Ivory E-Book

Tony Park

• Herausgeber: AJP
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Modern day pirates on a quest to save an African treaure

Ivory
Alex Tremain is a pirate in trouble. The two women in his life – one of them his financial adviser, the other his diesel mechanic – have left him. He’s facing a mounting tide of debts and his crew of modern-day buccaneers, a multi-national band of ex-military cutthroats, are getting restless.
They don’t all share his dream of going legit, but what Alex really wants is to re-open the five-star resort hotel which once belonged to his Portuguese mother and English father on the Island of Dreams, off the coast of Mozambique.
A chance raid on a wildlife smugglers’ ship sets the Chinese triads after him and, to add to his woes, corporate lawyer Jane Humphries lands, literally, in his lap.
Another woman’s the last thing Captain Tremain needs right now – especially one whose lover is a ruthless shipping magnate backed up by a deadly bunch of contract killers.
What Alex really needs is one last, big heist – something valuable enough to fulfil his dreams and set him and his men up for life.
When the South African government makes a controversial decision to reinstitute the culling of elephants in its national parks, Alex finds the answer to his prayers, but at what cost?

Leseprobe

About Ivory

Modern day pirates on a quest to save an African treaure

Ivory

Alex Tremain is a pirate in trouble. The two women in his life – one of them his financial adviser, the other his diesel mechanic – have left him. He’s facing a mounting tide of debts and his crew of modern-day buccaneers, a multi-national band of ex-military cutthroats, are getting restless.

They don’t all share his dream of going legit, but what Alex really wants is to re-open the five-star resort hotel which once belonged to his Portuguese mother and English father on the Island of Dreams, off the coast of Mozambique.

A chance raid on a wildlife smugglers’ ship sets the Chinese triads after him and, to add to his woes, corporate lawyer Jane Humphries lands, literally, in his lap.

Another woman’s the last thing Captain Tremain needs right now – especially one whose lover is a ruthless shipping magnate backed up by a deadly bunch of contract killers.

What Alex really needs is one last, big heist – something valuable enough to fulfil his dreams and set him and his men up for life.

When the South African government makes a controversial decision to reinstitute the culling of elephants in its national parks, Alex finds the answer to his prayers, but at what cost?

Contents

About IvoryDedicationPrologue12345678910111213141516171819202122232425262728293031323334EpilogueAcknowledgementsAbout Tony ParkAlso by Tony ParkCopyright

For Nicola

Prologue

It was early on the morning of his fifth birthday that he saw his first elephant, and for as long as he lived he would never forget that moment.

The mist hung low over the plains, and stretched as far as he could see as he peered over the black dashboard of the Land Rover. The vinyl still gave off that oily new smell when the sun slanted in through the square windows, as it did now.

‘Ponha o seu casaco novo, Alexandre,’ his mother said. Even though it was still cold, he didn’t want to pull on his new jacket. Reluctantly, he let his mother pull the scratchy garment over his arms and button it. The coat was a birthday present, but so too was his shiny new toy Land Rover – an identical miniature of his father’s Series IIA. He wanted to play with the car, but his father kept telling him to look for animals.

‘Ai, não pareces elegante?’ his mother said, but Alex didn’t think he looked smart at all.

‘Come here, Alex,’ his father said. ‘It’s time you learned how to drive.’ His father always spoke English and his mother Portuguese. It had always been that way and he answered each in their respective tongue. At five he was fluent in both languages, and thanks to his friend Jose, whose father worked for Alex’s father at the hotel, he had a good command of the local African language, Xitswa, too.

He dropped his toy car and clambered onto his father’s lap. He gripped the steering wheel and squealed with delight when his father let go.

‘Donald!’ his mother shrieked.

‘The boy’s doing fine. Look, Alex.’

‘Buffalo,’ Alex said proudly. He had seen a herd yesterday when they had arrived at the national park. His father had said there were at least a thousand buffalo in the herd, scattered like black marbles across the close-cropped green grass of the floodplain. This one was by himself, though, and he loomed out of the thinning mist like a black ghost.

‘Good boy, steady as she goes. He won’t hurt us.’

Alex turned to watch the huge head with its curved horns that seemed as long, from tip to tip, as he was tall. The steering wheel bucked and turned in his tiny hands as the tyres bounced in and out of ruts and the embedded footprints of animals that had churned the road to mud during the last rains and since dried as hard as pitted concrete.

‘Maybe we’ll see some lions today,’ his father whispered in his ear. ‘In the wild this time.’

Alex growled in imitation of the caged beast he had seen in Vilanculos, awaiting shipment to Portugal. His father had said it was bad to keep wild animals in cages, but his mother had scoffed and said there were far too many lions in Africa as it was and they should all be shot or shipped to zoos around the world.

‘Olha, elefantes!’ his mother called.

His father took back control of the steering wheel and slowed the Land Rover to a stop. Alex turned and caught sight of the elephants. The nearest was barely twenty metres away. Alex climbed off his father’s lap and onto his mother’s as she was closer to the great grey beast. His father killed the engine.

‘It’s a female. She could be the same age as you, my boy, judging by those thin little tusks.’

The elephant turned, startled, shook her head and raised her trunk, sniffing the air. Alex reached out of the open window, but his mother snatched his hand back inside. He heard a funny sound like a tummy rumble, but much, much deeper.

‘They’re talking to each other,’ his father said.

She was the biggest thing he had seen in his young life and he stared at her in silence, drinking in every detail of her wrinkled grey body. The huge head, the white tusks that shone pale gold in the growing light, the hairy tuft at the end of her tail and the pink mouth that seemed to smile at him. He found it hard to believe that she was only five, like him. ‘What’s wrong with her ear, Papa?’ There was a large v-shaped rent in the left one.

‘I don’t know, my boy. Perhaps a lion tried to catch her when she was a baby. If so, she’s a very lucky elephant indeed.’

‘Can a lion kill an elephant, Papa?’

‘Only a little one. Once they’re this big they’re safe from everything in the wild, except man.’

‘What do you mean, Papa?’

‘People are killing elephants all over Africa, Alex, for their tusks, and it’s wrong. We need to protect these animals. They’re the future of our country – your future, Alex.’

