Hijack, page 3
Tuning out his teammates’ bickering, Connor carefully studied the photograph. The young twins had matching straw-blond hair, sea-green eyes and well-defined cheekbones. They could very easily pass as pop stars—and equally as each other. It would be hard to tell them apart.
Pointing to the girl on the right, Charley continued with the Principal profile. “Chloe is the eldest by twelve minutes. She’s outgoing, sociable and intelligent, though word has it, she can be a bit of a princess.” Charley shrugged as if to imply that that came with being the daughter of a billionaire. “Emily, on the other hand, is quieter and more introverted. She enjoys reading, nature and walking, in contrast to Chloe’s love of volleyball and sunbathing. But that isn’t surprising. Last year she was the victim of a kidnapping.”
“Sounds like they hired us too late,” quipped Amir, looking around at the others to join in his joke.
However, a stern glance from the colonel’s flint-gray eyes swiftly ended Amir’s attempt at humor. “Tragically, that’s often the case. Hindsight brings wisdom.”
On the screen, Charley flicked to a composite image of various newspaper clippings. Bullet points in front of the headlines traced the distressing progress of the kidnapping: STERLING GIRL MISSING . . . HAVE YOU SEEN EMILY? . . . MEDIA MOGUL’S MULTIMILLION-DOLLAR RANSOM DEMAND . . . HOSTAGE GIRL NEGOTIATIONS STALL . . . IS EMILY DEAD? . . . STERLING SISTER RELEASED.
“Emily was snatched while on a family vacation in the Côte d’Azur,” Charley explained. “The Corsican Mafia was the suspected organization behind the kidnapping, although that wasn’t proved. She was held in the Algerian desert for several months before eventually being released after lengthy negotiations over the ransom payment.”
Ling held up a hand to ask a question. “If the father’s so wealthy, what took so long?”
Colonel Black replied, “Ransom negotiations are rarely straightforward. There’s a great deal of bluff and counterbluff, rejected offers and impossible demands. The most important thing is that the hostage was released, unharmed.”
“So, how’s Emily doing now?” asked Connor.
“Surprisingly well,” Charley revealed, pulling a medical report from her file. “Physically she is fit and healthy, with no lasting aftereffects. Her psychological report from her therapist, though, indicates occasional mood swings, withdrawal and a fear of the dark and confined spaces. Emily’s been prescribed medication to help her cope with the anxiety attacks—but it can have side effects of drowsiness, confusion and impaired thinking. However, that’s all to be expected, considering her ordeal. Alpha team’s task is to ensure that such a tragedy doesn’t happen again.”
Clicking her remote, Charley pulled up a map of the Indian Ocean. “We will provide low-profile protection for the Sterling sisters during their upcoming vacation in the Seychelles and the Maldives.” She indicated the two tiny clusters of tropical islands amid the vast blue swath of ocean separating Africa and India. “The operation will last a month and be based on Mr. Sterling’s yacht.”
A sleek one-hundred-and-fifty-foot multidecked super-yacht filled the display.
“Wow!” exclaimed Amir, his coffee-brown eyes widening in amazement. “That’s some boat.”
“That’s no boat; it’s a floating palace,” Marc corrected as he squinted at the yacht’s top deck. “It’s even got a hot tub.”
Jason shot Connor an envious glance. “You’ve landed a cushy assignment,” he said. “Must be your reward for saving the president’s daughter.”
“You think so?” replied Connor, recalling the difficulties he’d faced protecting just one Principal. “I figure twins mean twice the trouble.”
6
“You have to be careful with female Principals, don’t you, Connor?” said Charley, glancing meaningfully in his direction.
Her comment went over the heads of the others, but Connor knew Charley was referring to the time she’d caught him and Alicia kissing. As a guardian, he knew that was a line never to be crossed—although strictly speaking, he’d no longer been protecting Alicia at that intimate moment. But Charley clearly wasn’t going to let him forget it.
