Jaws of the Tiger Page 9
“There it is.” Hank spotted the emergency hatch leading to the engine room below and pointed. They walked over and Hank bent down to loosen the metal clasps of the cover. He opened it and Dulac peered inside. A faint light shone from below, from the depth of an otherwise dark, narrow and circular stairwell. Dulac looked at Karen, shivering, an expression of dread on her face.
“You’re sure you want to go down in there?”
“I get claustrophobic.”
“Great. Hank?”
“I’m good.”
Dulac stared at Karen. “So?”
She stood shaking and unsure for a moment. Then she straightened her back. “I’m coming down. At least I’ll be warm.”
“Fine. Let’s go.” Dulac grasped the edge of the opening and started backwards down the ladder, one hand on the metal rail. The others followed, Karen first, then Hank, step by step, slowly. As they made their way down, the light below became gradually brighter.
“Let’s wait a second,” Karen whispered. “I’m getting dizzy.”
Dulac stopped and looked up over his shoulder. Behind him, Karen and Hank were all but blocking the faint shaft of light coming from above. A low-pitched murmur of sound hummed below them.
“You guys okay?” whispered Dulac.
“I’m fine,” said Hank.
“Karen?”
“How much further?”
“We’re getting closer to the engine room. I’d say another twenty feet.”
“Let’s go. I’ve got to get out of this, this damn coffin.”
They started down again and the humming became a whirring sound, louder and higher-pitched. Suddenly, the light became bright. Dulac turned upwards towards Karen. “We’ve reached the ceiling of the engine room. From now on, we’ll be in plain view of anybody down there.”
“Fantastic,” said Karen.
From their position, they could see the vast engine room stretching below them, and the rest of the steel stairwell leading to the floor. The mammoth, twin sets of Wartsila diesels whirred effortlessly amidst an array of complex piping and electrical conduits linking the diesels to the electrical generators. To the left of the diesels, along the wall, stretched a U-shaped computer console with switches, dials and controls. The room seemed eerily empty of human presence.
Dulac started slowly down again and said: “they must be keeping the engine room staff in a separate—”
Suddenly, Dulac spotted a man holding an assault rifle coming from behind one of the diesels. The hijacker turned left and started walking down the aisle between the two sets of diesels.
“Back. Get back up,” whispered Dulac urgently.
They backtracked carefully up the ladder, past the edge of the ceiling into the darkness.
Dulac checked the slider of the Glock and looked down. The man walked next to the ladder at the foot of the stairwell, then stopped. Dulac held his breath, clasped the Glock with both hands and aimed at the man’s head. Look up and you’re dead.
The hijacker slung the strap of his assault rifle on his shoulder, lit a cigarette, then resumed walking again.
“Close,” whispered Dulac. After a moment, they slowly started down again and reached the floor. He looked about. No one.
“No point in all of us going to find that cycloconverter,” said Dulac.
He pointed to a corner space between the port diesel bank and what appeared to be a long metal closet.
“You guys wanna wait there?” said Dulac.
“Sure,” said Hank.
Karen just hunched her shoulders.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Dulac.
He turned and started slowly towards the stern, between the banks of diesels, panning with his Glock as he went. Green box, where the hell is the green box? The length of the diesel banks seemed endless. He shot a quick glance behind him. No one. Finally, he neared the rear of the aft most port diesel, and there it was, just as Watters had said. A small green box mounted on a grey...
Dulac saw the submachine gun barrel at right angles to him just before the man stepped out from behind the Wartsilla into the aisle, twenty feet away. As the man caught sight of Dulac and started to swing his UZI, Dulac fired four quick shots into the man’s chest. The man screamed and lurched backwards onto the floor, spraying the ceiling wildly with a burst of bullets.