Alex’s mother said, in Portuguese, that there were more things in Mozambique to worry about than people hunting elephants, and that his father should not fill the boy’s head with such serious words on his birthday. Alex let the conversation flow over him and continued to stare, open-mouthed, at the elephant with the tear in her ear.

The elephant started to walk towards them. His mother told his father to start the engine, but his father shook his head. ‘She won’t hurt us. She’s made the decision to approach the vehicle – we’d only be in trouble if we were invading her territory.’

‘Donald!’ his mother hissed, unconvinced.

Alex could feel his heart beating in his chest and he looked back over his shoulder at his father, who smiled at him and winked. His mother put her hands over her eyes and scrunched down so that her head was below the level of the dashboard. Alex wriggled off her lap so that he was next to the door and reached his hand out of the window again.

As the elephant drew closer, he could see the tip of her trunk was pink and that rather than being flat like a pig’s snout, it had two protrusions, like funny little fat fingers. Alex could smell her musty scent and see her long eyelashes and the glistening eye that watched him.

He held his hand steady and felt the soft exhalation of warm breath on his palm as she kissed him.

1

Southampton, England

The overheated interior of the security minivan in which Jane was driven across the dock stank of the driver’s body odour, and the cigarette he’d obviously been smoking before she got in. The relief she got from opening the sliding door was short lived, and the wind and rain lashed her while she struggled to drag her rucksack and day pack out. The driver had no intention of leaving his seat to help her, and was probably looking forward to relighting his smoke. Her strawberry blonde hair was plastered to her face and rivulets cascaded off the collar of her Gore-Tex parka and down the back of her neck. The bleak day matched her mood. There was no band, no streamers, no crowds of well-wishers, no tearful farewells. Just row upon row of brand-new Land Rovers, awaiting loading on a car carrier.

Her ship loomed above her. At nearly four hundred metres in length, the one hundred and thirty thousand tonne MV Penfold Son was hard to miss. The last of its cargo of twelve thousand steel shipping containers was being loaded by a giant crane on the dockside. It was one of the largest container ships afloat and just within the Suezmax specifications that allowed it to squeeze through the Suez Canal. It was an impressive beast, this flagship of a family-owned line; however, Jane didn’t like to think of the word family when she thought of the name Penfold. It made her feel bad, and she wasn’t, she told herself for the third time that morning, a bad person. Was she?

The man at the top of the gangway stared down at her as she walked up. Pale-faced and gaunt, with lank, greasy, greying hair that protruded from under his white plastic hard hat, he wore a blue boiler suit and orange safety vest.

He wiped his nose and sniffled as he took her passport from her and opened it. ‘Jane Elizabeth Humphries. You are from head office, da?’

‘Yes.’

‘Welcome aboard.’ He made a note on a clipboard and handed back her passport.

She thought it a talent of the man to make the word welcome sound like an insult.

‘I am engineer, Igor Putin. Name is like former president. I show you to your cabin. Come.’

Another crewman, who looked Filipino, appeared and Putin handed him the clipboard. The man nodded and smiled at Jane, and took over Putin’s position at the top of the gangway.

Jane wiped wet hair from her eyes and followed the Russian officer down the narrow passageway. From somewhere far beneath her came the throb of the ship’s engines, vibrating up through the deck into the soles of her feet – a far more pleasant sensation than following in Igor’s wake, which smelled of cheap aftershave and body odour.

‘You are lawyer, yes?’ Igor said without turning around to face her.

‘Yes.’ She’d heard all the jokes and aspersions before.

‘I have just got divorced from Englishwoman. I don’t like lawyers. No offence.’

‘None taken.’ She didn’t like smelly Russians either, but thought it wise not to upset the crew too early in the voyage.

Igor showed her to the owner’s cabin. This was the crème de la crème of accommodation on board a working freighter. She’d seen pictures, but this was her first time on board one of the company’s ships, though not her first cruise.

Jane hated flying. It terrified her, so she did everything – anything – she could to avoid it. If she was required to be in Paris for a business meeting on a Monday morning, she would book herself onto the Eurostar train on the Sunday afternoon and stay in a hotel, rather than risk her life on a forty-five minute flight.

She holidayed in England – something that had annoyed and, in two cases, eventually alienated past boyfriends – or took cruises. She’d been around the Mediterranean and Aegean and taken a cruise to Sydney and back on board the Queen Mary. She was still paying off the credit card bill from the last voyage, but that was a small price to pay, she reasoned, compared to plunging thirty thousand feet to her death.

Jane considered herself something of a seasoned sea traveller, though this would be a new adventure for her.

The owner’s cabin was actually a two-room suite – a bedroom and small sitting room, with an ensuite shower and toilet. She knew it to be thirty square metres and that turned out to be about as big as a very small London flat, minus the kitchenette. There was a double bed, a bar fridge, a television with a VCR and DVD player, an AM-FM radio and an electric kettle and tea and coffee supplies on a small sideboard.

The cabin was immediately below the navigating bridge and faced forward. Through thick glass windows she had a fantastic view across the expanse of stacked shipping containers. At least the view would be fantastic when the rain cleared, she thought.

When she opened the fridge she saw six bottles of vintage Krug champagne and a punnet of strawberries. She closed the door and smiled. As she unpacked she reflected on the last two weeks at work and the way her life had been thrown into disarray.

It had been clear to her, not long after she started her new job nine months earlier, that the managing director and future owner of Penfold Shipping, George Robertson Penfold, wanted to sleep with her.

As the in-house counsel for the London-based international shipping firm, Jane could have reeled off a dozen legal and moral reasons why this would have been a bad idea, starting with the fact that George was married and had three teenage children. Had she been minded to take his increasingly unsubtle advances in a different way, she could have mounted a good case for sexual harassment. However, Jane had been attracted to George from the moment she’d entered his city office for her job interview.

He was tall, fit – he ran seven kilometres and did a hundred push-ups a day – handsome, rich, urbane, funny, intelligent and well read. At forty-five he was young to be the MD of a company with a profit of several hundred million pounds per annum.

Of course, it didn’t hurt that his father was chairman of the board, but George was a man who quite clearly could have been running a similarly sized business on his own merits. Indeed, according to company legend, he had done everything in his power not to inherit the business from his father.

