Final Assault. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ Though there were a few bodies to be disposed of, once they had time. He tapped his watch. “I’ll say this for him—he’s prompt.”

      “He better be. I’m getting tired of standing out here in the sun so the remoras can film us,” Yacoub said, jerking the barrel of his weapon toward the gaggle of hostages corralled in the cabana. They were mostly press, with a few others mixed in—whose names and faces Garrand found vaguely familiar. Celebrities with nothing better to do than ride around on a retrofitted cargo ship, including three reality show finalists, an advice columnist and one style blogger, none of whom seemed to really understand their predicament. Or if they did, they were hiding it well.

      Garrand smiled. He’d allowed the press to keep their cameras, and they had repaid him with a constant stream of camera flashes, equipment squawks and shouted questions. All part of the plan, he reminded himself as he watched the helicopter draw closer.

      “I wonder where he got a helicopter,” Yacoub murmured. “Sure as hell not Eyl,” he added after a minute.

      “Yemen,” Garrand said, shifting his rifle to a more comfortable position. “He has a finger in every pie.” He tugged at his keffiyeh, wanting a cigarette. Sweat rolled down under his collar. It was hot, and he was getting tired of playing pirate. He glanced at the hostages. They’d selected eight out of the twenty passengers—the most attractive and the most important. This was a photo opportunity, after all. The rest had been sealed below decks with the crew. Well, most of the crew, he thought with a satisfied sigh.

      The Demeter had a crew of sixty, thirty of whom were security personnel. Of the thirty, only five weren’t in on the plan. Those five had been confined with the others after judicious application of rifle butts, fists and boots. Garrand had hired most of the security men himself, specifically for this trip, before his very public firing. Who fires somebody on Twitter? he thought. He didn’t even have an account. But that was a silly question. Nicholas Alva Pierpoint was exactly the sort of man who’d fire someone via social media.

      “Helicopter’s not going to land,” Yacoub said.

      “The pilot’s no fool,” Garrand replied. “Would you land a chopper on the deck of a ship swarming with guys wearing these—” he tugged on his keffiyeh “—and carrying automatic weapons?”

      Yacoub laughed. “I suppose not.”

      “Besides, you remember how Pierpoint likes to make an entrance.” Garrand pointed at the helicopter, which was now passing overhead. “And there he is now—the sixth most powerful man on the planet.”

      As they watched, a tiny figure flung itself out of the helicopter and plummeted toward the Demeter. A rectangular parachute popped open and slowed the man’s descent. Yacoub whistled softly, and Garrand shook his head.

      As expected, the hostages were filming the new arrival. At least one of them had managed to maintain a live feed of the “unfolding situation,” thanks to Garrand ensuring that the onboard wireless network was functioning. Garrand had no doubt that every news agency—legitimate, tabloid or otherwise—was salivating over the whole affair in real time. When in doubt, make news, he thought. That was one of Pierpoint’s guiding philosophies, right alongside “all publicity is good publicity.”

      Well, he was getting both in spades with this one. One of his men halfheartedly raised his weapon and for a second, Garrand contemplated letting him get a shot off. Then he gestured sharply. The barrel of the rifle was lowered and Pierpoint landed light as a cat on the deck. Clad in black, he was dressed like a little boy playing war. Pierpoint was small and sandy haired and was wearing wraparound shades. Garrand thought he looked a little like a certain American movie star, the one who’d made that film about bartenders and liked to stand on couches. With an elegant flick of his fingers, Pierpoint snapped the deflated parachute loose from his harness and let the wind carry it out to sea.

      “How did he manage to land with the sun at his back? That’s what I want to know,” Yacoub muttered. “Did someone teach him how to do that, or—”

      “Quiet,” Garrand said. “The cameras are rolling, and the star has made his entrance.”

      Pierpoint looked around, hands half raised. “Who’s in charge here?” he called out. Pierpoint wasn’t American, but he’d hired people to make him sound as nonthreatening as possible to his North American business partners. His nondescript accent rolled off his tongue, smooth as cream.

      Garrand nudged Yacoub. “Go get him.”

      “Why me?”

      “You look more like a pirate than I do. Go,” Garrand said. He watched in satisfaction as Yacoub stumped across the deck, weapon held across his chest. Camera phones whirred and clicked, and the world watched as Pierpoint met the pirates.

      “I’ve come to talk,” Pierpoint said loudly, playing to the cheap seats. “And to see that no one gets hurt.” He patted his chest, where a heavy duffel was slung. “I’ve got the ransom here.”

      “We talk, then,” Yacoub replied in what was not a Somali accent, or even remotely close. Irish, Garrand wondered. Maybe Scottish? He rolled his eyes and fell in behind Pierpoint as Yacoub strutted toward the stairs.

      The control room was occupied by two of Garrand’s men, who’d been watching Pierpoint’s arrival through the windows. Garrand hiked his thumb over his shoulder as they entered, and the men filed out. They would take his and Yacoub’s place on deck and pose for the cameras. Garrand took the captain’s chair before Pierpoint could reach it and gestured to one of the lower seats. “Sit. Yacoub, see if anyone is near the galley. A few bottles of champagne were chilling, last I checked. And grab some glasses, as well.” He nodded at Pierpoint. “This is a celebration, after all.”

      Pierpoint smiled widely, displaying expensive dental work. He clapped his hands together and laughed. Garrand tugged his keffiyeh down and grinned. “I told you it would work.”

      “And that’s why I hired you, Georges,” Pierpoint said. He swung his feet onto a control panel and leaned back. “Remind me to send a thank you card to your previous employer for the recommendation.”

      “Given that he’s in prison now, I doubt he’d appreciate the sentiment.” Garrand sat back. Byron Cloud, his former boss, had been an arms dealer. He’d hired Garrand to put the boot to his competition, at a verifiable remove. Garrand had spent two weeks sinking boats full of secondhand military equipment in the South China Sea. A fun way to spend one’s time, but there was little future in the field of hard sabotage; these days it was all about computers and accounts and data tracking.

      Pierpoint laughed. “Poor Byron—bit of a wet noodle, that fellow,” he said.

      Garrand shrugged. Whatever that means, he thought. “You have the money? I’ve got half a dozen very twitchy shooters wondering when they’re getting paid for this little stunt.” It wasn’t quite as fraught as he made it sound, but it was close. None of his men were what one could call nice, but so far they’d been professional, and that was more important as far as Garrand was concerned.

      Pierpoint patted the duffel he’d brought with him. He’d taken it off and was cradling it in his lap. “It’s all here. The most generous severance package I’ve ever provided, if I do say so myself.”

      “And we’re worth every penny,” Garrand said. He shook his head. “Still, hijacking your own boat just to raise your profile seems excessive. Especially if you’re СКАЧАТЬ