Dulac thought quickly. The other hijackers would be onto him in a second. No time to remove the cycloconverter circuits. He aimed at the box and fired. The plastic cover flew into pieces, emitting a blue flame as electric sparks shot in every direction. A green smoke engulfed the burning plastic. The man on the floor lay motionless, his legs sprawled, a pool of blood forming on the floor next to his chest. Dulac spun around and started running back towards the ladder. He didn’t notice that the port bank of diesels had become silent. Still running, Dulac caught sight of the stairwell’s cylindrical shape. Where’s Karen? Hank? Then he saw them starting up the stairs at the bottom of the stairwell. Machine-gun fire erupted from behind him and bullets began ricocheting off the ladder and the diesels’ cowlings. Dulac shouted. “Quick!Let’s get the hell outta here!”
They scrambled upwards, first Harry, then Karen, then Dulac. They barely reached the ceiling of the engine room when the stairwell went pitch black.
“Shit! They’ve shut the lid,” said Hank.
Gunfire bursts exploded from below, bullets ricocheting off the metal steps and railing of the stairwell.
“We’re trapped,” said Karen.
“Maybe,” said Dulac.
“What do you mean? They’ve shut the damn lid,” said Hank.
“Keep climbing,” Dulac ordered.
“What?” said Hank.
“Just do as I say!”
The gunfire from below stopped.
“Let me pass.” Dulac moved alongside Karen.
“I’m going to be sick.”
“Just concentrate.”
Dulac had just squeezed past Karen up the narrow ladder when a hissing sound came from below.
“What the hell is that?” said Karen.
Steam started filling the stairwell.
“Owww!” she yelled, as searing hot water hit her left ankle.
“They’re using wash-down pressure hoses,” said Dulac. “Here, take the Glock and fire. That’ll keep them honest.”
Karen took the pistol and fired randomly below. The hissing sound stopped.
“I’m at the top,” said Hank.
“Do you feel some kind of locking mechanism?” said Dulac.
“There’s a wheel.”
“Before you turn it, try pushing up first.”
“I’ll be damned. It’s not locked.” Hank opened the hatch.
“I hoped to hell that was it. The wind and wave motion caught it and flipped it shut.”
They climbed out of the stairwell onto the deck. Hank closed the hatch shut and locked it.
Chapter 23
P & W headquarters
His tie askew, Winston rushed into Bolding’s office. Bolding was on the telephone and looked up in annoyance at Winston. “I’m with the insurers. Unless—”
“Excuse me sir, It’s the Star, sir, I—”
“I’ll call you back.” Bolding hung up and looked expectantly at Winston.
“They’ve turned her Inmarsat telecom system back on.” Tate was on line. He has instructions from the hijackers to get you on the video hookup and call him back.”
Bolding stood and started towards the door.
“Good. Come with me.” He issued orders to his secretary as they passed her desk. “Get the video technician to meet us in the conference room and call Sir Terence Hays to let him know we’ll patch him into the videoconference.”
“Yes sir.”
“Should we call the Americans?” Winston could barely keep up with Bolding’s quick pace. “They might—”
“No. First let’s see what these buggers want.”
“Yes sir.”
“Any news fro
m those passengers? What’s that man’s name again?” asked Bolding.
“Dulac, sir. No news. But according to our chart plotter tracking, the Star has slowed down. She’s currently doing 16 knots. “
“What about her course?”
“Still the same at 341 degrees. At her current speed, she’s a bit less than 2 hours away from the reef.”
Bolding and Winston took the elevator to the fifth floor and the videoconference room and sat down. Minutes later, the technician entered and immediately started connecting cables and flipping switches from behind the master control unit. Moments later, he looked at Bolding, a smile of satisfaction on his face.
“Everything ready?” Bolding started unbuttoning his jacket.
“Yes sir,” said the technician. He looked at his watch. “I’m told Sir Hays will join us in five minutes. Then we’ll connect with the Star.”
While the three of them sat waiting for Home Office to make the connection, Bolding drummed his fingers impatiently on the table.
“How did it go with the insurers, sir?” said Winston.
“The bastards won’t spend a farthing unless they have confirmation of an act of piracy. Since these hijackers haven’t made any demands, we’re in limbo.”