George had run away to sea – literally – bunking out of private school at the age of sixteen to work for a rival shipping company. Being the scion of one of Britain’s elite shipping families had not helped him on board a rival’s vessel; in fact, it had proved a curse for his first few years. He had defended himself and his family name – even though he had earned his father’s wrath – in a series of fist fights in ports around the world.

According to George, it had been his wife, Elizabeth, who had talked him into returning to the family fold. By then George was twenty-five and had more than earned his right to serve as an officer on one of his father’s ships. He’d risen to captain by the age of thirty-five – no mean feat at the time – and there were few in the industry who would suggest he’d made the rank of Master Mariner by virtue of anything other than merit.

But George missed the sea, or so he’d told Jane when he’d first taken her out for a long weekend on the company yacht. There had been others aboard – the IT manager and chief financial officer – but George seemed to engineer quiet moments when it was just the two of them together. Elizabeth, George said, hated the sea and anything to do with ‘boats’, as she insisted on calling them. She liked his family’s money, George said, but not the family business.

He also suspected Elizabeth was having an affair.

Jane had been shocked to hear him make such a private admission to her. The other members of the executive team were ashore, enjoying wine and seafood in the French port in Brittany. Jane, who loved sailing, had willingly volunteered to stay behind and help George secure the yacht. Their work done, George had opened two chilled Czech pilsners, which they drank in the slanting afternoon sunshine.

‘I know I’m away from home on business a hell of a lot, but I do try to be a good husband and father,’ George had said, looking back out to the channel.

He was a handsome man whose tan and callused hands attested to the fact he didn’t spend more time than necessary in his London office. His broad shoulders sometimes looked constrained in a suit, but out on his yacht in an old T-shirt he looked free and cool, in his true element.

‘Elizabeth and I have grown apart, as the Americans would say.’

She’d smiled at his awkwardness.

‘It’s been … well, rather too long since … Oh, bugger, this is what my kids would call TMI. I’m so sorry, Jane. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.’

‘It’s fine, George. I like to think we’re friends, and you can talk to me about anything. Really.’

He’d laid a hand on her forearm – the first time she could recall him touching her – and it had sent a ripple of electricity throughout her entire body. She’d had to catch her breath.

‘God, now I suppose you expect me to say my wife doesn’t understand me. I feel like a walking bloody cliché.’

‘Does she?’ Jane had asked.

‘No.’

They’d had dinner ashore at a brasserie George had frequented often enough to be greeted warmly by the maître d’. Afterwards, in a boutique hotel he’d booked for the evening, Jane again found herself alone with her boss, over coffee and Cointreau. There were even candles.

‘I know it’s wrong, but I’m attracted to you, Jane.’

She’d had a moment of panic. She, too, was drawn to him, though she had never in her life been with a married or otherwise attached man. She told herself she was not the kind of woman who’d try to take another’s man, though she’d never actually found herself in such a situation. She thought of Elizabeth and the children, and said, ‘I’m so sorry, George.’

‘Forgive me,’ he’d blurted out.

‘No, no. I’m flattered, believe me, and I do like you, George. I really do. And I’m not just saying that because you pay me an inordinate amount of money.’

He’d laughed it off, but she’d had the distinct feeling he would try to woo her again. She was right. Two weeks ago after sharing two bottles of wine at a posh restaurant, she’d gone with him to the empty company flat in Soho and they had made love.

She pushed thoughts of George from her mind for the moment. There would be plenty of time to think about him on the long voyage to Africa.

The normal route from the UK to Cape Town would have taken the Penfold Son down the west coast of Africa, but there was nothing normal about this voyage. George had his sights set on acquisitions in Africa and north Asia. The Penfold Son would be taking a slow trip, through the Suez Canal, across to Mumbai and then back to Africa, stopping at Mombasa, Durban, Port Elizabeth and, finally, Cape Town. The costly voyage was as much about public relations as it was about trade. ‘Britannia used to rule the waves,’ George had told The Times recently, ‘but in the twenty-first century it’s going to be Penfold in charge.’ George wanted to show off his new ship and let his competitors know that he was a major player with money to spend.

Jane wasn’t sailing away to forget George, so much as put some distance between them while she thought through a lot of things.

There was also a business reason for her travel to South Africa. Penfold Shipping had begun negotiations to purchase a South African company, De Witt Shipping, and Jane would play a key role in the talks. A round of intensive meetings was planned for the end of the month and George and other members of the senior executive team would be flying out to Johannesburg. Jane, of course, would rather jump out the window of her twenty-third floor London office than be stuck on an aircraft for nine hours.

The cruise on the Penfold Son – which had been named after George by the old man – would arrive in Cape Town three days before the meetings were due to begin. Jane would then catch a luxury train, the Pride of Africa, from the Cape to Johannesburg.

She’d come to an arrangement with George about taking so much time out of the office. She would, in fact, be in contact with her colleagues and boss by satellite phone and email while on board. She unpacked her laptop and booted it up. Her BlackBerry beeped in her handbag, reminding her she was still very much on the job, but it would soon lose its signal. As a goodwill gesture she had offered to take two weeks’ leave as well, but George had refused.

‘It’s high time you got a look at the sharp end of this business. Call it an extended familiarisation trip. Besides, you’re saving me the cost of a business class airfare by taking a slow ship to South Africa,’ he’d said.

There would be time to relax, though. Plenty of time, in fact. She unpacked a dozen chunky paperbacks and stacked them on the shelf next to the bed. She opened her handbag and checked the BlackBerry.

Hi. Hope you’ve settled in and Igor hasn’t offended you too much. They’re a good bunch and you’ll get used to washing dishes and swabbing the decks soon enough. George. x

The kiss at the end of the message struck her as slightly improper, even in such a relaxed, abbreviated form of work communication.

Improper, but exciting. Just like George.

​Indian Ocean, off the coast of South Africa

‘Two targets, six miles ahead,’ Hans, the first mate, said.

Captain Are Berentsen put down his cup of coffee and shifted his position on the bridge of the MV Oslo Star so he could see the radar screen. ‘No AIS,’ he said – neither boat displayed the Automatic Identification System code that any vessel of substance would display. That wasn’t unusual, though, in African waters, where the transponder was a luxury not everyone could afford. ‘Fishermen, I suppose.’

