MISRATAH, LIBYA
Marcel Hurtubise strode along the Qasr Ahmad waterfront, seeking a particular vessel. He glanced seaward, noting the Yugoslavian-built breakwater, and took in the maritime air. It might have been restful had he been interested in resting. But he was on business. Sometimes he wondered if he knew how to rest anymore.
He found what he was looking for. With no indication to the contrary, he strode up the gangway and asked for the captain. The seaman—a Turk by the look of him—nodded brusquely and disappeared through a hatch. Moments later it opened again.
“Welcome aboard,” the captain said in accented French. “I have been waiting for you.” He shook Hurtubise by the hand with more vigor than custom allowed, grinning widely at the passenger. He damn well should smile, Hurtubise thought. With what he’s being paid.
“Merci, mon capitaine,” the mercenary replied. He studied the skipper of M/V Tarabulus Pride, reserving judgment for the moment. Hurtubise saw a short, swarthy Libyan of indeterminate age with a face featuring a prominent nose, weathered skin, and yellowed teeth.
In turn, Captain Abu Zikri saw a reserved, fortyish Frenchman who spoke passable Arabic but whose eyes seldom stopped moving. The grip was firm, brisk, and devoid of warmth. In a word, businesslike.
“Would you like to settle in right away?” Zikri asked.
“No, I’ll just look around. My men and I will stay ashore for another day or so. But we will be here every day to make … arrangements.”
“Très bien,” the skipper replied. “Meanwhile, permit me to show you my pride and joy.”
Zikri motioned expansively as he walked, literally taking Hurtubise from stem to stern. “She’s not as pretty as she once was,” the Arab began, “but she’s fully serviceable. Oh, I admit, she could use some paint, but most women do, too, don’t you think?”
Hurtubise made a noncommittal response, preferring to evaluate the ship’s layout. He began visualizing how he would board the vessel in order to capture her, then worked backward to arrive at a defense.
Zikri seemed not to notice. Striding the deck, he became expansive. “Eighty-eight meters long, thirteen meters beam. She draws six and a half meters at thirty-one hundred tons. The engines are recently overhauled, and we can make twelve knots if we have to…”
“How many in the crew?”
“Ah, eighteen good seamen, tried and true. Mostly Arabic, a couple of Greeks. Their papers are all in order, I assure you. But depending on the length of our voyage, I may need as many as twenty-five. You know, rough weather, long watches. That sort of thing.”
“Of course,” Hurtubise replied. And the more money for you, my Arab friend, as if the crew will see much of it.
Marcel Hurtubise never had much interest in things nautical, but he knew what to look for. Though much of the vessel was unkempt, he was pleased to see that the engineering spaces were clean. It spoke well of Captain Zikri’s priorities. The Frenchman nodded to himself, a gesture that his host noticed. “You approve, Monsieur Hurtubise?”
“Oui, mon capitaine. J’approuve.”
The seaman beamed. Thus encouraged, he said, “Perhaps you would like to take some refreshment in my cabin. Some tea or … something else.” He winked broadly.
So, my Arab friend, you are not among the devout. Hurtubise filed that information for future reference. “Thank you, no. I must meet some associates. But I will return tomorrow. I hope the loading can proceed on schedule.”
“Naturellement, monsieur. Naturellement.”