14

Dust swirled in the hot dry air as a white-and-chrome Land Cruiser bumped its way down Hobyo’s unpaved street. In the furnace of midafternoon, the Somalian harbor town was largely deserted, except for a few scrawny children kicking a soccer ball made of plastic bags.

Sharif, a potbellied Somali with a thin mustache, gazed through his vehicle’s blacked-out windows at the crumbling concrete buildings beyond. Some were whitewashed, and others matched the dull brown of the road. All were topped with green corrugated tin roofs that had warped under the glare of the African sun.

The driver honked his horn, and a goat, bleating indignantly, trotted out of the path of the oncoming 4×4. Turning a corner, the Land Cruiser entered the central square, where, unexpectedly, the town was bustling with life. A throng of people crowded outside a two-story building with flaking yellow walls, pockmarked by bullet holes.

The Land Cruiser ground to a halt beside three other 4×4s that were haphazardly parked in the middle of the road, their stereos blaring reggae-inspired tunes. Several young men in T-shirts and ma’awis wrapped around their waists were slumped beneath a tree. Chewing green khat leaves, their AK-47 machine guns cradled in their laps, they eyed the Land Cruiser with mild suspicion but made no move to investigate.

Sharif clambered out of the air-conditioned cocoon of the vehicle, his blue cotton shirt instantly sticking to him in the sapping heat as he strode over to the gathered mob.

“Ii warran?” he asked a woman wearing a black headscarf.

The young woman, her face dark and smooth as ebony, grinned at him. “A ransom payout!” she replied in Somali, and held up a slip of paper. “I’m waiting to collect my share. I invested my ex-husband’s rocket-propelled grenade in the company.”

Other fortunate investors, who’d gambled their money, weapons or belongings with the successful pirate gang, pushed and jostled their way forward to make their claims. But not everyone was jubilant. An elderly woman in a long blue jilbaab squatted in the dirt, her eyes red raw with tears.

“Has . . . anyone news . . . of my son?” she sobbed, raising her hands to the heavens.

Another woman crouched at her side, trying to offer comfort. “I’m sure he’s still at sea—”

Ignoring the old woman’s sorrow, Sharif shouldered his way through the crowd into the former mayor’s office that now housed the pirates’ “stock exchange,” a facility for raising funds for hijack operations. Six brokers were dealing with the numerous claims of the town’s investors as well as welcoming new investments.

Sharif approached a round-faced man wearing gold-rimmed glasses. Sitting at a rickety wooden desk, the broker welcomed him with a gap-toothed grin.

“Soo dhowow!” he said in greeting. “Cousin, please sit down.” He gestured to a battered plastic chair. “How can I help you?”

Sharif immediately got down to business. “I represent a client who wishes to invest in a pirate gang.”

“You mean a ‘maritime company,’” corrected the broker with a knowing wink.

“Ah . . . yes, of course,” Sharif agreed amiably, although both men knew what they were really talking about. “And he only wants the best, the most reliable.”

The broker didn’t even pause before replying. “That’ll be Oracle and his men.”

Flipping to a fresh page in his battered ledger, the broker licked the tip of his pencil, wrote the date and scored a line down one side. He glanced up at Sharif. “What does your client have to invest? Weapons? Supplies? Cash?”

“Cash. And moreover he wants to be the sole investor in an operation.”

The broker’s eyes widened, gleaming like silver coins in his black moon-face. “I trust your client has deep pockets . . . Start-up costs are a minimum of thirty thousand dollars.”

Sharif nodded and placed a blue sports bag on the table. “There’s fifty thousand. My client wishes to ensure the ‘maritime company’ has the best resources for the job.”

The broker unzipped the bag and licked his lips at the sight of five large bundles of crisp hundred-dollar bills.

“I’ll contact Oracle right away,” he said, rezipping the bag. But as he went to take it, Sharif grabbed his wrist and locked eyes with the broker.

“My client expects results.”

The broker gave Sharif a regretful smile. “Of course I respect such a request, but in this business, as you well know, we can offer no guarantees. Hijacking a ship is risky business.”

“Then this should reduce the risk,” said Sharif, handing the broker a large brown envelope.

The broker started to open it.

“No,” said Sharif. “For Oracle’s eyes only.”

The broker held up his hand in apology. “I only wished to note its contents. The return on a successful hijack-and-ransom is usually ten times the amount invested.” Placing the unopened envelope in the bag, he then carefully wrote down the items in his ledger. “Whom shall I name as the official investor? Yourself, Sharif?”

“No, I’m merely the middleman. No name. Just date it,” instructed Sharif.

The broker raised an eyebrow at this, but nonetheless did as instructed. He glanced up as he wrote. “Is your client trustworthy?”

Sharif shrugged. “He’s rich. And pays cash in advance.”

“Then who needs trust?” the broker said, laughing. He tore a strip of paper from the bottom of his ledger. “Your receipt.”

Sharif took the scrap of paper. “Thank you, cousin. Nabadeey,” he said, bidding him farewell.

Leaving the bustling “stock exchange,” Sharif crossed the dusty square and clambered back into the Land Cruiser.

“It’s done,” he said in English, handing his client the receipt.

The man in the back pocketed the paper slip without a word.