It was the mate’s watch and Are had come to the bridge to drink his coffee with his old friend, and to find an excuse to get away from the computer and the paperwork that was sadly so much a part of a master’s job these days. A lookout, a Filipino able seaman, stood at the far end of the bridge.

Berentsen picked up a pair of binoculars himself and scanned the horizon.  Beneath his feet the twenty-one thousand tonne deadweight Pure Car and Truck Carrier, or PCTC as it was known, was packed with row after row of new motor vehicles, tractors and earth-moving equipment.  The fifteen-deck floating car park’s last stop had been Port Elizabeth, where she’d taken on scores of South African-manufactured Hummer H3 luxury four-wheel drives bound for Australia. They’d take on some more cars from the Toyota plant at Durban and disgorge half-a-dozen mining trucks before the long haul across the Southern Ocean through mighty swells spawned in the empty expanses between the Antarctic and Africa.

‘They’re not moving.’ Are lowered the binoculars and rubbed his eyes.  They were close to shore, less than three nautical miles, hugging the coast in order to stay out of the Agulhas current. No, it wasn’t unusual to come across a couple of trawlers here. So why was the hair on the back of his neck suddenly prickling to life?

‘Captain, I see them.’ Hans pointed to the tiny specks.

Berentsen refocused his own glasses and saw two fishing trawlers, line astern and close to each other. A streak of smoke scratched a path from the lead boat across the otherwise perfectly empty blue sky. ‘Orange flare. Try to raise him on the radio.’

The mate repeated the Oslo Star’s call sign three times into the radio handset and asked the trawlers to identify themselves. There was no reply. He picked up his binoculars again. ‘He is flying N over C, Captain.’ The flags – and the orange flare – were internationally recognised distress signals.

Berentsen swore to himself. Any delay in their tight schedule meant money, but he was obliged to render assistance to any vessel at sea that needed it.

‘Turn into the weather, starboard five, dead slow ahead,’ Berentsen said.

‘Turn into weather, starboard five, dead slow ahead,’ Hans repeated, signalling he had understood the order to use engines and the onshore breeze to starboard to slow them down. Had they simply stopped the ship’s single engine, it would have taken more than two kilometres to stop the Oslo Star, which had been travelling at close to twenty knots. By turning away from the stricken fishing vessels Are was using the elements to reduce his speed.

Having dropped to just six knots, Are gave the order for the mate to turn to port, back towards the fishermen. He blinked away the glare and refocused the glasses as they neared the two fishing boats. They were both sizeable trawlers, he noted. It was a sad coincidence that both vessels’ diesels had given up.

‘Stop engine,’ Are said.

‘Stop engine,’ Hans said. ‘Captain, should I ready the rescue boat?’

Are rubbed his red-gold beard. Through the binoculars he could now see a white man on the lead boat waving frantically. He saw, too, the flash of sunlight on water and steel as a cable between the tow boats was pulled taut. Some instinct from generations of ancestors who had sailed the open seas since Viking days made him hesitate. ‘Radio MRCC. We’ll stand off.’

The Maritime Rescue Co-ordination Centre at Silvermine near Cape Town in South Africa was responsible for organising assistance for vessels in trouble. If the fishermen had been able to send a signal before losing radio communications there could be a rescue vessel already on its way. If not, then the MRCC might task the Oslo Star, as the closest vessel, to render assistance.

‘Smoke, sir. The rear boat’s on fire!’

Are couldn’t ignore the greasy black plume erupting from the towed boat’s engine compartment. He focused on the trawler and saw the lick of orange flames. No mariner would be stupid enough to set fire to his own vessel as a ruse. ‘Hans, sound a general alarm. Ready the rescue boat and fire hoses.’

The mate gave the orders while Are kept watch as the Oslo Star closed slowly on the stricken trawlers. He lost sight of the trawlers as smoke engulfed them.

It took his brain a few precious seconds to realise something was very wrong.

‘Boat’s ready to launch, Captain. Lowering now,’ Hans said, having just been talking on the radio to rescue crew in the forward mooring station, where the craft was stowed.

‘They’re moving!’

‘Captain?’

Are swung to check out the lead boat again and noted a cable rising from the ocean’s surface between the two craft. ‘That bloody fire’s a fake. It hid the exhaust smoke from the lead trawler. He’s moving and the fool’s heading straight across our bow.’ He pushed the button to sound the ship’s alarm and let the glasses drop so they hung from their neck strap.

‘Engine full astern.’

‘Engine full astern,’ Hans replied.

Are didn’t like this. The car carrier was as manoeuvrable as an elephant in quicksand and she couldn’t take evasive action to avoid the other vessels. He punched the typhoon air horn button on the console in front of him and sent out five short blasts, signalling he couldn’t understand their actions.

‘Retrieve the rescue boat,’ Are said.

Hans looked at him. ‘Captain?’

‘Just do as I bloody say. Get that boat back.’

Are sounded five more blasts on the horn. The tow cable flickered in and out of sight between the two fishing vessels, which were set on a course to intercept them.

Something clicked in Berentsen’s mind. ‘Engine full ahead.’ He pushed the general alarm signal and klaxons started blaring throughout the ship.

The mate’s face had turned ashen. ‘Captain, if we keep on this course we’ll ram them.’

‘That’s exactly what I’m trying to do, Hans. Faster …’ Putting the engine astern had all but stopped the ship. They were moving forward again, but painfully slowly.

The fishing boats chugged on. The lead vessel increased its speed slightly, until the tow cable was raised taut between it and the smoking boat behind. Are assumed they were in radio contact. He switched channels to try to pick up their private conversation.

‘… easeoff. Now make fifteen knots. That’s it. Hold it.’

‘Got you,’ Berentsen said.

‘Cut your engines in five, four, three, two…’

Are looked away from the radio’s speaker, which had mesmerised him for a second. Surely this couldn’t be happening to him.

‘Idiots. They’re stopping in front of us, Captain. Why would they, now they have power? Don’t they know we’re going to hit them?’

‘That’s exactly what they want us to do. Get ready to go full astern as soon as I tell you …’

‘But Captain, why don’t we stop now, and –’

‘Shut up, damn you.’ Berentsen turned and strode towards the rear of the bridge.

