Jaws of the Tiger Read online

  As Karen and Dulac were taking in the sights, the cable car suddenly came to an abrupt stop.

  A woman’s loud shout filled the inside of the cabin. The passengers looked at each other with various degrees of anxiety, as the télébenne swung forwards and backwards like an out-of-control pendulum, each movement accompanied by more shouts. Suddenly a child started to cry, increasing the collective level of fear and sensation of unease. Her mother, embarrassed, tried to soothe the young girl, finally distracting her with a small teddy bear.

  Dulac looked down. They were at least 100 feet off the ground, nowhere near one of the towers. Slowly, the swaying of the cable car subsided.

  “This is why I don’t ski Europe anymore,” said Karen. “I hate these things.”

  “Probably just a power outage.” Dulac tried to be reassuring. “I read somewhere they have many here.”

  After what seemed like an eternity, the télébenne started upwards again, slowly at first, then more quickly. A communal feeling of relief filled the cabin.

  Dulac pointed to a small bronze plaque beside the door which read: “Von Roll, Switzerland.”

  “Even the Swiss aren’t perfect,” he said.

  The cable car reached the top, the door opened and Karen, followed by Dulac, exited quickly.

  “After we finish up here, I’m walking back down, thank you very much,” said Karen with an air of determination.

  “Why?” said Dulac. “They say lightning never strikes twice at the same spot.”

  “I’m not interested in testing that theory. Besides, I could use the exercise, and so could you.” She glanced reproachfully at his stomach.

  After enjoying the antics of the Barbary Coast macaques for half an hour, Dulac and Karen began their descent, occasionally stopping for a drink of water and to admire the sea daffodils, rest-harrows and other species of wildflowers along the narrow road. After two hours, they reached Main Street again and were looking for a restaurant when Dulac spotted Dickinson, seated at a table on the concourse. He was talking to his wife and they were with a man with crew cut, brown hair and a burly build.

  “Isn’t that—?” started Karen.

  Not wanting to engage in uninteresting discussions again, Dulac grabbed her by the elbow and hastened his step. They were about to pass by the table when Dickinson looked up and recognized them.

  “Hello, ah… Mr. Dulac, I believe.” Dickinson got up, smiling. “Won’t you join us for a coffee?”

  “Actually, we were about to—”

  “Yes, why not?” said Karen.

  Dulac shot an annoyed look in her direction.

  “Please,” said Dickinson, offering them two seats. “You remember my wife Mary, and this is my personal assistant, Bob Cummins.”

  “Hello,” said Mary, with the practiced smile of a politician’s wife, well-honed after thousands of hours of repetition.

  The burly guy with a crew cut just nodded.

  Dulac and Karen sat down. He couldn’t help reflecting that Dickinson’s bodyguard had been promoted to “personal assistant” for the occasion.

  “We were all at the Captain’s table last night,” said Mary, probably more to make sure she was right in her assumption than to inform everyone else of the already obvious. “How did you enjoy the steak?” she said, turning toward Karen.

  “Actually, I had the salmon.”

  “Oh, yes, and how was that?”

  “A bit on the dry side,” said Karen, feigning a modicum of interest.

  The conversation moved from dull to duller when Dickinson summoned the waiter.

  “What will you have?” said Dickinson to Dulac. “It’s on me.”

  “No need, I—”

  “I insist. What’ll it be?”

  Dulac hunched his shoulders. “Ah, coffee is fine.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Sure.”

  Dickinson turned towards Karen: “ Ms…?”

  “Dawson. The same, black please.”

  Dickinson looked up at the waiter, who smiled perfunctorily and retreated. Dickinson turned towards Karen. “And what line of business are you in, Ms. Dawson?”

  Karen shot a quick glance at Dulac, who smiled smugly. “I’m glad you asked, Governor. I teach animal mythology at La Sorbonne.”

  Dickinson drew back slightly, looking askance at Karen.

  “Really? Animal mythology. I didn’t know mythology was so, so compartmentalized.”

  Karen looked at Dulac, who shot her a “please-don’t-go-there” look.

