Bodyguard: Ransom (Book 2) (10 page)

‘
Wake up, you lazy fish-eaters!
’

The stern order in Somali barely roused the loose band of pirates who lay sprawled, like dozing lions, beneath the shade of the courtyard’s single acacia tree. The blazing sun had baked the earth bone-dry and the glaring white walls reflected the heat like mirrors. It was too hot even for the flies that buzzed listlessly in the still air.

‘I said, GET UP! Oracle wants to see us,’ growled the towering man who strode over from the main building of the walled compound. With broad shoulders and rippling muscles, forged from a hard and brutal life, the man moved through the shimmering heat like a charging black rhino. Over his shoulder was slung a battle-worn AK47.

‘Hey, Spearhead, relax, man,’ said one of the pirates, chewing languidly on some khat leaves.

Spearhead ground his ivory white teeth into a snarl and kicked the man in the ribs.

‘Oww!’ yelled the pirate, rolling away from the abuse.

‘When I say move, Big Mouth, MOVE!’

The other men quickly got to their feet. Picking up their
rifles, they begrudgingly followed Spearhead across the blistering hot yard towards the main house. As they entered a dim wide hallway, the harsh sun was left behind and the air became cool and welcoming. Leaving their weapons by the door, the pirate gang trudged barefoot into a spacious living room. An ornate crimson rug took centre stage, framed by a slender beige divan. Thick maroon drapes blocked the persistent sunlight that tried to force its way through the barred windows behind. Each man instinctively salivated as their nostrils filled with the mouthwatering aroma of stewed goat’s meat.

Oracle reclined on the rug against a gold-tasselled bolster, a wooden bowl of spiced ribs in one hand. In the other, he held a thin bone, which he gnawed at for the last vestiges of meat. Dressed in an olive shirt, with a red shawl slung over his right shoulder, and a black diamond-pattern
ma’awis
around his hips, Oracle cut a princely figure compared to the unkempt appearance of his pirates. A pair of silver-mirrored aviator sunglasses were perched high on his closely shaved head. Behind him on the divan, within arm’s reach, lay a loaded Browning semi-automatic pistol.

‘Sit,’ said Oracle, picking with a fingernail at a bit of meat stuck between his teeth.

The pirates each found their spot on the luxurious rug and, squatting, waited mutely for their boss to finish his meal.

Eventually putting aside his empty bowl, Oracle licked his fingers then wiped them on a square of white cotton cloth. ‘You’ll be going to sea again within the week,’ he announced.

The pirates all looked at one another with a mix of excitement and trepidation.

‘You’ve had another vision?’ asked a rake-thin man with jug ears.

Oracle smiled enigmatically. ‘Well, let’s say … I foresaw fortune headed our way.’ He patted the blue sports bag cradled at his side. ‘We have a new investor.’

‘So what’s happening with the cargo ship we’ve already got?’ asked Spearhead.

‘That’ll take a few more months of negotiation,’ replied Oracle. ‘Red Claw and his men can handle the babysitting. I need
you
for the serious work.’

‘But what about boats?’ asked Big Mouth. ‘We lost two skiffs in the last hijack.’

‘It’s all in hand,’ reassured Oracle. ‘Four brand-new twin three-fifty horsepower outboards are on their way from Dubai.’

‘Can I pilot one?’ beamed a skinny buck-toothed young pirate.

‘When you can grow a beard you can!’ laughed Spearhead.

As other pirates joined in the laughter, a mobile phone chirped loudly.

‘It’s not mine,’ said Big Mouth quickly, knowing how much their boss frowned on having his meetings interrupted.

The ring persisted and now every pirate checked his phone, each one praying it wasn’t his. Gradually all eyes turned to the innocuous sports bag.

Oracle’s brow furrowed slightly. Then he nodded to
Spearhead to investigate. The great man bent down, unzipped the bag and removed a brown envelope. Its contents rang and vibrated. Ripping the envelope open, he pulled out a slim mobile phone.

