Whoever Fears the Sea Justin Fox (books for 8th graders .txt) 📖

was impressed at how the pirates were able to navigate vast distances in these small, open boats. Again, he thought of the benign monsoons and the predictable weather of the north-western Indian Ocean. Trying the same thing in a wilder corner of the Indian Ocean, such as off South Africa, would be too dangerous, even in the relatively calm summer months.

A rusty Kenyan fishing trawler lay at anchor beside the island. Waiting for a ransom payment? A dozen mashuas bobbed just off the beach. They looked no different to the Lamu dhows he was by now so familiar with. In their midst was Jamal, her yardarm lowered and the yellow tarpaulin rigged to protect her deck and fittings from the sun’s rays. She looked forlorn and abandoned. Paul felt a pang to be at sea again, far from the mess of Galoh, sailing south to Kenya and freedom.

After a few hundred metres, they came to a large grey container that had washed ashore. The side was split open and it was empty. Farid pointed at the lettering with his Kalashnikov: Rifiuto Pericoloso. Even if you didn’t understand Italian, the skull and crossbones made it clear the contents were hazardous. Why Italian?

Farid stopped beside a square, coral-block structure in the tree line and chatted to a teenager sitting on a plastic chair at the door. The youth wore dark sunglasses, chewed a sprig of khat and a pistol lay in his lap. His teeth were green with slime and he was obviously high. The two talked for a while in Somali, then the guard stood up and motioned Paul towards the hut. The seat of his pants had the words ‘play boy’ stitched across it. ‘Come, Mister, I show you my tings,’ he said in a drawl.

The teenager ushered Paul into the building. A makuti roof let through thin shafts of dusty light. It took Paul a moment to register what he was looking at. The walls were lined with shelves full of weapons: AK-47s and AKMs with their banana-shaped magazines, a dozen TT-30 semiautomatic pistols and a row of RPG launchers, good enough to stop a tank. The entire mud-earth floor was crammed with boxes of ammunition and grenades. A shoebox contained a satellite phone and a couple of GPSes.

‘You like?’ said the teenager with a big, mossy grin. He picked up an AKM and took aim at the prisoner’s head.

‘Yes, very nice,’ Paul said quickly and took a step back.

‘We make any ship go boom. Nobody fuck wid us.’

 

CHAPTER 27

 

Paul’s guard opened the door and said: ‘You, come.’

He got up groggily and stepped into the sunshine. Farid led him north along the beach. Where was he being taken? If his guard could be distracted for a few seconds, Paul might be able duck over the dune and outrun the older man. Find the right moment, make for the trees, but where could he go? The pirates would easily track him down and there’d surely be retribution.

The pair swung left over a dune and back among the palm trees. They emerged at the far end of town and came to a derelict stone house with a rusted tin roof. A guard at the front door opened and Farid indicated with his rifle that Paul should enter. He hesitated, suddenly afraid. The muzzle gave the base of his spine a jab and he was propelled into the cavernous space.

There, resting on mats around the edge of the room, was the crew of Jamal.

Husni leapt to his feet and gave Paul an awkward hug. There was joy on the skipper’s face.

‘Nzuri mbingu, what have they done to you!’ he cried, looking at the black bruise on Paul’s temple.

‘I had a visit from the red pirate.’

‘I am so sorry.’ Husni held Paul by the shoulders. ‘We will do everything we can. I will ask for medical supplies for you.’

‘No, don’t worry, it’s just a bump. It looks worse than it is. Where’s Latif? How’s he doing?’

‘He is all right. They put him with a family. The woman of the house has medicines. She was a nurse before. Latif will be okay.’

The rest of the crew crowded round, chattering and shaking Paul’s hand. ‘Thank goodness you are safe,’ said Omar Yusuf, slipping him a handful of nuts.

‘Thank you, Doc.’ The old man smiled. There was strong emotion in his eyes.

‘What are we going to do?’ asked Paul.

‘This is such a mess,’ said Husni. ‘I never dreamt my brother would turn to this.’

It struck Paul like a physical blow and for a few moments he was unable to speak. How had he not seen it immediately?

‘Mohamed is your brother?’

‘Yes, did he not tell you?’

‘No.’ Paul’s cheeks flushed, stung by betrayal. ‘No, he didn’t.’

‘Mohamed has brought shame on our family,’ Husni blurted out, not looking at Paul. ‘He has gone mad. He is not one of us.’

The room was silent. He stared at Husni, aghast, weighing up this man he’d put his faith in.

‘Paul? Please, my friend —’

Paul turned away, his mind playing back the voyage and capture. What had he missed? ‘This is not your fault, I guess,’ he said at length, anger still in his voice. ‘At least it’s your brother, I suppose, not some unknown pirate.’

‘Mohamed is very unpredictable.’

‘I told him they won’t get much ransom for me.’

‘I said the same. He is thinking about it.’ Husni grasped his hand. ‘Listen, I will speak some more to him. I will talk him round, I promise.’

‘But what about the other pirates?’

‘It is a worry. I will do my best.’

At Paul’s next meeting with Mohamed, they sat in the courtyard. An elegant young woman dressed in a long guntiino of red cotton served him a glass of warm Chardonnay. Paul glimpsed the label: Nederburg. He caught himself