Are clapped a hand on Hans’s shoulder in a gesture of apology. ‘Steady. Here it comes. Pray we have enough speed to cut that cable or pull them under on either side of us.’

The fishing boats held steady, using their throttles to keep in position across the path of the oncoming leviathan. The tow cable’s wet steel strands glittered and winked in the sunlight like a strand of dew-covered spider web.

Are Berentsen held his breath as the blunted, overhanging prow of his mighty ship obscured the cable from view. Even at this height, nearly forty metres above the water’s surface, he and his crew heard the agonising scrape of metal on metal. ‘Come on, my beauty,’ Berentsen willed his ship. For a moment the captain thought he had won.

The cable had snared the Oslo Star’s bulbous bow which jutted forward of the hull beneath the water and Berentsen had not been able to summon enough speed to snap the stout wire rope.

‘Captain, look,’ said the Filipino lookout who had been wise enough to stay silent so far. ‘That boat’s coming right towards our port side!’ There were several different nationalities in Berentsen’s crew but English was the common working language on board.

Berentsen knew very well what was happening without seeing for himself.  Both smaller vessels would have cut their engines, allowing the onward progress of the mighty Oslo Star to draw them in against either side of her hull. Are tapped the keys of the Global Maritime Distress and Safety System on the control panel and scrolled down the menu on the small screen through a list of possible problems that a ship at sea could face. When he came to ‘piracy attack’ he selected it and hit the key that sent an emergency signal to the MRCC in Silvermine. He supposed help would come from Durban, but he had no idea how long it would take.

‘Engine stop, Hans. Astern full.’

Below them the engine protested the sudden commands, sending vibrations all the way up through the car decks to the bridge high above. ‘Where are you going, sir?’ Hans said to his captain’s back.

‘To get a weapon.’

‘But why, sir? Who are these people?’

‘Pirates.’

2

Alex Tremain was more than ready for the collision of hull on hull and he rode the rocking deck of the lead trawler with practised ease.

He buckled his custom-made ammunition vest, drew the nine-millimetre Heckler and Koch pistol from the black nylon holster low on his right thigh and cocked it. He tightened the sling of his Austrian-designed Steyr carbine so that it hung, barrel down, snug in the small of his back. A stun grenade was clipped to a webbing strap by his heart, and another, containing CS tear gas, hung from his belt.

Three other men, similarly dressed – their identities disguised by black rubber gasmasks – waited beside him on the deck. The shortest of the trio, Henri, held an Assault Launch Max line launcher at the ready. The ALM resembled a futuristic rifle with a folding shoulder stock, but instead of firing bullets it was capable of sending a rubber-coated titanium grappling hook attached to a sturdy nylon line forty metres straight up into the air.

The side of the massive boxlike ship loomed above them like a sheer white cliff. Alex spoke into the microphone built into his mask. ‘All call signs, standby, standby … fire!’

At his command the grappling hook left the launcher with a whoosh as four and a half thousand pounds per square inch of compressed air was released. The folded nylon climbing rope hissed as it left the plastic container beneath the barrel of the launcher. The hook arced over the PCTC’s hand rail.

From the other side of the ship Alex heard the sound of gunfire. His men on the trailing fishing boat would be firing carefully aimed shots designed to miss the seamen operating the fire hoses on the top of the car carrier but scare them and any other foolhardy onlookers back inside their accommodation on deck thirteen.

Alex’s earpiece crackled. ‘Mine missed, boss. Loading second now,’ Mark Novak reported from the other boat, on the far side of the target ship. No system was foolproof in battle, which was why they had spare grappling hooks, ropes and cylinders of compressed air. Novak, a burly South African former Recce Commando, was simply following the drill.

Henri tugged hard on the nylon line. ‘Secure.’

‘Go!’ Alex called into the microphone.

He led the way, as always. The fact that Novak’s crew would be a few seconds later meant that he would be first on board the Oslo Star. Adrenaline charged his body like no other drug on earth as he climbed, hand over hand, the line snaking between his boots so that he could use his feet to propel his body upwards faster. Henri picked up a spare ALM and launched a second line.

‘Just once I want to do this with a knife between my teeth.’ Mitch, the pushy American, always had to say something.

Alex ignored the bump and rasp of steel against his gloved knuckles and looked up at the approaching summit. If the captain was smart he’d be in lockdown on the bridge, his men hiding behind secured hatches.

Alex felt the vibration of the car carrier’s engine and the giant ship slowly started to reverse. A glance below confirmed what he knew would be happening. The fishing boats were being gradually left behind as the Oslo Star freed itself of the steel snare which had entrapped it. Mitch was on the second line, climbing steadily, but if Alex couldn’t get on board quickly and secure and unfurl the nylon climbing ladder he carried in his backpack, then he and Mitch would be left dangling, exposed and alone.

Captain Are Berentsen looked out from the bridge wing and cursed Leif Eriksen – the bearded giant of an engineer, who should have been with the other sixteen crewmen, locked inside the ship’s mess. Instead Leif was striding along the deck, hugging the superstructure of the accommodation deck and therefore out of sight of the pirates below. Are had to duck his head back as a bullet zinged off the steel nearby.

Dressed in his grease-stained orange overalls, Leif was carrying a steel wrench almost half as long as his two-metre height. His long blond hair streamed in the stiff breeze as the ship ploughed backwards. He broke into a run now, hefting the spanner like a berserker.

‘Security alert, Leif. I said security alert,’ Berentsen’s voice boomed out over the ship’s PA system.

Alex was within reach of the top of the railing now. The captain’s voice, in accented English, warned him someone was not obeying the man’s command. Taped upside down on the front of his vest was his Fairbairn-Sykescommando dagger. He drew it with his right hand as he hooked his left arm over the rail.

Alex knew that under international maritime law firearms and ammunition were not carried on board merchant vessels. The only exception to this rule was Israeli ships and he had never encountered one of those. He and his men were heavily armed in order to intimidate the unarmed crews of the ships they raided, but if there was a man on the loose on this ship then Alex would do everything in his power to subdue him without firing a shot.

Alex hauled himself up and as his head cleared the ship’s steel side he was confronted with the image of a red-faced, flaxen-haired giant swinging a huge lump of metal down from a great height.

The blow was perfectly aimed and the wrench clanged down on the first two fingers of Alex’s left glove. He felt nothing.

