The Tears of Dark Water (24 page)

The only thing that seemed to bring them relief was the promise of payment. So Ismail turned the ransom calls into a spectacle, delivering pre-call predictions, running translations of his dialogue with Curtis—the “mute” button was a wonderful invention—and post-call reports with a forecast of what the Captain’s family would do next. Each time he predicted correctly and Curtis raised his offer—first to $900,000, then $1.25 million, then $1.5 million, and most recently to $1.7 million—he endeared himself to the men. It was goodwill Ismail desperately needed to make his gambit work. In time, they would see through his deception and have to make a terrible choice. But that couldn’t happen until they had the ransom money in hand. Any earlier and everything would fall apart.

Just before ten o’clock in the evening, Ismail held what he hoped would be his last cheerleading session before he and Curtis reached agreement. He sat on the bench on the starboard side of the sailboat and the men crowded into the booth, displacing the Captain and Timaha, who retreated to the galley. Their expressions ranged from eager to jaded to surly, but all of their eyes were on him. He warmed them up with a pep talk and explained that the final steps in a negotiation were the most critical. The family would endeavor to hit the brakes, bringing their last offer up short of their limit, but he wouldn’t let them get away with it. He emphasized the point by squeezing an orange into a bowl until it ran dry. Then he picked up the satellite phone and placed the call.

“Ibrahim,” Curtis said in greeting. “How are my son and grandson?”

“They are fine, Curtis,” said Ismail. “You may talk to them when we have a deal.”

“No,” Curtis disagreed. “I want to talk to Daniel now.”

Ismail hit the mute button and translated this exchange for his men.

“Bastard,” Osman growled.

Guray seconded this sentiment. “No more talk until the deal is done.”

Ismail unmuted the phone. “My men are tired of this negotiation, Curtis. We have been more than reasonable with you. We will not accept less than $2.1 million. I know your family has it. So don’t waste my time telling me otherwise. You have seventeen hours left before the deadline.”

He terminated the call abruptly and filled in his crew. Afterward, they began to argue among themselves, Liban favoring compromise and Osman making not-so-veiled threats toward the Captain. In the midst of the quarrel, he heard the same phrase repeated a number of times: “
Laba milyan
”—“two million.” Ismail resisted the temptation to smile. That was the goal line. He would take $350,000 for himself—much less than a commander’s share, but enough for his purposes—and he would give each of them $275,000. He hoped it would be sufficient incentive for them to take the leap.

A few minutes later, he called Curtis back. “Are we in agreement?” he demanded.

He was unprepared for Curtis’s response. “Ibrahim, I just wired 1.85 million dollars to a bank account in Nairobi. My daughter-in-law is there now. She will collect the cash in the morning and put it on a plane for delivery. That’s all we could raise. If you want more, you need to extend the deadline.”

Ismail bristled. “I think you are lying, Curtis. I think you are being cheap.”

“Then you are a fool,” Curtis replied, allowing his emotion to show. “I convinced the Navy to leave you alone. Why would I lie when we’re so close?”

Curtis’s unexpected move put Ismail in a bind. He was satisfied with the figure. He would still take $350,000 and reduce his crew’s per capita share to $250,000. It was more than any of them would make in a decade hijacking ships. The problem was psychological. They were fixated on $2 million. Anything less would make him look weak, and weakness was something he could ill afford.

“That is unacceptable,” he said at last. “The deadline stands.”

With that he ended the call.

His men peppered him with questions, but he took a moment to think. Their decision had to be unanimous. He had given his men power by inviting them into the negotiations; he couldn’t exclude them without undermining his command. There was only one way to get them to accept less than $2 million. They had to feel the urgency of the deal. But he had to persuade them gently. Like a herdsman with his camels, he had to convince them to move on their own.

“The family is toying with us,” he said, elucidating Curtis’s offer. “I have no doubt we can get two million. But it might take another day or two. I say we wait. We have enough food, and the Navy isn’t bothering us. Let’s push back until we get the amount we deserve.”

