Ivory (11 page)

Jane felt her heart beat faster. Tyrone, the American, was beside her.
The black plastic and metal rifle looked like a toy in his big gloved hand. Piet, too, was now armed. His weapon was slung over his shoulder and he'd strapped a pistol belt around his waist.

‘It's Igor, the chief engineer,' she said, handing back the binoculars.

As the company lawyer Jane knew the carriage of firearms and ammunition on board a merchant ship was against the law. She didn't know whether to feel safe or terrified that George had arranged for Van Zyl and his men to smuggle their military-style weapons on board.

‘Has the captain stopped to assist any other vessels on this journey?' Van Zyl asked.

‘No. I guess they're having mechanical troubles and Igor's gone aboard to try and help out. The
Oslo Star
was hijacked by pirates pretending to have engine trouble.'

‘I know,' Piet said. ‘I think you should go below now.'

‘Bollocks. I'm going to the bridge. You can stay here and play soldiers.'

 

Fifteen minutes later the engineer emerged from below decks and walked back to the rope ladder with two Chinese men. One was the crewman who had helped him aboard. The other was an older man, dressed in shorts and a grubby white short-sleeved shirt. Alex thought it might be the captain. He shook hands with the European who, clutching his bag, swung over the rail and descended the ladder.

Once the inflatable boat was secured on board, the
Penfold Son
increased speed and pulled away from the poor excuse for a freighter. They felt the
Peng Cheng
start to move. She was turning towards shore and the other ship was fast disappearing to the south. ‘Listen in,' Alex said, and all eyes turned to him as he gave his orders.

A
lex sat on top of the wooden crate containing the captured leopard. The timbers vibrated beneath him from the noise of the big cat's rasping cough. In front of him was the captain of the
Peng Cheng
, dressed only in a pair of holey underpants and sitting on a dining chair, his hands and ankles securely bound.

‘Last chance, Captain Wu.' They'd succeeded in getting his name out of him, but not much else. Alex guessed that the man and his crew were more scared of their Triad masters than they were of anything the pirates could do to them. He was about to put that to the test.

Alex checked his watch. It was only a little more than thirty minutes since the
Penfold Son
had sailed away. He and his men had taken the
Peng Cheng
without a shot being fired, even though they had found AK-47s, pistols and even a crate of Chinese People's Liberation Army hand grenades in the bridge's well-stocked armoury. The captain had claimed the grenades were for fishing in coastal lagoons. Given the man's dis regard for wildlife, Alex almost believed him.

‘It was a drop-off, wasn't it? Either you gave the engineer from the
Penfold Son
something, or he gave you something. Which was it?' Wu, whose English was basic, had stuck to his story that the
Peng Cheng
was experiencing engine trouble and an officer from the other ship had come aboard to rectify the problem.

They'd hit the bridge hard, just minutes after the exchange had been made, but they'd found nothing of particular value or significance. When Alex had threatened to blow the ship's safe, Wu had opened it for him. Inside were ten thousand US dollars, the equivalent value in rand and the ship's papers. It didn't seem enough cash for a mid ocean criminal deal.

‘I was on board before you slowed down, Wu. I know you didn't have a problem with your engines. Last chance.' Alex wound the length of rope around his hand and started to heave upwards, raising the trap door that closed the crate by a few centimetres.

Captain Wu looked down at the gap and saw a white furred paw patterned with black rosettes reach out. Yellowed claws protruded and made an agonising screeching noise as they scratched the steel deck. The leopard snarled in anticipation and rocked the crate as it twitched its tail left and right and lowered itself to escape.

‘Barbarian,' Wu said.

‘That's rich coming from you. This animal deserves a crack at you after the way it and the others have been treated. Say hello to the nice kitty, Captain . . .'

‘OK. There was drop-off, but I not know what.'

Alex gripped the rope with his other hand and began to heave. ‘Last chance, Captain.'

A puddle appeared on the deck beneath Wu's chair, but any odour was masked by the foulness of the other fluids and solids that sluiced around the deck. ‘I not know! Small package. It worth one million pounds, that all I know,' the Chinese man squealed.

‘What?'

Wu swore in Mandarin. ‘One million. But small package. I not know. Diamonds maybe.'