  She glanced at her watch. “Actually yes, but it would take a bit of time to explain, and we have to go get some shopping done before re-boarding.”

  Dulac’s face broke into a smile of relief.

  Chapter 6

  Aboard the Caravan Star, October 17th, 6.20 am. Ship’s time

  As he walked down the stairwell from deck five to deck three, Tariq suddenly felt a sudden spasm in his left leg. The pain always came back in the middle of the night, or early morning, depending on the level of humidity in the air.

  Immediately the images of cell 306 of Islamabad Prison came back and flooded his brain, the dank, grimy walls, the rats, the smell of sweat and urine of the prisoners. But worst of all, he heard the screams again, over and over, his screams, although he’d tried to convince himself they weren’t really his. Five years ago, he’d been arrested by members of the Directorate of Inter Service Intelligence, or ISI, Pakistan’s infamous secret police, on charges of plotting against the government. Claiming his innocence, he’d continued to refuse to give them names of his collaborators even when they had hung him from the meat hook, wired his testicles to the batteries, and shot timed surges of electricity thru his quivering body. Unable to break his will, they’d beaten him for two days, on and off every three hours, until they’d broken both his tibias with their steel billets. After, they’d left him to lie in his cot without any medical attention, and although his right leg had miraculously healed without distortion, his left tibia had reset at an angle, giving him a permanent and painful limp. The best way he could endure the pain was to take more and more frequent doses of Paracetamol. He groped into the left pocket of his white uniform, took out the bottle and opened it. He poured out two tablets and downed them quickly. After a moment, he resumed walking along the corridor to the deck, then right towards the stern. In the fading darkness, the ship’s lifeboats appeared, suspended on their davits.

  As he neared Lifeboat 9, he recognized Saquil, Youssef, Hassan and the other familiar faces, and felt a surge of adrenalin shoot up his spine. The operation they had carefully planned was going smoothly. Their mole Tajar Singh, Chief Security officer at P & W Cruise Lines, had hired eight security officers over the past six months, so as not to draw unnecessary attention from corporate. Now it was full action mode. There was no going back.

  “Salaam Aleikum, Youssef,” Tariq said in a low voice. “Everyone here?”

  “Aleikum Salaam, Tariq. Yes, all are here,” whispered Youssef.

  “Good. Very good,” said Tariq, trying to disguise his nervousness. He fixed his gaze on the young man with a pencil beard. “Saquil, get the guns.” Tariq turned and eyed the man next to him. “Hassan, you’ll hand them out to the men.”

  “Yes, Tariq.”

  Saquil went up the four stairs leading to the open lifeboat and went in. A moment later, he appeared with five Glock pistols, took them out of their plastic bags and handed them one by one to Hassan, along with the ammunition, as Hassan started distributing the weapons to the rest of the men. Saquil went back in, came out with the six Micro-UZIs and handed them to Hassan.

  His job finished, Saquil closed the canvas top and descended down the stairs back onto the deck.

  He handed Tariq the last of the Glocks, with four clips of ammunition.

  Tariq eyed his men one by one, as they huddled closely around him. Then he spoke, his voice hushed but firm.

  “You all know what you have to do. Just like we practiced in
Turbat. Najib, you and your men take control of the steerage room. Karim?”

  “Yes, I know. I go down the stairwell and take control of the engine room, and—”

  “And if someone gives you any trouble, any trouble at all, shoot him. We’ve got to show them who’s in charge. That goes for everyone. We are at war. Understood?”

  “Understood,” his men chimed in unison.

  “Good. Hassan, you and the others will lead the passengers to the amphitheater. Now go. May Allah be with you.”

  * * *

  I’ve got to send a Security Alert. I’ve got to press that button. Hands in the air, flanked by his fellow officers, Captain Goran Peterson stood helpless before the two armed men.His rage mounted as one of them ran the barrel of his UZI submachine gun along the curve of First Officer Sandra Brown’s left breast.

  “Nice.” The short squat man dressed in brown fatigues grinned lecherously.

  “There is no need for that.” Captain Peterson tried to reason with the thin, dark- complexioned man in officer’s whites. A mole in his own crew. How had that happened?