Amazement showed for a split second on the face of the oil-stained seafarer and he took a pace back as he hefted his weapon for another blow.

As Alex hauled himself over the railing he dropped to the unforgiving deck, though his perfectly executed parachute landing roll spread the impact down the right side of his body. He arrived at the feet of his opponent and stabbed down hard with the dagger, driving it through the stout leather of the man’s boot, just above where he guessed the reinforced steel toecap would be.

Bellowing like a wounded buffalo, the man reeled backwards and Alex had to writhe, snakelike, to avoid the falling wrench.

Alex wiped the bloody knife quickly on the leg of his flight suit and sheathed it. He swung the Steyr around from his back to cover the wounded man. Behind him, Mitch clambered over the rail – just in time. He unzipped the pack on Alex’s back, took the rolled climbing ladder, fastened it to the rails with stout carabiners and hurled it overboard. The two others from his boat, Heinrich and Henri, were soon on board, making faster time on the ladder than Alex and Mitch had on the punishing rope climb.

‘Bring him with us,’ Alex said, motioning to the scowling engineer as Henri climbed over the rail. The Frenchman and ex-Foreign Legionnaire nodded and rammed the barrel of a Glock pistol under the chin of their prisoner. ‘Alive,’ Alex reminded him.

Alex checked left and right as he burst through the watertight door the engineer had conveniently left open. If the man had obeyed his captain and locked himself in, he might have bought his shipmates more time.

He was inside the ship’s accommodation area, with its familiar smell of disinfectant, cooking and cigarette smoke. His rubber-soled boots squeaked on the nonslip linoleum floor as he passed the lounge. The crew, mostly Filipinos, were crouching in the mess. Alex raised his Steyr carbine and fired a burst of three rounds over their heads. The men dropped to their bellies. Behind him, Henri bustled the wounded engineer into the room with his comrades. ‘Stay here and guard them,’ Alex said, and Henri nodded. One heavily-armed man was enough to keep the crew covered as none possessed the foolhardy courage of the wounded engineer.

Alex ran along the corridor separating the lines of crew cabins and past the offices allocated to the captain and his senior officers. Ahead of him was the door leading to the bridge. He knew it would be locked. Alex opened a nylon pouch on his vest and drew out the small hunk of plastic explosive, already fitted with a detonator. He slapped it next to the lock and primed it. ‘Back! Fire in the hole!’ he called to the others behind him. He used the three seconds of relative peace remaining to unclip the stun grenade and pull out the pin.

The hearing protectors and tinted lenses worn by Alex and his men muted the explosion to an uncomfortable bang and buffeting, but the ship’s senior officers who had mustered inside the bridge had their senses assaulted by the blinding flash of light and gut-thumping bang that erupted from the stun grenade.

Alex stormed through the doorway into the smoke-filled bridge just as another blast signalled the breaching of the door leading to the port bridge wing. The other assault team, Novak, Kevin and Kufa, would be waiting outside on the port wing in order to round up any crewmen who escaped. If they entered they ran the risk of walking into crossfire if the bullets started flying.

The narrow, high-intensity beam of the torch attached beneath the Steyr’s shortened barrel picked out a man huddling in a foetal position on the deck below the helm, another staggering towards the far opening.

Alex heard a bang and a whoosh, and raised his left arm and staggered back a pace just in time to miss an incandescent red ball that screamed past his face. Smoke and flame seemed to fill the bridge as the hand-launched distress flare bounced off the rear wall of the bridge, then ricocheted off the thick windows, glanced off the carpet and finally sailed out the open port door.

‘Holy fuck!’ Alex heard Novak yell in his earpiece. ‘That was bloody close, man.’ Ship’s officers were coughing and crawling around the deck at his feet. Alex saw a red-bearded man at his feet holding the smoking tubular flare launcher and staring up at him with defiant rage.

Alex centred the beam of light from his rifle on the man’s chest. Blood pounded in his ears, but he checked the rage he felt at the man’s stupidity. Alex covered the two metres between them in a bound, leaping over the curled-up man at his feet, and swung the Steyr’s plastic butt down into the side of the idiot’s head. The man crumpled to the floor.

‘Clear this side,’ Novak said into his earpiece.

‘Bridge secure. Get all the doors open. Clear the smoke,’ Alex added.

Alex scanned the control panel in front of him and found the engine controls. He knocked them out of reverse and into neutral. The ship shuddered and slowed.

The red-bearded man at his feet groaned and rolled over. Wiping blood from a split lip he looked up at Alex. ‘Get off my ship, you bastard.’

Alex looked down at the captain, the barrel of his rifle pointing at the man. ‘This is my ship for the time being. Don’t do anything stupid and you can have it back soon.’

He swung the helm, changing course, and pushed the engine into full ahead.

‘You’re heading straight towards the coast,’ the captain said.

Alex ignored him. ‘Keep a close eye on the depth as we get closer,’ he said to Kevin, the Australian member of his band. ‘Take the helm.’

‘Right-o, boss.’

Alex undid a Velcro-flapped pouch on his vest and pulled out a portable GPS unit. He hit the go-to button and selected a pre-entered coordinate. He confirmed the ship was on the right heading and cross-checked their speed and time of arrival. He didn’t use the ship’s navigation system in case the captain, who now sat with his back against the wall of the bridge, saw their destination point and memorised the latitude and longitude.

‘Should we send him back to the mess with the rest?’ Kevin asked.

Alex shook his head. ‘We might need his technical advice when we get closer. Also, if he was with the rest of the crew he might try something foolish.’

‘What makes you think I’m going to help you?’ the Norwegian asked in accented English. ‘You could threaten to kill me and I wouldn’t assist you.’

‘I thought that’s what you’d say.’ Alex kept his eye on the horizon, not deigning to face the captain. ‘No, if I want you to do something against your will, I’ll bring your crew up one at a time and keep shooting them until you obey.’

Berentsen swore in his own language.

‘Speed: fifteen knots,’ Kevin said.

‘Keep her steady,’ Alex said to the Australian. He turned his attention to the ship’s radio, changing the frequency. He picked up the handset and pressed the ‘transmit’ switch. ‘Mermaid One, Mermaid One, Mermaid One, this is Shark, over.’