Alex held the trapdoor in place. The leopard had withdrawn its paw, though its snarling snout was now just visible as it sniffed Wu's fear with relish. ‘More information.'

‘My boss and
Penfold Son
's boss, they trade sometime. They do business. Man come on board from other ship. I give him package. Not worth my life to check what in package.'

Alex looked into Wu's eyes, trying to read him. ‘The man who came aboard, he gave you a million pounds?'

Wu shook his head vigorously. ‘No cash. That the truth. You pull this ship apart you not find any money other than what I keep in safe. My boss, his boss, they not operate like that. Money transferred to international bank account.'

Alex raised the trapdoor another few centimetres. Wu yelped. ‘Is truth!'

Alex believed him. ‘What about you? What do you get out of this?'

The captain shrugged. ‘I get my fee when I get back to China.'

Alex lowered the cage door. ‘If I didn't care for all these animals and reptiles I'd scuttle this scow with you on board.' He slid down from the top of the crate and, leaving Captain Wu to sit in his own filth, headed for topside and fresh air.

‘All the crew are tied up in the officers' mess, boss. And a bloody mess it is too,' Kevin said when Alex entered the bridge.

‘Can you steer this tub by yourself, Kev?'

‘Piece of piss,' the Australian replied. He was the most experienced mariner in the group.

‘I'll take that as a yes. The rest of you get ready to disembark. Back to the boats. Heinrich, call Jose and get the
Fair Lady
to meet us a-s-a-p. We've got work to do.'

‘What kind of work?' Mitch asked.

Alex watched the looks of disappointment and fatigue vanish from their faces when he said, ‘Diamonds.'

 

Kobus van Vuuren owed Alex Tremain his life, which is why he had left the Swedish backpacker snoring in his bed in the coastal Mozambican town of Vilanculos and driven with a hangover that would have killed a lesser man to the airport where he kept his helicopter.

A year earlier his last machine – a Russian-made Mi-8 identical to the one he piloted low over the Indian Ocean now – had suffered engine failure. He'd been on his way back from taking some French wildlife researchers – female of course – whale spotting from the air. Kobus had auto-rotated but the landing had still been hard. He'd dragged one of the girls unconscious from the wreckage, while the other had struggled to inflate the emergency life raft. In keeping with the reliability of the rest of the machine, the raft's gas bottle wouldn't work.

As they trod water, the weight of the injured passenger sapping his strength by the minute, Kobus had replayed his life before his mind's eye. There were the wars – South-West Africa and Angola with the South African Defence Force, and the Congo and Sierra Leone in the payment of others – the women – many nationalities, many combinations, two wives – and his children – four that he knew of. It had been an interesting life, and he didn't quite feel ready to wave it all goodbye yet.

A spot on the horizon was getting larger. He'd assumed it was a mirage and hadn't even told the two Frenchwomen, but when he heard the rhythmic throb of the engines he'd started yelling. They had joined in, and been waving frantically when the luxurious motor cruiser pulled alongside.

Kobus had known from the moment strong, tattooed arms lifted him and the women aboard that the owner's story was bullshit. Alex Tremain had claimed he was running fishing charters and the mixed bag of nationalities aboard were all tourists. For a start, Kobus noticed only two lightweight rods amidst the bulging green vinyl military dive bags on the deck. The men had the hardened bodies, cold eyes and erect bearing of soldiers. He'd been a military man and mercenary long enough to spot one in a crowd.

‘How can I thank you – repay you?' he'd asked Alex Tremain over a cold Castle Lager on the bridge, marvelling at the array of computerised navigation systems. There were even cameras mounted around the boat and in the engine room, and their images flashed on a small screen in front of them. The galley was better appointed than his first wife's
mansion in Sandton. The sofas were leather, the bedrooms luxurious, and there was even a jacuzzi on the rear deck which the French girls expressed a desire to try out.

‘Think nothing of it,' Alex had replied.

‘If you ever need to charter a helicopter for any business – and I mean
any
business – come see me. I owe you one.'

And here he was, hovering above the same sleek craft that had given him another chance at life. Tremain stood on the rear deck of the cruiser, dressed in a flight suit and festooned with weaponry. The call on his satellite phone had been short on detail. ‘I want to collect on that debt you owe me,' Tremain had said. ‘Have you got a winch on your helo that you can operate from the cockpit?'