  The thin man gripped the other man’s shoulder and pulled him back. He stepped close to Peterson, the business end of his pistol inches from Peterson’s face.

  “You are very lucky, Captain. Next time you talk without permission, I shoot you. Understood?”

  Peterson nodded.

  “Good.” The thin man waved his gun at the rest of the officers standing meekly in a row, their backs to the ship’s command console. “That goes for everyone.” He brought the microphone of his small lapel-hung VHF radio closer to his mouth. “Engine room secure?”

  “Yes, engine room secure,” answered a voice masked in static.

  “Steerage room?”

  No reply.

  “Steerage room, do you hear me, over?”

  “Yes Tariq, steering room is—”

  “No names, asshole,” he yelled into the VHF. “No fucking names!”

  “Sorry. Yes, everything in steering area is secure.”

  “Good.” The thin man with fine features and plastered-down black hair switched off his VHF and turned to Peterson. “So now you know my name, Captain. Yet it is a very common name.”The hijacker smiled “Do you know how many Tariqs there are in Pakistan alone, Captain?”

  “Should I care?”

  “Wrong answer.” Tariq stepped back and kicked Peterson in the groin. He doubled over in pain and fell to his knees, gasping for air.

  The four other officers stood motionless as the squat man motioned upwards at them with the barrel of his UZI. “Up, keep your hands up.”

  Now, thought Peterson. His back to the hijackers, Peterson grabbed the edge of the console and pulled himself up slowly, brushing with his left knee the SASS button hidden underneath the console. He turned and raised his hands again, facing the two hijackers.

  “Anyone else feeling cocky?” Tariq waved his pistol at the officers. “No? Good. I want names and rank. Starting with the pretty lady here.”

  “Sandra Brown, First Officer,” Officer Brown’s voice trembled.

  Tariq pointed his gun at the short, thirtyish balding man beside her.

  “Tate, Jeremy Tate, Chief Radio Operator.”

  “Good. We need you.” Tariq took two steps to the left and pointed again.

  “Staff Captain Peter Rhodes,” said the tall, lanky man with sandy brown hair.

  “And you?” Tariq pointed his pistol at the last of the officers.

  “Pierre Lanctot, Security Officer.” said the man with sloping shoulders and a small, hooked nose.

  “And of course Captain Peterson,” said Tariq, looking at the captain. “Now that we are all well acquainted, my friends and I are going to help you run this ship.” Tariq laughed in short raucous spurts, taking in bits of air between bursts. He turned and looked at the large command console, its impressive array of levers, buttons, monitors and screens fanned in an arc beneath the windows of the bridge. “So, Rhodes, which one is the steering lever?”

  “It’s the Azipod. Over there.” Rhodes pointed to his left.

  “That one?” Tariq aimed his pistol at the small, black spherical lever mounted near the edge of the console.

  “Yes.”

  “So this controls the ship’s direction and speed?”

  “Correct.”

  Gun trained on Rhodes, Tariq moved up to the console, put his palm atop the round lever, turned it hard right on its axis and pressed it forward. The 45,000 ton ship started turning, slowly at first, then more quickly into an ever-tightening arc. “Amazing.”He turned the lever hard left.

  “Now look here, this is not a damn toy,” said Peterson. “You can’t just throw this ship around like in a video game, you—”

  Tariq spun around, his black eyes hardened, his fine-featured face twisting into a mask of rage.

  “You what?” He swung and hit Peterson in the face with the butt of his pistol. “Say it Captain, come on, say it… Paki? Idiot? Bastard? What’s on your mind, Captain?” said Tariq, the barrel of his Glock now inches from Peterson’s face

  Peterson reeled backwards, trying desperately to stay calm.

  “He doesn’t listen, your captain.” Tariq walked nervously back and forth before the officers, waving his pistol. Slowly the anger in his face melted away, giving way to an air of self- assurance and defiance. He stopped in front of Rhodes. “Tell me Rhodes, as Staff Captain, you are second-in-command. Correct?”

  “Yes,” said Rhodes.

  “So if anything were to happen to the captain here, you are fully capable to run this ship.”