“That may change soon,” said Winston.
The video screen flickered to life and the image of Sir Terence Hays appeared.
“Good to see you, Terry,” said Bolding. “I have Winston with me. Are we ready?”
“Let’s get on with it,” said Hays. “We have a meeting of the exec in twenty minutes. After that I have to brief the Prime Minister.”
Bolding nodded to the technician, who adjusted the image sensors of the monitor. After a moment, the image of Hays disappeared, to be replaced by the picture of the Star’s bridge. From the vacillating image, Bolding could barely make out Rhodes, seated on the floor. The camera moved slightly and he recognized Tate and Brown. He looked for Peterson.
“Can you see us?” said Tate.
“Pretty well,” said Bolding. “Where is Peterson?”
“He’s…. He’s dead.”
“What? Did you say he—?” Before Bolding could finish, the image vacillated again and another picture replaced the one of the bridge. Bolding recognized the Luxor amphitheater, with its mauve velour walls and steeply sloped seating. Except for the lighting of the stage, the amphitheater was barely lit. Only the emergency lights at the exits still shone, giving the room a funereal appearance. Onstage, a thin, dark-complexioned man in white officer’s dress was standing beside an easel, the stage lights shining off his jet black, oily hair. On the other side of the easel, another man had his submachine gun trained on what appeared to be four hostages, standing in a row.
The thin man beside the easel spoke. “Bolding, can you see me?”
“Ah, yes. I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I don’t know your name.”
“Please repeat.”
“I don’t know your name.”
“You’ll know my name in due course.” The man’s voice was strained and aggressive.
“I assume this is about—”
The camera focused on the hijacker and the man’s head tilted back slightly, his chin jutting forward in an air of defiance. “You should assume nothing Bolding, nothing.”
“If we—”
“Shut up and listen, Bolding. So you’re wondering who we are? What we want? I’ll tell you. The whole world will know who we are. Our people have suffered long enough, and the Pakistani government does nothing. Do you understand? Nothing. My wife and daughters were murdered by Pakistani forces. Right in our home.” The man paused, visibly overcome. After a moment, he regained his composure. “My two nieces, they were raped by 11 Pakistani officers and left to die on the streets in Karachi. My brothers rot in their jails. Their only crime was to want justice.” He shook his right fist in the air. “We want justice now, Bolding, and we will get it.” He turned, took two steps towards the easel and picked up the marker on the easel’s tray. He wrote quickly on the sheet of paper, then turned to face the camera again. “You’re wondering what this has to do with your ship, Bolding?”
Bolding looked at Winston quickly, then back at the monitor.
“Yes, I am.”
“Nothing personal, Bolding.” The man crossed his arms imperially over his white uniform. “We are the Baluchistan Tigers and we need money. That’s what you can tell to your reporters, or to whomever you want. Money buys justice, Bolding. You, of all people, should know that.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
“Do you remember that article last year in the Daily Mirror? Of course you do. The rape charges brought against your son by the daughter of Sir Jeffrey Evans?”
Bolding felt his face redden, “Leave my son out of this. The matter was settled out of court without any admission of guilt.”
“Point proved, Bolding. Money buys justice.” The man smiled. He turned and flapped the back of his thin hand on the page of the easel. “You will wire transfer these sums to the banks I have written down here, Bolding, and the Pakistani government will free the seven Baluchistan hostages it holds in Islamabad prison. Otherwise many will die, that I promise you.” He turned and pointed to the hostages. “The Governor here, the Senator and their wives, they will be first. Do you understand, Bolding? Am I making myself clear?”
“Very clear.”
“Good.” The hijacker turned and pointed back to the easel.
“I will go through our demands slowly, Bolding, so you and your government officials listening in can be certain they’re recorded them clearly. Ready?”
“We’re ready.” Winston even grabbed a pad of paper and pencil.