The men reacted in predictable ways. Osman pounded his fist on the table: “Two million! No less.” Dhuuban and Sondare nodded along. “Two million, two million,” they said.

Ismail looked at Liban and then at Mas, holding his breath. His authority as Gedef’s successor hinged on what happened next. If they called his bluff and Curtis turned out to be telling the truth, then things could get dangerous very fast. Gratefully, Liban was too smart, and Mas too suspicious, to take his proposition on faith.

“How far are we from the coast?” Liban asked.

Ismail narrowed his eyes. “About a hundred and fifty miles.”

“When do you calculate we will make landfall?”

“Just before sunset tomorrow.”

This was all the information Mas needed. “I think it’s crazy to wait,” he said. “You think those ships are going to sit around for another day or two and do nothing to stop us?” He shook his head vehemently. “I say we take the money and get to the beach as fast as we can.”

Ismail crossed his arms, playing the part of jilted commander to the hilt. “You’re willing to accept a smaller ransom? What will you tell your family?”

Mas scowled back. “I’ll tell them that something is better than nothing.”

I couldn’t have said it better myself
, Ismail thought. He glanced at Osman and Guray and saw that the bravado was gone from their eyes.

Suddenly, Liban said: “I think Mas is right. A smaller ransom
is better than a bullet in the head.”

Seconds passed and then Osman conceded. “I’m with Mas. Let’s do it.”

That was the tipping point. The others soon followed suit. Ismail held up the sat phone. “If we take this money, we live with the consequences. Does anyone have a problem with that?”

When no one spoke, Ismail looked at the Captain and Timaha who were standing in the galley. They were wearing brave faces, but he could see the shadow of fear in their eyes. “We have a deal,” he said in English, adopting a friendly tone. “You will be home soon.”

Tears welled in the Captain’s eyes. “Thank God,” he exhaled and wrapped Timaha in his arms.

Ismail allowed himself the luxury of a smile. Against all odds, he had overcome Gedef’s death and the loss of the mothership and the might of the U.S. Navy to negotiate a million-dollar ransom at sea, all in a matter of days. It was an unprecedented achievement and would have made Gedef proud.
Yasmin
, he thought,
the Devil’s work is done. I’m coming for you now.

Then he called Curtis with the news.

As soon as the ransom terms were fixed and the Parkers were tucked away in their cabin, Ismail offered to take the first night watch and urged his men to get some sleep. They stretched out on the benches and floor spaces and drifted off in minutes, lulled by the sound of the engine and the rocking of the sailboat on the swells. He checked his GPS unit and confirmed their position. The current had set them a few miles south, but that was easy to correct. He made a few calculations and then sat back and waited, working through his plan for the next twenty-four hours until he could recite the sequence by heart, one step after the other, like dominoes falling.

At one o’clock in the morning, he put the sat phone in his pocket, made sure his men were asleep, and then crept to the weather hatch and pushed it aside. He slipped through the companionway and entered the darkened cockpit, staying on the balls of his feet. The gibbous moon was high in the sky, and the equatorial stars were bright despite the humidity in the air. The Navy ships remained on station—the
Gettysburg
off their starboard beam, its twin to port, and the aircraft carrier astern. The SEAL snipers were probably close enough to see him through their night scopes, but not close enough to take a shot, even if they wanted to.

He crouched down and went to the helm, exploring the console with his fingers. He found the button he wanted and pressed it three times. He felt the sailboat turn gently to starboard. Three degrees would offset the drift of the current. It might put them north of the coordinates he had given to Curtis, but the plane wouldn’t have trouble locating them. The warships were a dead giveaway.

Ismail left the cockpit and crab-walked toward the foredeck, stepping around winches and coils of line and absorbing the motion of the sailboat in his legs. When he reached the bow, he sat down and filled his lungs with air. He stayed like this for long minutes, listening to the swish-splash of the bow wave and relishing the gift of solitude for the first time in many days.