  “I, I suppose,” said Rhodes hesitantly.

  “Good. Very good.” Tariq paused for a moment, looking at the console. “So if I tell you what course to take, you or I, or anybody else can steer this ship. Correct ?”

  “I, I guess—”

  “Don’t guess, Rhodes. Yes or no?”

  “Yes.”

  Tariq turned and took a couple of steps towards the exit doors of the bridge. He stopped, raised his arm and spun quickly, aiming his pistol at Rhodes’s face.

  “So I don’t need two captains aboard this ship, now do I?”

  Rhodes stood trembling, blood draining from his face. “Please, I.. I have young children… my…”

  Tariq cocked his head slightly, swung his arm to the right and pulled the trigger. Twice.

  Chapter 7

  Caravan House, Southampton

  Sitting alone in the dimly-lit monitoring room of the P& W Cruise Lines’ headquarters, Andrew Allin looked up from the GPS screen and towards the opposite wall at one of the five clocks indicating times around the world. 7:45 am., Greenwich Mean Time. Fifteen more minutes and his shift, the graveyard shift, would be over and his replacement Peter Nellis would come strutting cheerfully in and take over the monitoring of the company’s ten ships across the Atlantic and Mediterranean.

  Allin rose and walked over to the window overlooking Temple Place. Outside, the yellow lights of the square shone softly on the falling sheets of rain, occasionally whipped sideways by gusts of a budding Northeaster. Suddenly, in the window’s reflection, Allin caught sight of the red flashing light. It was the Security Alert System at Sea, the system used to warn of a terrorist or piracy attack on a ship.

  “Damn,” he blurted, as he rushed back to his chair and sat before the SASS receiver. The monitor read: Caravan Star. ID number 3807 – 4 b. Position: Lat N46 47’ 22” Long 22 26’ 20”. Time of incident: 6.47 am. GMT. 5.47 a.m. Ship’s time.

  Probably another false alarm. There’s been three already this month. Allin pressed the reset button and the red light stopped flashing. Following protocol, Allin picked up the phone and dialed Chief Security Officer David Winston’s home number. While he waited for Winston to answer, Allin took comfort in the magenta line drawn by the Caravan Star’s track across the GPS screen’s map of the Atlantic. The Caravan Star was on course. Nothing seemed unusual.

  “Yes?” said the dr
owsy voice.

  “Sorry to disturb you, sir, I—”

  “Who is this?”

  “Allin, sir. It’s the Caravan Star. She’s sent out a SASS. Probably another—”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  * * *

  Frozen in shock, Rhodes and the others watched in horror as Peterson, his uniform bloodied, his back against the console, slowly slipped to the floor. Sprawled askew, his legs and arms began twitching away the last spasms of his life until eventually he lay still, eyes glazed over, mouth agape. No one uttered a word. Rhodes, standing next to Brown, could feel her shoulders convulsing. After a moment, her shaking stopped.

  “Get him out of here,” Tariq ordered the squat man. “Put him in the life jacket box.” He pointed at the steel box next to the glass doors.

  The hijacker slung his UZI over his shoulder, grabbed Peterson’s legs and dragged him across the floor. He opened the lid, took out the life jackets and manhandled the lifeless body into the box.

  Tariq looked on, expressionless. The squat man closed the lid and Tariq slowly turned to Rhodes. “Now, Captain, change course to 325 degrees. Speed 23 knots.” He waved his gun at Rhodes, then pointed at the Azipod lever.

  Rhodes felt his knees go weak. His right hand shook uncontrollably as he reached for the Azipod lever. Breathing deeply, he steadied himself on the edge of the console, took the lever with his left hand and moved it forward and to the right. The ship veered slowly to starboard. After a moment Rhodes brought back the lever to its central position and set the automatic pilot. He continued to look ahead in the darkness, not daring to move, his thoughts darting from one possible scenario to the next at light speed, searching for the best option. I’ve got to send a SASS, this psychopath is going to kill us all. Using the reflection in the glass window, Rhodes eyed Tariq discreetly. Tariq’s gun was still trained on Rhodes as the hijacker looked at the monitors in turn, trying to read their functions.