He paused for a few seconds then repeated the call.

‘Shark, this is Mermaid One. Have you in sight now,’ said a female voice, the accent bearing a harsh trace of Belfast.

‘All set?’ Alex asked into the microphone.

‘No problem here. Mermaid Two’s on the other side of the dunes. She says it’s a car park there, but she’s in control.’

Too much information, Alex thought to himself, mindful that their prisoner could hear Danielle’s voice over the loudspeaker. ‘Roger, Mermaid One. See you soon, and let’s stick to the facts, I’ve got company here.’

‘Sorry,’ Danielle Reilly said to him.

‘Don’t be sorry, just be good,’ Alex said, smiling.

‘I’m always good. As you very well know.’

Alex shook his head, returning his mind to the job at hand, which was about to get tricky. He put down the microphone and raised his binoculars. ‘There’s the beach. Dead stop,’ he said to Kevin.

He could see the colours of the Indian Ocean changing closer to shore, indicating the steeply shelving seabed below. Alex and Kevin, a former member of the Australian Navy’s elite clearance diver team, had dived the area and made a detailed survey of water depths at high and low tide along this deserted stretch of coastline.  

The South Africans called it the Wild Coast for good reason. The sparsely populated fringes of the beach they had chosen were out of sight of any villages and accessible only by sandy tracks suitable for donkeys and four-wheel drives. They’d discounted a dozen more sites due to the strict criteria they’d imposed on themselves for this operation.

‘This is madness,’ said the ship’s captain.

‘Enough from you.’

Alex walked out onto the port bridge wing. Behind the narrow strip of flat white beach were dunes that surrendered to a rising landscape of rocky outcrops and hills. Through his binoculars he saw the bright orange nylon sun shelter on the beach. Danielle stepped into view from its paltry shade. She had on her blue bikini top and a brightly printed kikoi wrapped around her waist as a skirt. The hem ended halfway up her thighs, showing off her perfect pale legs.

She waved at him.

He transferred his attention to the rocky reef beside him, the top of which was only visible when a wave broke against it and receded. Alex strode back inside and walked through the bridge, past the snarling captain, out onto the starboard wing. He looked over the edge and far below saw the dark outline of the reef, not ten metres from the hull on this side.

As well as finding an ideal beach they needed perfect weather conditions to pull this job off. Someone was smiling down on him because the sun was shining, there wasn’t a breath of wind and the sea was as calm as a lake. There might be ten metres clearance on either side of the ship’s thirty-two metre beam, but even a slight swell or a stiff breeze would have made it impossible to pass safely through the gap in the reef without tugs and slow, careful manoeuvring with the ship’s bow thruster.

Alex walked back inside the bridge, stood next to Kevin and held his breath.

‘We’re through!’ The Australian turned and grinned at him, but Alex wasn’t ready to celebrate just yet.

‘Engine full ahead, hard-a-port,’ Alex said.

‘Aye, Captain. Engine full ahead, hard-a-port.’

‘Idiot!’ the Norwegian captain railed. ‘You’re going to beach us, you fool.’

‘I sincerely hope so.’ Alex went back out to the starboard bridge wing.

The Oslo Star had slowly turned, so that its starboard side was almost parallel to the rapidly approaching coastline.

‘Five metres, three metres, two …’ Kevin called from inside reading off the water’s depth under the keel. Captain Berentsen looked down at the deck and shook his head.

The Oslo Star touched bottom. Alex looked down. The ship’s massive screw churned in the water, trying to drive her closer to shore, but because of the angle at which they had beached the Oslo Star the dry sand still looked twenty metres or more away. He pressed the ‘transmit’ switch on his throat microphone. ‘Shark Two, side ramp down, side ramp down.’

‘Yes sir,’ Mitch said, sullen as usual. The American was in the ramp control station at the aft of the ship.

The Oslo Star had two ramps for disgorging her cargo of vehicles; one at the stern and one on the starboard side. Both ramps were designed for use with the ship alongside a quay. The stern ramp was angled, but reached only a little more than thirteen metres from the side of the ship, while the side ramp was twenty-five metres long. Alex knew the ramp could only be lowered twelve degrees from the horizontal. There were no guarantees they had beached the ship close enough to shore to begin unloading.

‘I’m going down to check on the ramp,’ he told Kevin. ‘Take the captain back to the mess with the rest of his crew and relieve our man on guard duty, so he can help shift the vehicles. If anyone tries anything, shoot the captain first. That should put the wind up the rest of them.’

‘Roger,’ Kevin said.

Alex left the bridge and walked to the rear of the accommodation deck, past the prisoners, and got into the lift that stopped at every second deck. Stepping out onto the car deck he saw a growing dazzle of light at the ship’s starboard side. Ahead of him was row upon row of gleaming Hummers, the civilian version of the American military’s workhorse tactical vehicle. These models had their garish yellow, blue and shiny black flanks plastered with sheets of white stick-on vinyl film to protect their panels from scratches.

With Henri guarding the prisoners and Kevin on the bridge, the job of unloading was left to Alex and three others. Mitch would join them once the ramp was fully down. Heinrich, the German, was walking along the rows of trucks releasing the nylon straps that held the Hummers down to the deck.

The hold was filling with exhaust smoke as vehicle engines were revved to life. The ramp was almost down. Alex strode between the vehicles, making for the opening in the side of the ship.

With the captain and crew safely under guard he removed his gasmask, savouring the breeze that cooled the sweat in his unkempt mop of raven hair as he walked down the ramp. It juddered to a halt beneath his feet. He looked up at the control booth, high above.

‘We’re short,’ Mitch said into his earpiece.

‘So I see.’ They were close – the edge of the ramp was about a metre above the water and about four metres from the exposed sand of the beach. Alex undid his assault vest, took off his radio and pulled off his boots. He dived over the edge of the ramp into the water. Surfacing, he looked up at the towering beast above him. Its engine was stopped, but he could feel the vibrations of the ship’s generator in his body. He tried to stand. The water was less than half a metre above his head.

Heinrich had jogged to the end of the ramp. He leaned over the edge and held out his hand, helping Alex back aboard.

Alex picked up his radio and earpiece. ‘Mermaid Two, Mermaid Two. We need you down here. Now!’

‘Awesome,’ cried the high-pitched female voice in his ear.