“And for that reason,” Charley continued, ignoring the team’s bemused expressions, “Colonel Black has decided there’ll be two guardians on this operation.”
The room went quiet as this new information sank in. No one had anticipated the need for a second operative. Yet, with two Principals to look after, having a dual protection unit was logical for effective security.
All eyes turned to the colonel. Jason straightened himself in expectation. Marc, in inverse proportion to his eagerness, leaned back casually in his chair. Ling tensely bit her lower lip, and Amir was so on the edge of his seat that he was in danger of falling off. Richie simply chewed on a fingernail, aware that he was out of the running, having only just returned from an assignment. As much as Connor respected the others on his team, he hoped the colonel would select Amir. He knew his friend was desperate to go on his first assignment and earn his winged badge.
Colonel Black held them in suspense for only a few seconds. “Ling, you’ll be guardian two i/c.”
“Yes!” said Ling, clenching her fist in delight.
Jason bumped fists with Ling in respect. “Congratulations, Captain. Best get your bikini ready.”
“Oh, and I thought I could borrow yours,” she said, winking at him playfully.
Meanwhile, Amir quietly deflated like a punctured balloon.
Connor offered his friend an encouraging smile. “Don’t worry, there’s always next time,” he whispered.
Amir gave a halfhearted nod by way of reply.
But as the colonel’s exact words registered with Ling, her delight turned to a frown. “Two i/c? Second in charge?”
The colonel raised an eyebrow. “You have a problem with that?”
“Of course not,” said Ling, offering an amiable smile at Connor. “It’s just that this being my third mission, I thought—”
“You’ll both have equal responsibilities when it comes to protecting your Principals,” cut in the colonel. “But there must always be a clear chain of command on the ground. Now, Amir, brief the team on the threat situation . . . Amir?”
Amir looked up. Rousing himself from his disheartened daze, he headed over to the lectern and busied himself connecting his tablet to the projector, taking a little longer than necessary in an attempt to hide his disappointment. Clearing his throat, he began to read directly from his notes, barely glancing up.
“I’ll start with the Principals’ father: Maddox Sterling. Fifty years old, he’s the founder and chairman of Fourth Estate Corporation, Australia’s largest media company.”
A suave silver-haired man in a well-cut suit appeared on the screen.
“The corporation’s interests include newspaper and magazine publishing, Internet, cable TV, and film and television production. Fourth Estate essentially owns and controls Australia’s national media.”
Amir clicked through a series of images showing various newspapers, movie posters and TV channels.
“Because of this, Mr. Sterling has many powerful allies in both government and industry. Equally he has made many enemies—as a result of his aggressive business tactics or his newspapers’ controversial style of investigative journalism. For example”—a slide of a slim, dark-haired woman popped up—“the former government opposition leader Kelly Brocker was forced to resign last year after revelations about her private life.”
Amir switched to an image of a tanned middle-aged man with auburn hair. “This is Joseph Ward, the former CEO of Ward Enterprises, who was jailed for ten years for corporate fraud. The financial scandal was exposed by Insider, a true crime show on one of Mr. Sterling’s TV networks. As a result, Mr. Ward, a business rival of Mr. Sterling, has declared bankruptcy, and the media arm of his company was absorbed by none other than Fourth Estate.” Amir raised his eyebrows at the significance of this coincidence. “At the time of his arrest, Mr. Ward publicly vowed revenge on Mr. Sterling, although currently Mr. Ward remains in jail.
“Then the most recent case is the exposure of a high-level Australian politician, Harry Gibb, who has been accused of financial misconduct over the country’s mining rights.”
A front page from the Australian Daily flashed up, the headline declaring, GREEDY GIBB MUST GO! This statement was supported by an unflattering photo of a portly gentleman with thinning hair and a ruddy complexion, caught at the moment he was stuffing a large burger into his mouth.
“Although none of these people are a direct threat to our two Principals,” explained Amir, “any enemy of the father must be considered a potential enemy of the daughters. So I’ve included full background intel on each of them in your operation folders.”