‘Yes.'

‘Bring enough rope for seven men to rappel from twenty metres. Full tanks.' He'd signed off with a GPS coordinate that Kobus knew without checking was somewhere in the Indian Ocean.

Kobus's satellite phone buzzed in his pocket. Answering it was a tricky business as he needed two hands to fly, but he'd wired it into his on-board system, so with a push of a button he could hear the voice in his earphones. The fact they weren't using radio confirmed his suspicion that this was a charter Tremain wanted to keep silent.

‘Lower the winch,' said a curt German-accented voice on the other end.

Another man stood by Alex Tremain – Kobus couldn't remember his name – holding a pole shaped like a shepherd's crook, secured to the boat with a length of cable. This was a static probe, designed to catch the hook on the end of the winch cable and discharge the significant amount of static electricity that had built up around the helicopter during the flight. It was more proof – not that he needed it – that these men were professionals.

Kobus held the lumbering military-designed cargo chopper steady and punched the button to retrieve the winch line and raise Alex. It would have been easier with a crewman on board, but Tremain had also specified that he fly alone. Tremain climbed inside the cargo
compartment and took off the winch sling. He clapped Kobus on the shoulder and said, ‘Thanks for coming.'

‘What's the target?' Kobus yelled over the whine of the engines.

Tremain pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of his flight suit and showed him. It was a print-out from a website, a picture of a ship. The
Penfold Son
. Kobus just nodded.

 

Jane was bored again.

The small blip of excitement in the early hours – the rendering of assistance to the Chinese freighter – was hardly worth remembering now. She stood on the bridge next to Iain MacGregor, looking out over miles of sparkling blue nothingness. ‘Coffee?' she asked the captain.

‘No thanks.'

Jane unscrewed the lid of her wide-mouthed travel thermos and poured into a cup some of the delicious strong black coffee the Filipino cook had brewed for her. The coffee, she had decided, was the best thing served from the galley. She'd grown tired of greasy bacon and eggs for breakfast and bland roasts and three veg. She replaced the cap, sipped her brew and said, ‘Do you normally stop for broken-down vessels?'

‘Depends,' MacGregor said, looking out to sea, not at her. ‘On how far they are from a coastal port with rescue facilities. Those chaps were a fair way out to sea, and it's a pretty remote coastline along that stretch of Mozambique.'

Jane nodded. ‘I think Piet thought they were pirates lying in wait.'

The captain harrumphed.

‘Aircraft on the radar screen, sir, astern of us,' said the first mate.

MacGregor edged around Jane to look at the screen. ‘He's low. Keep an eye on him. Could be a joy-flight.'

Jane picked up a pair of large binoculars lying on the instrumentation panel and wandered across to the port wing of the bridge. With nothing else to look at, an aircraft was a treat. She'd long since lost her sense of wonder at the sight of dolphins riding the bow wave, or the occasional passing whale, as impressive as they were.

She held a hand to her eyes to shield them from the sun's glare and finally made out a dark speck just above the horizon. She lifted the binoculars and focused them. ‘It's a helicopter.'

MacGregor snatched the glasses from her. She stepped back and watched him.

‘Mi-8. Russian job. What's he doing so damned low over the ocean?'

‘Coming to take a look at us?' Jane ventured.

He stared at her and seemed to swallow a retort. ‘Turn port ninety!' he said to the first mate.

‘Turning port ninety, Captain.'

‘He's changed course,' MacGregor said, as much to himself as anyone else as he continued to watch the helicopter.

It was over them a few seconds later, hovering above the cargo deck like an enormous dragonfly, its fuselage blocking the light.

‘Sound the alarm,' the captain said to the mate.

Jane stood transfixed. The tips of the main rotor's blades sliced the air a scant few metres from her, beyond the thick armoured glass of the bridge's windows. She could see a pilot in dark glasses and a bulbous green flying helmet that made him look more a part of the machine than a human. A door slid open in the rear compartment on the side closest to her. Men in black rubber gasmasks with buglike clear plastic eyepieces were tossing out thick ropes and sliding down them.