The Catch: A Novel (44 page)

“Have you found him?”

“Perhaps. Did you file the papers for claiming the ship?”

“Yesterday.”

“The Russian delegation got copies last night.”

“Excuse me?” he said.

In slow and measured tones Munroe walked him through what she’d seen, and when he’d heard the details, he argued back, insisting she was mistaken. She sighed and closed her eyes, tipped back onto the bed, head on the pillow, and searched his words and tone for clarity. As a man who’d sent his underling to double-cross, to collect his own payment for her catch while also intending to collect on the ship, he was either a fantastic psychological player or he’d been betrayed as thoroughly as she had.

“Why now?” he said. “Why like this? They could have had the ship when it was in Somalia.”

“They’re not interested in the ship.”

“They ransacked my office,” he said, tone rising, exasperation in every word. “They’ve killed my niece, they’ve stolen the loyalty of my cousin, obtained copies of multiple documents relating to this venture. What are they after if not the ship?”

Munroe sat, swung her legs over the bed, planted her feet on the floor, and stood in the middle of the last act, the outcome toward which every moment, every turn over these last weeks, had pushed her. “I promised you the
Favorita
,” she said. “I
will
fulfill my end of the bargain, and Abdi, I need the dhow.”

“Now?”

“Tonight.”

“If you guarantee me the freighter, eliminate our current hassle, you can have the dhow.”

“Then be at the port to seize your ship.”

“What of the Russians and their plans?”

“You’re in a better position to answer that than I am,” she said. “Which agency officials have they been courting?”

“Foreign Affairs and Ports Authorities.”

“And what does that tell you?”

“They plan to hijack the
Favorita
, this time legally.”

“They don’t want the ship,” she said. “They want to board it.”

“Only a fool would put so much effort into something so easily obtained.”

“They want to board before the ship is cleared, before the port authorities inspect, to get on and off without anyone looking at what they bring on or take off.”

“I see,” he said, though his tone wavered with unasked questions.

“Be there,” she said. “Bring an extra car and an extra driver—and whatever you decide to do with your cousin, this Ibrahiin, keep him far, far away from any information about today.”

“He will be far,” the
hawaladar
said, though darkness filled his voice and he might as well have said dead.

M
UNROE LEFT THE
room with the sun just over the horizon, took a taxi to the port, and walked from the drop-off point down to the wharf, where a wide expanse of bulk freight filled the concrete docks, separating two- and three-story buildings from the water. The morning heat had already settled, and in the distance, the day’s labor long begun, stevedores loaded bales into waiting trucks.

She kept to the shade. Moved slowly in the way that everything moved slowly in the sweat-drenching humidity, familiarizing herself with the port facilities and government offices, and when she’d seen all she needed and, based on the
Favorita
’s size and cargo, surmised more or less in which segment of the port the freighter would berth, she purchased water and small snacks from a vendor and sat in the shade, napping, until a convoy of six cars and a bustle of movement roused her from the heat-induced coma.

Four men stepped from the two rear cars, three of them from the delegation, expressions gaunt and postures strained, a far cry from the comportment of the men she’d drunk and laughed with the night before. The weapons they carried were well concealed but obvious all
the same, submachine guns and whatever smaller hardware they’d stashed on their persons.

Sergey was missing, leaving them one man short, and that brought her a hint of satisfaction, as did their body language, which spoke of deference and fear of the fourth man, her target, who was broad-shouldered and imposing, an older and better-kept version of the pictures she’d seen of Aleksey Petrov. He lifted an arm toward the ocean, giving orders she couldn’t hear.

With the arrival of the delegation, a signal that the
Favorita
was near, Munroe raised Amber on the two-way and waited for the satellite phone to boot up.

Eight more men stepped from the lead cars to the pavement, most of them in suit and tie, and by their dress and mannerisms Munroe separated government officials from entourage and drivers, counted two men of any importance, and assumed one had come from each office the delegation had courted. The two groups mingled, handshakes and conversation were shared between the bosses, and then they walked in the direction of an empty berth. Beyond them, almost inconspicuous in contrast to the size of their crowd, the
hawaladar
’s vehicle drove toward the dock: vultures, all of them, circling the dying animal in an easily predicted dance of wants and ordered priorities.