Oracle indicated with a jut of his chin for Spearhead to answer.

‘
Iska warran?
’ Spearhead listened for a moment, then said, ‘It’s for you, boss,’ offering the handset.

Oracle warily studied the intruding phone, then put it to his ear.

‘
Haa
 … Yes, I speak English …’ he said, switching languages fluidly. ‘Not at all, I was just having lunch … It’s always a pleasure to hear from an investor.’ However, his cordial words did not match his stony expression. ‘Yes, I’ve received the full amount …’

The other pirates looked on, bemused by the foreign conversation. Only Spearhead among the pirate gang had a working command of English, and he listened with growing curiosity.

‘Your request is highly unusual … What do you mean it
isn’t
a request?’ Oracle’s expression darkened at the caller’s unheard response. ‘I answer to
no one
!’ he snapped. ‘No … I have not yet looked in the envelope.’

Oracle waved an impatient hand at Spearhead to pass it over. Turning out the contents, several typed sheets of paper and a large photo print of a yacht landed on the carpet. ‘Yes, I can see the target you propose. But why would you want
that
when I could get you an oil tanker?’

Oracle listened to his investor’s reply and his eyes took on a diamond-like sheen. ‘
How much
did you say?’

As the figure was reconfirmed, a greasy smile slid across Oracle’s lips. ‘Then we are in my business, my friend. I’ll let you know as soon as my men are ready.’

Oracle flipped shut the mobile and laid it beside his handgun.

‘Get Mr WiFi,’ he ordered.

Spearhead jerked his bald head at Big Mouth, who left the room and returned a moment later accompanied by a bespectacled young man. With a neatly trimmed goatee, Bermuda shorts and a blue New York Yankees T-shirt, Mr WiFi looked more like a university student than a hardened pirate. Under his arm he carried a battered laptop.

‘We have a hijacking to plan,’ announced Oracle.

‘About time,’ smiled Mr WiFi, opening his laptop and angling the screen so Oracle could see the live satellite image of the Gulf of Aden. ‘I’m tracking several high-value vessels as we speak.’

‘Forget about them,’ Oracle said, causing Mr WiFi’s smile to vanish in dismay. He handed him the photo along with one of the info sheets. ‘
This
is our target.’

Perching on the edge of the divan, Mr WiFi hunched over his whirring laptop. The pirates ostrich-necked to try and see what he was doing as his fingers rapidly danced across the keyboard. In the search window of a hacked Marine Intelligence Unit website, Mr WiFi typed:
motor yacht Orchid …

Maddox Sterling’s office was a glass wonder. A capsule of 360-degree views, its four walls were constructed from electro-chromatic smart windows. The special glass, stretching from the floor to ceiling, automatically altered its transparency according to the sun’s strength and position in the sky. Being mid-morning, the eastern wall had darkened amber-brown against the golden light streaming over Sydney’s Central Business District.

Maddox Sterling, his back to the shaded sun, stood as Colonel Black, Ling and Connor were ushered in by his PA. Entering the office was almost disconcerting. For Connor, it felt as if he could step right off the edge of the towering skyscraper and plummet fifty floors to the pavement below.

The office’s interior design was as minimalist as the walls themselves. There was no furniture beyond a slim glass desk and four chrome and black leather chairs. For a man in charge of a billion-dollar corporation, the see-through desk was strangely uncluttered. No paperwork, no computer monitor, no ornaments, not even a picture of his
daughters – just an ultra-thin aluminium laptop and a cordless phone.

‘Welcome to Sydney,’ said Maddox Sterling, greeting each of them with a firm handshake and a slick smile, then gesturing for them to take a seat.

‘Thank you, Mr Sterling,’ said Colonel Black, settling into one of the designer chairs, Ling and Connor taking their places either side of him.

From behind his desk, Maddox Sterling swivelled towards an unbroken view of one of Sydney’s most iconic landmarks. With a broad sweep of his hand as if he owned it, he declared, ‘Without doubt, the finest natural harbour in the world, made even more magnificent by our stunning opera house and the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Truly a sight to behold.’