“Good. One: the sum of 20 million US Dollars will be wired to the Saman bank in Tehran. The manager is Mr. Sirhan Aswaled and he will send confirmation to our agent upon receipt of funds. Two: the sum of 20 million US dollars will be wired to Sili Bank, Pyongyang, North Korea. Mr. Kwan Sung will confirm receipt to our agent. Three: 20 million US dollars will be wired to Banco Cuscatlán of Costa Rica. Our agent Leon Binagro will confirm receipt of all funds to me via sat phone. Four: I want confirmation of the freeing of my seven Baluchistan brothers from Dera Ismail Khan Prison.”
The man looked at his watch. “You have exactly two hours to comply with our demands. Otherwise your lovely ship here will be destroyed on Torrais Reef and many will die. Is that clear?”
“You actually believe we can get $60 million together in two hours?”
“Actually, I believe you can do it in one hour and 59 minutes.”
“Even if we agree, we can’t possibly raise that kind of money in such a short time.” Bolding turned and looked at Winston again, then back at the monitor. “And I think you know this. Besides, we have no influence whatsoever on the Pakistani government on their internal policies. You know that too. Surely you can’t—”
Suddenly the other hijacker, carrying a VHF and standing behind the thin man, waved his hand at the thin man and shouted. “Tariq, Tariq, it’s Najib in the engine room. They’ve killed Jawab.”
The thin man spun around. “What?”
“Three of them.”
“Who, what three? Saquil, what are you talking about?”
“Three passengers. They were not checked in at the amphitheater. They shot Jawab in the engine room. They sabotaged the motors and escaped to the upper deck.”
Tariq grabbed his lapel VHF. “Hamed?”
Bolding heard a screeching sound from Tariq’s VHF radio.
“You and Beza find those fucking passengers. I want them dead, understand? Dead!”
“So the name’s Tariq, is it?” interrupted Bolding.
Tariq spun back and looked in the direction of the amphitheater’s camera.
“What?”
“As I was saying, we cannot consider paying you a ransom without—”
“So you think I’m bluffing?” Tariq, his face steeled, cocked his head sideways.
“So Bolding, you think I’m not serious?” Tariq’s voice went an octave higher.
“I’m sure you are, but realistically—”
“Maybe you think you can buy time until help arrives? Do you think I’m that dumb, Bolding?”
“I was merely pointing out to you—”
“Your Captain Peterson, he didn’t think I was serious.” Tariq’s voice had become almost hysterical. “He thought I was bluffing. He’s dead. Now you don’t know me, Bolding, so naturally, you don’t think that a simple Paki peasant can be serious when he asks for 60 million dollars of ransom money from a rich, upper class British nobleman as yourself, eh Bolding? But you’re wrong. Dead wrong. Here, let me show you how serious I am.” Tariq limped quickly up to Saquil, grabbed his pistol from the holster, then went to Dickinson’s wife and pressed the barrel of the pistol against her left temple. “This is how serious I am.”
“No, no. Wait! We’ll find a way. We’ll pay—”
Tariq cocked his head slightly, looked at the camera and smiled. There was a loud explosion and the woman’s head jerked sideways. Her knees buckled and she fell to the floor.
For a long moment, the camera remained fixed on the woman. She didn’t move.
“Good God!” Bolding’s face drained of color.
The others on the video call didn’t say a word. They were all dumbstruck, paralyzed, absorbing the horrendous act they’d just witnessed, watching a pool of blood form around the woman’s head. Dickinson fell to his knees beside her, his face a mask of disbeliefd and pain. “No, No! Mary, No!” He looked up at Tariq. “You murderer, you goddam bastard.”
Dickinson lunged at Tariq, who hit himin the face with the butt of his pistol. The governor reeled backwards, then knelt down again, cradling his dead wife in his arms as he moaned. “Mary, Mary. No, Mary, no.” Saquil grabbed him by the shoulders and tied to drag him away as Tariq started to leave the stage, leading the other hostages at gunpoint. Dickinson still held his wife, rocking her body in his arms. “You bastard. You’ll pay for this,” he shouted to Tariq.