“What about their mother?” asked Ling. “What’s her story?”
“Sadly,” said Amir, “the mother died in a car crash when the girls were only eight years old.”
Connor felt his throat tighten at the news. Having lost his father around the same age, he could understand what life must be like for the girls.
“Recently, however, their father got engaged.” Amir pressed the remote a few times to bring up a picture of the new fiancée: a glamorous and unexpectedly youthful woman in a figure-hugging red dress. “Amanda Ryder is a twenty-nine-year-old swimsuit model who is a regular on the Sydney socialite circuit. As a future member of the family, she’ll be joining you on the yacht.”
“Should make for an entertaining vacation,” said Marc, with a sly grin at Connor.
Connor stifled a snigger at his friend’s remark.
“Boys, focus on the mission!” snapped Colonel Black.
His stern tone wiped the smiles off both their faces in an instant.
Amir quickly resumed his report. “In terms of threat level, Ms. Ryder appears to have more admirers than enemies. It’s really Mr. Sterling’s immense wealth—estimated at one and a half billion dollars—that makes him and his family a vulnerable target. Emily’s kidnapping has already proved that the daughters are a tempting prize for any criminal organization. And, although the Corsican Mafia shouldn’t be on the radar in the Indian Ocean, a secondary kidnapping attempt by extreme terrorists like the Seven Sabers of Somalia or an international crime syndicate, such as the Russian Bratva or the Chinese Triads, is a definite risk to consider.”
“Any other potential threats?” asked Connor, very much aware that the colonel’s frosty glare was still on him and Marc.
Amir nodded. “Just as in any tourist resort, robbery and theft are common in the Seychelles and the Maldives, especially around the harbors. Such crime tends to be opportunistic, so you’ll have to stay alert. There’s also the chance of harassment: the Sterling sisters are well recognized by the paparazzi, even more so since the kidnapping. But, surprisingly, Mr. Sterling’s request for privacy has been honored. So far.”
Amir paused in his threat report and finally looked up.
“Of course, there is one obvious danger when sailing the Indian Ocean.” He brought up a photo of a skull and crossbones. “Pirates.”
7
“You mean, like Captain Jack Sparrow?” said Jason, trying hard to suppress a grin.
“No, he means real pirates,” replied Colonel Black. “Somali pirates, to be exact. And they’re no joke. Forget your image of Johnny Depp with an eye patch and a parrot on his shoulder. Today’s modern pirates use high-powered motorboats and are armed to the teeth with AK-47s and RPGs—rocket-propelled grenade launchers.”
To prove the colonel’s point, Amir played a jerky video clip of a narrow white-and-blue skiff cutting through the waves at high speed. Crouched on board were seven young African men wielding automatic rifles. The crack of gunfire could be heard above the furious roar of the skiff’s outboard motor. A pirate in the bow held a rocket launcher trained on an unseen target. Connor and the others watched in stunned silence as the RPG scorched through the sky toward the cameraman. The picture juddered as the cameraman ducked in panic, but somehow he still managed to track the RPG’s trajectory as it rocketed past the bridge of the ship.
The clip abruptly ended.
No one said a word, their image of the roguish yet lovable pirate from Hollywood movies shattered by this violent reality.
“Fortunately, a warship was within range and came to the cargo ship’s rescue,” the colonel revealed to everyone’s relief. “But all too often these pirates do succeed in hijacking a vessel and holding it—and its crew—for ransom.”
A graphics chart appeared on the screen with columns of colored blocks rapidly increasing in height like an ever-steepening staircase before plummeting in the last period.
“As you can see,” said Amir, pointing to the screen, “the annual number of pirate attacks has soared in the last six years, from fifty-five to almost three hundred at its peak. Ransom demands have also risen. Five years ago the asking price was three hundred thousand dollars. Now it’s as much as twenty million dollars and beyond.”
Richie whistled through his teeth. “We’re obviously in the wrong line of business.”