Connor stared out of the window – first, at the sparkling waters of the harbour, then at the overlapping shell roof of the opera house, and finally at the dramatic latticework of arching girders that spanned the waterway. It certainly was an impressive sight.

‘They call the bridge the Coathanger because of its arch-based design,’ Mr Sterling explained, a hint of disapproval noticeable in his tone. ‘But that does it a great disservice. Up close, it’s truly majestic. The arch soars so high a ten-storey building could pass beneath. And the weight of the bridge is monstrous. Over three hundred and fifty thousand tons of steel and six million rivets went into its construction.’

He glanced sideways at Connor and Ling, checking to see they were suitably impressed.

‘The bridge has a surface area larger than sixty football pitches, which means it needs a fifty-man team working three hundred and sixty-five days of the year just to clean and repaint it. Obviously such maintenance is incredibly dangerous work. That’s why they’ve recently employed two autonomous robots for the more hazardous sections. An appropriate reduction of risk.’

Mr Sterling pivoted back to face them. His cobalt-blue eyes fixed first on Ling, then on Connor, with an intensity that seemed to cut right through them both.

‘Similarly, I’ve employed
you two
to reduce the risk in my family’s life.’

Connor wasn’t sure how he felt about being compared to a mindless robot, but Mr Sterling didn’t seem to consider this an insult and carried on regardless.

‘I
already have a personal protection officer, who will be accompanying me on the holiday. My yacht has a ship security officer and there are other safeguards in place here and at home. But, as you know, that wasn’t enough. I have two beautiful daughters who are very precious to me. And God forbid that I have a repeat of last year.’

‘You can rest assured, Mr Sterling, that my buddyguards will protect your daughters,’ said Colonel Black. ‘Since this is a family vacation, their presence will appear to be relaxed and low profile. But I can guarantee they’ll be on constant alert to any threat and avert any danger.’

‘Your organization comes highly recommended, Colonel Black, so I expect nothing less.’

Colonel Black didn’t flinch under Maddox’s steely gaze.
And he gave no answer, none being required when his belief in his recruits was absolute.

Mr Sterling wagged a finger in Connor’s direction. ‘Is this the lad that saved the President’s daughter’s life?’

Colonel Black nodded.

‘Then I want
him
protecting Emily.’

Connor glanced over at Ling. Her lips had tightened, clearly taking the role assignment as an affront to her abilities. But she stayed silent.

‘Not a problem,’ agreed the colonel. ‘Now I understand that you –’

A knock at the door disturbed them and the PA appeared. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but the editor-in-chief says this can’t wait.’

Mr Sterling nodded his assent and a red-headed woman in a tailored pinstripe jacket-and-skirt suit entered.

‘What is it, Ruth?’

She shot a doubtful glance at the colonel and two young teenagers in his office. ‘This might be better in private.’

‘My apologies, Colonel Black,’ said Mr Sterling with a regretful smile, ‘but the world rarely stops in my line of business.’

‘We understand,’ said Colonel Black, rising to his feet. ‘I can communicate any outstanding queries via your PA.’

‘Then I’ll bid you farewell and look forward to seeing these two in the Seychelles,’ said Mr Sterling, offering both Ling and Connor a courteous nod. ‘But before then I’ve arranged for you to meet my daughters for lunch at one of my restaurants. My PA has the details.’

Ruth stepped aside to allow them out through the glass door. As the door slowly closed behind them, Connor overheard a familiar name.

‘There’s more to Harry Gibb’s heart attack than meets the eye …’ the editor-in-chief began. ‘… Speculation he was murdered.’

‘What evidence do you have?’ asked Mr Sterling.

‘Nothing conclusive at the moment. But I may have a source.’

‘OK, look into it. If true, it’ll take the flak off the
Daily
for allegedly causing that idiot’s death through stress. As well as help sell a bucketload more papers –’

Then the glass door slid shut.