A police van and two cars arrived, and armed more poorly than the delegation, ten uniformed men joined the greeting committee, adding weight to the
hawaladar
’s warning that the crew would be arrested when the ship arrived.

With all the players come to the game, the weapons numbered, the strategy set, Munroe dialed the satellite phone. “There’s an entourage waiting to make arrests as soon as the ship docks,” she said.

“Lovely,” Amber said. “What’d we do this time?”

“I figure it’s weapons smuggling.”

“We’re mostly clean, we can dump the rest.”

In the distance the
Favorita
, piloted in, grew ever so slowly. Another half an hour, perhaps, before she was fully docked. No sign of
the dhow, which was good, which meant Joe had at least followed the original instructions.

“They’ll make the arrests anyway,” Munroe said.

“What for? They won’t find anything.”

“Oh, they’ll find something,” Munroe said. “They need a reason to get you out of the way, and once the Kenyan government has you, they have you. Is proving your innocence worth the money and months of fighting to get free?”

Amber sighed. “You’re the fixer, Michael. You’ve never brought me a problem without a way out, so I know you didn’t call just to give me bad news.”

“Let’s just say we’ve run up against a wall,” Munroe said, repeating a sliver of their conversation on the dhow. “Let’s say now’s the time to trade the captain for freedom.”

“It’ll work?”

“He’s what they’re after, but the guys coming for him are armed foreign military, and if they take him, there will be nothing standing between you and arrest. We can outmaneuver them, but only if you have the cooperation of everyone on board—you’ll probably get it faster if you let them see the greeting committee for themselves.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Amber said. “Just tell me what I need to know.”

“All right then,” Munroe said. “Get Victor, and get a pen and paper.”

M
UNROE KEPT TO
her spot in the shade, waiting out the heat while the ship came fully into port, angling in for berthing, and those expectant on the wharf began to agitate in anticipation. Twice the
hawaladar
left his vehicle for the port authority office, and on each return he glanced in Munroe’s direction and shied away just as quickly, as if having spotted and recognized her, he couldn’t help himself.

Munroe dialed Anton’s cell phone, a number she’d lifted off Sergey the night before. In the distance he fumbled through his pockets trying to get the call, squinted at the unknown number. Munroe said, “Nikola is here, as I promised.”

“What do you want?” he said.

She ignored the bite of mockery. “I have brought you your prize,” she said. “It’s time to make payment.”

He scanned the docks, right, left; turned and looked behind him. “I have no guarantee Nikola is on that ship,” he said. “You’ll get your money after we claim him.”

“Our agreement was half up front, the rest before you board. Pay now if you intend to claim him.”

“The agreement has changed,” he said.

“That’s a mistake.”

Anton put his arms wide and turned in a circle, searching her out, inviting her to have at him, and, smiling, almost laughing, said, “You’ve been paid well enough. There’s nothing more for you.”

“If you don’t pay, he won’t be there for you to claim,” she said, and hung up before he could reply. Tucked the phone away.

Anton glanced along the wharf again, then leaned in toward Petrov, passing on some message, and they both laughed and turned to face the
Favorita
, where the crew threw the mooring lines and the dockworkers secured them.

The gangway slid toward the dock, and when at last the metal connected with concrete, the delegation quickened forward and the crew above slipped away. The policemen spread out on the wharf along the length of the ship.

Munroe stood. Dusted off her pants and strolled toward the freighter.

By the time she reached the
Favorita
, all four of the delegation had gone up the gangway and were long since out of view. The officials and their entourage remained on the dock, an expensive barrier against lesser bureaucrats questioning the series of protocol and legal violations. Munroe continued toward the gangway, pace increasing as she neared. Two of the policemen blocked her rush forward and motioned her away from the ship. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said, harried and out of breath, and attempted to push past them.