Alex looked to the pass through two of the sandhills. The clatter of an old diesel engine and a cloud of black smoke told him Sarah was on her way. He pictured her, grinning madly behind the wheel of the old Series IIA Land Rover.

Sarah Hoyland was the daughter of a mechanic and she’d had a love affair with engines and cars all her life. She handled a four-by-four in loose sand better than any of them and there was air under all four wheels as Sarah crested a dune, not even bothering with the pass. They were a wild bunch, all right, but Alex loved every one of them – Sarah and Danielle more than the guys, of course. Even Mitch had his moments.

Danielle, red-haired and freckled, watched from the shelter of her sun tent. The old Land Rover landed with a cloud of sand and wincing creak of leaf springs and ageing shock absorbers. Alex saw Sarah’s dark curls streaming in the breeze. She and Kevin – another self-confessed petrol head – had removed the Land Rover’s hard top and the pair of them had welded to the body the weird-looking array of modifications that might just save the day.

Behind Sarah was a stout roll bar of tubular steel and in front of her face was nothing, as she had folded the Land Rover’s windscreen down across the bonnet. Rising up from the rear of the open pick-up tray were four long lengths of flat steel ramp, strapped together in pairs, which she and Kevin had cut from a wrecked tilt-bed car-carrying trailer. They protruded forward and above her, like twin prongs. The other modification was a home-made snorkel of PVC water pipe which rose from the engine’s air intake, and out the side of the right front fender. Sarah had secured the towering two-metre extension to the right-hand steel ramp.

Sarah hit the flat of the beach and gunned the engine. ‘Yee-hah!’ she screamed as she straightened and aimed for the rear of the ship, which loomed high in front of her, casting a shadow up the beach.

‘She is mad that woman,’ Heinrich said.

Alex nodded to the German, and held his breath.

A bow wave flew up as the Land Rover entered the water. Sarah’s green eyes blazed and she looked up and flashed Alex a broad, wild smile as the vehicle, then her face, disappeared below the surface of the water.

The leading edges of the steel ramps edged closer and closer to the lip of the drawbridge at the side of the ship. ‘Come on, come on. That’s my girl,’ Alex whispered.

‘I thought Danielle was your girl this week?’ Heinrich winked, but Alex ignored the jibe.

Heinrich took a step back as the ramps connected with the ship’s steel with an ear-piercing grate and clang. The Land Rover’s snorkel was still clear of the water and bubbles showed its engine was still running.

Alex jumped in the water again and swam to the shallows. He unfastened a tie-down strap which held the pairs of ramps together. He slid one length free and when he pulled it towards the shoreline and locked it in place with its mate – via a simple peg and hole arrangement – the makeshift ramp nearly reached dry sand. He looked to where the front of the vehicle was, but there was no sign of Sarah.

‘Shit,’ he said. He swam around the submerged Land Rover and dived beneath the water’s surface. The ship’s generator pounded in his ears.  He found Sarah immediately. She was slumped over the steering wheel. He wrapped an arm under her breasts and pulled her clear. Once on the surface he swam sidestroke to the beach. Heinrich had stripped off his gear and was in the water as well. He waded to shore.

Together they dragged Sarah onto dry sand. Alex checked and found she had a pulse but wasn’t breathing.

Alex blew two sharp breaths into Sarah’s mouth and seawater erupted from her as she coughed and choked. Alex rolled her onto her side as the convulsing continued. ‘Jesus, you had me worried,’ he said, wiping his mouth.

Sarah tried to sit up and coughed again, but Alex told her to lie down. ‘Fuck. That was wild,’ she spluttered. She reached up for him and pulled his head to her and kissed him.

Alex broke free and said to Heinrich, ‘What are you staring at? Let’s get on board and give these Hummers the only taste of beach driving they’re ever going to get.’

They had to sidestep as the first Hummer bounced off the main ramp onto the rickety extensions. The old Land Rover on the seabed took the strain and Alex breathed a little easier as the new four-wheel drive splashed through the shallows and carved twin ruts through the wet sand. Inside the ship, Kufa, a black Zimbabwean former mercenary, was climbing into a vehicle. He waved at Alex, grinning broadly.

Sarah insisted she was fine and followed Alex and Heinrich back onto the ship. Alex pulled on his gear again. He went to the nearest vehicle and ripped off the shipment papers taped to the windscreen and got behind the wheel.

Alex gunned the big engine and drove across the deck to the square of light at the end. He geared down to second as he hit the ramps and felt the truck lurch as he bounced over the swaying, rising bridge. He accelerated up the beach and pulled to a halt next to Danielle’s beach tent. The young Irishwoman sat behind a fold-out camping table, on top of which was a laptop computer and a laser printer powered by a truck battery and an inverter.

‘How’s Sarah?’ she asked. It was, Alex thought, as though she was asking if the other woman was over a headache, rather than recovering  from a near-death experience.  Why was it that women said they didn’t mind being in an open relationship when they didn’t mean it?

‘She’ll live. Everything OK here?’

‘Give me your engine and chassis numbers.’

Alex ignored the rebuff and read the lengthy numbers from the paperwork he’d taken from the windscreen. Danielle was the antithesis of Sarah. The Irishwoman rarely made a move in life without carefully weighing the pros and cons, then setting herself a detailed plan for the way ahead.

Danielle typed the numbers into her computer and sent the document to the laser printer. The paperwork that emerged was identical to that which Alex had taken from the Hummer, except for the vehicle identification and destination details. Danielle passed the document and some tape to Alex and he fixed it to the windscreen, where the original had been.

He turned back to her. ‘Danielle, I …’

‘Forget it. You’re the one who kept telling us speed was essential. Now get moving. I really was worried about Sarah, and I’m pleased she’s OK. I hope you’ll both be happy together.’

He shook his head and trod angrily on the accelerator. Alex climbed the pass through the dunes and sped along the narrow tracks that led to firmer ground. Jose waved him forward, until he was at the rear of a semitrailer, a double-deck car transporter. The vehicle’s African driver hovered nearby, dragging on a cigarette.

‘Everything OK, brother?’ Jose asked. The Mozambican’s smile showed he was enjoying himself, as ever.

Alex nodded. ‘So far so good.’ He checked his watch.