“The problem is,” said Amir, “success breeds success. Pirate gangs have become more organized and turned piracy into a full-blown business. Already this year there have been forty-two attempted hijackings and six ships taken hostage. A decrease from last year, but still worrying.”
“If that’s the case,” questioned Ling, “why are we sailing in this area at all?”
“A fair point,” agreed the colonel. “But, although the dangers are apparent, the risks are relatively low, as Amir will now explain.”
Amir brought up Charley’s map of the Indian Ocean again. “Attacks have occurred up to a thousand nautical miles from the Somalian coast, but the majority are concentrated along the International Recommended Transit Corridor in the Gulf of Aden.” He pointed to a wide passage of water separating Somalia in the south from Yemen to the north. Then, indicating a stretch of ocean far to the southeast, he continued, “The planned route for Mr. Sterling’s yacht won’t go anywhere near the danger zone.”
“But wasn’t an elderly British couple taken hostage near the Seychelles some years back?” asked Connor, vaguely recalling the media coverage of their ordeal.
“You mean the Chandlers,” answered Colonel Black. “They were very unlucky . . . Wrong place, wrong time. Since then there have been huge improvements in security. For example, NATO’s counterpiracy mission, Operation Ocean Shield, and the setting up of a Regional Anti-Piracy Coordination Center in the Seychelles itself. These measures have curbed pirate activities significantly. Furthermore, it’s relatively rare for the pirates to target a private yacht. The Somalis see the big money in the commercial vessels, because they have ransom insurance.”
Amir nodded in agreement with the colonel. “It’s true. Out of twenty thousand ships that pass through the transit corridor each year, only three hundred are ever attacked—and less than a quarter of those are captured. Of this number, just a handful have ever been private yachts. I worked out the actual odds.” Amir scanned through his notes. “You have less than a one in ten thousand chance of being hijacked.”
“Care to bet on it?” challenged Ling.
Amir gave a shrug. “Why not?”
8
“How can we trust you?”
Harry Gibb sat alone in the booth of the darkened restaurant. The disembodied voice was ominously threatening, and he didn’t dare look in the adjacent booth for fear of the consequences.
“My enemy’s enemy is my friend,” he said with conviction. “I want this as much as you.”
“And you’re willing to do whatever it takes?”
“Yes, yes. I want Sterling’s life ruined. Just like he’s destroying mine!” Harry ground his teeth and clenched a fist in fury at the thought of his collapsing career.
“Then we must hit him where it hurts: his family.”
Harry felt a chill run through him. He stared at his fist and slowly unclenched it. “R-really?” he questioned, his voice quavering slightly. This was something he hadn’t considered. “You’re not expecting me to do anything, are you? I’m not that sort of person.”
“Oh, Harry. It isn’t as if you’re an angel. I’m sure you’ve trampled over many innocent people on your way up the political ladder.”
“Yes . . . but this is different.”
The voice gave a hollow laugh. “No, Harry, this is no different. Politics is just as ruthless as revenge. It’s just that with politics, you inflict harm before someone harms you. With revenge, at least it’s after the act—a lot more honorable.”
“I’m not sure I’m a hundred percent comfortable with this,” Harry admitted, feeling the situation slipping out of his control. He only wanted to wreck Sterling’s credibility and distract him from the campaign against him.
“Too late, Harry, you’re in too deep now. And I can assure you, Mr. Sterling has no qualms about crushing you. But don’t you worry—my men will do the dirty work. The question is, do you have the means to make it happen?”
“Y . . . yes,” Harry replied, reaching into his jacket pocket and taking out a thick brown envelope, stuffed with five hundred crisp hundred-dollar bills.
A waiter eerily emerged from the shadows—or at least the man carried a waiter’s tray. With a prominent tattoo and gorilla-like hands more suited to brutal work than simply serving food, the shadowy figure wasn’t an obvious choice for a high-class establishment. Harry laid the envelope on the tray, and the “waiter” departed without a word.
“When will the ‘campaign’ begin?” he asked.
The adjacent booth was silent.
“I said, when will the plan commence?”