He saw Jupiter suspended before him like a porch light, and Andromeda hovering just above the horizon. He remembered the stories his mother had told him when he was a boy, stories of the Sufi mystics who saw meaning in the constellations. “The Prophet forbids us from studying astrology,” she had said, “but the stars are in Allah’s hand. They can carry a message.” Ismail traced out the celestial form of the Shackled Woman as the
Renaissance
sailed into her embrace. It was a propitious omen. Somewhere out there Yasmin was waiting for him.

After a while, he took out the sat phone and dialed a Somali number. He had memorized it long ago but used it on only one other occasion—after taking payment from Gedef for the Malaysian cargo ship. He listened to the ringtone, hoping Mahamoud had been true to his word.

“
As-salamu alaykum
,” said a sleepy voice, using the traditional Islamic greeting.

“Hello, uncle,” Ismail replied in Somali.

“Ismail,” said Mahamoud gravely, as if speaking to a ghost. “Are you in trouble?”

More than you could possibly understand
,
Ismail thought. “I need you to bring a Land Cruiser to a beach near Mallable village tomorrow at sunset,” he said. He gave his uncle the coordinates and explained his request in more detail.

Mahamoud was quiet for a long time. Ismail imagined him staring at the floor, brow furrowed, as he had done last September when Ismail had suddenly appeared at his door, seeking shelter from the battle raging in the streets. His uncle was a righteous man, but he was also a political chameleon with friends on all sides of the conflict—warlords, clan elders, Islamists, and government sympathizers. He had prospered as an hotelier in Mogadishu because he had maintained neutrality. It was precisely what made Ismail trust him. In all of Somalia, only Mahamoud could protect him from the Shabaab.

At last his uncle said, “What will you do then?”

If I answered you
, Ismail thought,
you would hang up now. But when you look into my eyes, you will see my father and not be able to deny me.
“I will tell you when I am with you.”

“What is this number?” Mahamoud asked. “I don’t recognize it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ismail replied. “Please delete all record of it. I have my mobile. I will call you when we are near the beach.”

Mahamoud took a labored breath. “Tomorrow at sunset.”

“Thank you,” Ismail said sincerely. He looked toward the west and saw Andromeda beginning to set. “
Nabadgalio
.”

“
Nabadino
,” his uncle replied and hung up.

Paul

The Indian Ocean

01°29´43˝N, 46°51´49˝E

November 14, 2011

Derrick watched the dawn break from the fantail of the
Gettysburg
. The sun emerged from the sea as a roseate sliver half obscured by a blanket of low-lying clouds. As it rose, it took on shape and intensity until at last it shrugged off its veil and pierced his eyes with shards of light. The ocean it revealed was a millpond. There was almost no wind. It wasn’t yet six o’clock, but Derrick felt a prickle of sweat forming beneath the collar of his shirt. According to the weather report, the temperature would climb into triple digits by afternoon.

He turned around and looked toward the west, blinking away the sunspots in his retina. The Somali coast was eighty-five miles away, and the drop site identified by Ibrahim in his last call to Curtis was just four miles shy of the mainland. It was too close for comfort—for Derrick and the Navy captains—but there was nothing they could do about it now. Derrick had tried to cajole Curtis into stipulating the location of the exchange, but Curtis had made no promises and Ibrahim had given him no opening. Derrick had listened to the recordings from Annapolis. The pirate was a gifted negotiator. In another life, Derrick would have recommended him for the FBI Academy.

A few minutes later, he left the fantail and climbed the stairs to the missile deck. His limbs felt leaden, weighed down by weariness. He had been awake for the better part of fifty-six hours, talking to Frazier and Mary Patterson, strategizing with Redman and Masters, and going over the recordings with Rodriguez until he could recite them from memory. The SEAL commander was convinced the pirate was running a confidence game. But Derrick couldn’t square Redman’s instinct with the man he heard in his headphones. Ibrahim spoke with unwavering candor. He never hesitated. Even pathological liars had a tell—a faint echo of falsehood. If Ibrahim had one, Derrick had yet to discern it.