18

“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. A battle-worn AK-47 was slung over his shoulder.

“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.

“Ow!” 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 grudgingly followed Spearhead across the blistering hot yard toward 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 center stage, framed by a slender beige divan. Thick maroon drapes blocked the persistent sunlight that tried to force its way through the barred windows. 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-tasseled bolster, a wooden bowl of spiced ribs in one hand. In the other, he held a thin bone, which he gnawed on for the last vestiges of meat. Dressed in an olive-green 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 with 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.”

“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?” a skinny bucktoothed young pirate asked, beaming.

“When you can grow a beard, you can!” Spearhead said, laughing.

As other pirates joined in the laughter, a 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 cell 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 before putting 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. As he turned 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 business, my friend. I’ll let you know as soon as my men are ready.”

Oracle flipped shut the cell phone and laid it beside his handgun.

“Get Mr. Wi-Fi,” 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. Wi-Fi 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,” Mr. Wi-Fi said, smiling and opening his laptop, 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. Wi-Fi’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. Wi-Fi hunched over his whirring laptop. The pirates ostrich-necked to try to 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. Wi-Fi typed motor yacht Orchid . . .