Scott Mariani 2-book Collection: Star of Africa, The Devil’s Kingdom. Scott Mariani

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СКАЧАТЬ else for Ben to feel guilty about.

      Going through the piles of paperwork, Ben soon discovered something else that didn’t make him feel any better.

      ‘You never told me Brooke was still coming here,’ he commented to Jeff, keeping the surprise out of his voice.

      ‘Yeah, so?’ Jeff replied, still clacking away on his keyboard.

      Brooke – or more properly, Brooke Marcel, PhD in Clinical Psychology, author of seminal papers on Stockholm Syndrome and a leading expert in Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in long-term kidnap survivors – had once upon a time been a frequent visitor to Le Val, employed to give classes on hostage psychology. Ben had first met her back in his SAS days, when he’d attended one of her lectures and been highly impressed with her sharpness of mind, her humour and (he’d admitted to himself only in retrospect) her looks. It wasn’t until she’d become a regular fixture at Le Val, some years afterwards, that their relationship had grown into something much deeper. When that relationship had later crumbled so disastrously, he’d assumed that she would never set foot there again. Yet there it was, an invoice of payment for lecture fees and travel expenses with her signature on it, stamped PAID and dated just two months earlier. And another, dated two months before that. Seeing her name, and knowing that she’d been here, made Ben’s stomach flip and his throat go dry.

      Jeff glanced up from his computer. ‘What was I supposed to do, tell her not to come any more? You know as well as I do there’s nobody better at what she does. Besides, I like having her around.’

      ‘She’s not due to turn up today, is she?’ Ben asked, and immediately felt wretched and cowardly for even thinking it. But it couldn’t be helped. If the answer was affirmative, he was ready to bolt for his car.

      ‘Not for another couple of weeks,’ Jeff muttered, returning to his message. ‘Have to check the diary.’

      ‘How is she?’ Ben asked. Mr Nonchalant.

      ‘Hmm? Oh, fine, fine.’ Jeff wasn’t always the most conversational of company.

      ‘I mean, does she seem happy? Seeing anyone?’ Ben didn’t want to appear to be fishing, but, fully aware of how unreasonable it might be, that was exactly his intention.

      ‘Think she was. Don’t know.’

      Ben almost gave a shudder as an awful thought struck him. ‘Not Rupert Shannon, I hope.’ Shannon was the stuffed shirt of an ex-officer Brooke had been running around with for a time before she and Ben had got together. He couldn’t think of a more unworthy suitor. The very idea made his flesh crawl with jealousy.

      Jeff seemed to be barely listening and didn’t look up from his screen. ‘Like I say, I don’t know. Didn’t ask.’

      ‘I see,’ Ben said, quietly fearing the worst.

      Jeff’s computer gave a small ping as a new email came in. Probably another potential client, Ben thought, with mixed feelings. More income, more workload, more pressure on him to stay on.

      Jeff lazily clicked out of whatever he was doing, and into the email inbox. He read, blinked, read again, and his jaw dropped open.

      ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘Oh, no. No, no.’

      ‘What?’ Ben asked, with no idea what it could be. A surprise tax audit? A mass cancellation? The bank calling in a loan?

      ‘You’d better fucking see this, Ben,’ Jeff said.

      Ben jumped up and moved around the desk to look at the screen. When he saw the email, he froze, blinked twice, then read it again.

      He would read it many more times over the coming hours.

      It was unbelievable. But it was for real.

      The email had landed at precisely thirty-nine minutes past two, local time. It had no subject header and was typed in capitals, a breathless one-line rush with no breaks, no punctuation, very clearly dashed off in a tearing hurry. All it said was:

      JEFF SOS SHIP HIJACKED BY ARMED PIRATES CREW KILLED NEED HELP FAST NO RADIO MAINTAINING POSITION 3.530797, 54.381358 DO NOT REPLY TO THIS MESSAGE PLS HURRY JUDE

      For a long moment, Ben and Jeff were stunned into silence.

      Then the reaction hit. Pacing. Fretting. Wanting to yell and punch the walls. Ben’s anguish. Jeff’s horror. Ben’s short-lived flare of anger towards his friend for getting Jude onto the ship in the first place. Jeff’s remorse and readiness to take the blame, no excuses, no denials.

      But there was no time for emotions here. Both men had learned a long time ago that emotions were the deadliest enemy at a time like this. Only the cold, calm, rational actions they took in the next few minutes would decide the outcome of the situation. Ben quashed his rising panic and took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, Jeff. It’s not your fault.’

      ‘No hard feelings,’ Jeff said, putting a hand on Ben’s shoulder and looking him in the eye with as much reassurance as he could muster. ‘I’d have felt the same. Fuck, a lot worse.’

      ‘All right,’ Ben said, fighting to stay calm. ‘Let’s take stock of this. What do we know? One, we know it’s not a hoax. Jude wouldn’t kid around. Two, we know that at least some of the crew are still alive. Or were, a few minutes ago when this message was sent.’

      ‘Jesus Christ, don’t say that,’ Jeff muttered. ‘Don’t even think it.’

      But Jeff was thinking the exact same thing, as Ben knew perfectly well. Anything could happen in a few minutes, with heavily tooled-up Somali pirates running amok on board and the crew resisting. Jude could be dead already. He could have been dead even before they’d read the email.

      No. He’s alive. Ben gritted his teeth and willed himself to hold that thought. Believe it, absolutely and without question.

      Ben threw himself into a desk chair, yanked the computer towards him, snatched a sheet of notepaper from the desk and dashed off the position coordinates from Jude’s email. He plunged into a web search for Google Maps. Within seconds, he was feverishly tapping in the numbers. Moments later, he’d pinpointed the ship’s position. A little red pointer, like an inverted drop of blood, marked the spot in the middle of the ocean where his son was, or had been. He was out in the middle of the Indian Ocean, just over one hundred and fifty miles east of the Somali coast.

      ‘Two hours ahead of us, EAT, Eastern Africa Time,’ Jeff said, peering over his shoulder. He glanced at his watch. ‘16.39 hours over there.’

      Ben rattled more keys. Next he brought up the Commercial Crime Services section of the International Chamber of Commerce website. It was the home of the IMB Piracy Reporting Centre where all current and ongoing incidents were monitored and displayed around the clock. The website offered a single point of contact for shipmasters and shipping line owners all over the world to report piracy incidents. Its twenty-four-hour phone and email hotline was run from the central company base in Kuala Lumpur, from where the relevant maritime law enforcement authorities anywhere in the world could be alerted to a developing incident.

      Ben clicked on the tab that said LIVE PIRACY MAP. A satellite image of the world appeared onscreen. It was dotted with a profusion of pointer arrows colour-coded by status, in increasing order of seriousness: СКАЧАТЬ