One of the uniformed men put a hand to her shoulder and shoved her from the gangway. Munroe half tripped a step closer to the officials and turned to the suited men, twisting her expression into
anguish and bewilderment. The arrangement guaranteeing Anton’s men access to the ship, preventing anyone else from disembarking, also left a gray area. “Anton is waiting for me,” she said. “He’s already angry at my delay.”

The collective response was uncertain hesitation, so Munroe shifted into deference and supplication, held her phone toward a short portly man, the one she’d marked as the most senior government official, and said, “Please, sir, call Anton if you must confirm. I am late and he is angry, please call him.”

With his authority questioned before those surrounding him, the man lifted his hand in ego-salving and face-saving and flicked a two-fingered wave toward the policemen. They stepped aside and Munroe rushed a thank-you in sycophantic gratitude, and hurried up.

The deck was empty when she stepped aboard, a ghost ship without a crew. Anton and Petrov raced up the ladder for the bridge, two steps at a time, and had already reached the fourth level, while Sergey’s counterpart, weapon drawn, stood guard at the base. The other was out of sight, had likely gone to where he could cover additional exits and ensure that no one slipped off the ship.

Munroe slid along the coaming for an access hatch into the number one hold, found it unsealed and blocked open as requested. Following the rungs down into the dark, nursing a body that stabbed her if she moved too fast or at the wrong angles, she clambered over rice bags, following the bulwark aft. Dug for the rifle and magazines she’d stashed before leaving the ship. Secured the spares tight into her waistband, slung the weapon over her shoulder, then headed back up. Using a leg of a deck crane as cover, she held back, counting the seconds for Anton to make his next move.

Munroe waited less than a minute before Anton and Petrov hurried out on the bridge, running down the ladder, stopping at each landing long enough to try to force the hatchways open and then, unable to gain entry, rushing onward, yelling to the man below, voices carrying far along the ship. They needed to get inside. The captain had been warned, there were lines leading from the ship, he had another way off.

They reached the main deck, forced through the shoddily constructed jamb on the only door that would open, believing without hesitation what they’d been told on the bridge, because Munroe, in the demand for payment, had primed Anton to accept it. Weapons ready, they cleared the breach military style. Passed through to the interior.

Munroe rose from her hiding place and, wary of the missing man, moved from coaming to coaming, then ran the final stretch to the tower. Reached the entry without spotting the stray shooter and followed through, into the stomach of the ghost ship. Slid along the walls tracking the same route the delegation would have taken, down to the second deck, detouring along a different passageway and continuing beyond them, intending to loop back and approach from their rear.

Victor followed her. She knew him by the familiar pattern the wounded thigh created in his footsteps, by his breathing, his smell. Paused for him. Motioned topside. One was still out there. He nodded, fingers filling in for words: Marcus and Khalid were on the hunt. He handed her the 9 mm she’d left behind and she traded him for the rifle and spare magazines, then with him at her back moved forward more quickly, down another ladder, another passageway, toward the engine room.

Stopped when she reached a blind turn.

Voices echoed out and with them the subtle clink of hands shifting against weapons, the sound of nervousness and uncertainty, and slurs and mutters that spoke of a standoff between far too many people for the enclosed space. Natan’s voice was clearer than the others, meaning his face was toward her, and the delegation, if properly distracted, if properly outnumbered, would have their backs to the opening.

Amber and one of the ship’s crewmen slid into place behind Victor. Together with Natan and his men, they outnumbered the Russians three to one. Munroe glanced back once and nodded. Moved through the door, smooth and silent. Put the muzzle of the handgun to Anton’s head before he’d registered her presence.

Petrov stole a look in her direction, his expression blank, unreadable. “This one I don’t need,” Munroe said to him. “Will you sacrifice him while you decide what to do?”

In microsecond slivers, his every movement, every blink and breath, bled out as a story, advertising intent, and in the heartbeat that his finger twitched toward the trigger, Munroe shifted the gun from Anton’s head to Petrov’s arm and shot him.