going to be all right.”

“I just want Mommy and JJ to be here, Penny
. . .
uh-uh.”

“I know, sweetie. I wish that too.”