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fourteen had voted Suleiman an extra half-share for being the first to board the
Bannon
. One half-share was to be given to the widow of a clansman who’d drowned months ago on an earlier, unsuccessful trip; three shares would be split between the families of six men captured last spring by a Chinese warship, jailed now in Kenya.
    These shares went into another duffel, to be handed to the men at a celebration at Yusuf’s compound in Qandala tomorrow. The remaining shares were split between first mate Suleiman, who stuffed two into his own sack, and Yusuf, six as captain.
    The two shook hands. Yusuf’s larger mitt swallowed his older cousin’s slim fingers.
    “
Mahad sanid
.”
    “
Mahad sanid
,
saaxiib
.”
    Yusuf turned a circle in the wheelhouse, granting his memory a last panorama. The captain’s leather chair, the bank of radarmonitors, compasses, controls, the wheel and throttle, high above a mountain of containers. These had all been his. Stolen, yes, but answerable to him. That was sufficient power to envision himself this ship’s true captain, not its captor. The money in his sack did not release him so quickly from this image as he’d like.
    “Yusuf.”
    “Yes.”
    “Time to go.”
    Yusuf shouldered his leather bag, $400,000. The weight impressed him, helped him shrug off the lure of the
Bannon
.
    “Hold the door open, cousin.”
    Suleiman pulled back the starboard door. Yusuf lifted the hard plastic cask. He hefted the barrel outside, onto the starboard wing. With one great shove, he heaved it over the rail, to fall to the ocean a hundred feet below.
    The chest opened its white and emptied innards, a clamshell with the pearl gone. The current dragged it down the length of the ship and away. Shots rang in salute. The French photographers’ plane, believing the bullets were aimed at it, skittered off to a safer distance.

    Sharks thrashed at the heads and hooves, the scraps of the goats tossed overboard. The Somalis, raised to believe in animal omens, cheered. Fires burned in fifty-gallon drums cut in half, filled with charcoal, fitted with grills. Hoses washed away blood from the slaughter, drawing more sharks.
    The
Bannon
’s cooks pitched in to prepare the meal. When the meat was done and carved, the Malays ate with their guards, glad to be rid of them soon but glad, too, for a hearty meal. Ashwin and his officers stayed apart, clucking tongues at the mess, finally free to express their disdain. Suleiman circulated, keeping order. Yusuf watched from four decks above in the smoke of the braziers.
    Below, his men concocted stories to spreadonce back on shore. Perhaps the blood they’d washed overboard had belonged to a Malay crewman they’d butchered. The sharks ate the pieces of his body. They spoke of the many seamen they’d had to kill to capture this ship, then beaten the rest to keep it. The cruelties of Yusuf, the cleverness of Suleiman. How the captain, owners, and insurers of the great freighter
Bannon
bowed to them. The terrible things done at the command of Yusuf Raage, the bloodiest of Somali pirate chiefs.
    Yusuf did not come down for the meal but stood in full view throughout. He let the tales about him whip up with the rising shore breeze.
    After an hour, with the sun low over the rocky coast, the meal was abandoned, the fire pits left to smolder. Five fast skiffs sped out to the
Bannon
from shore. Yusuf climbed down from his perch. His cadre of young guards, filled with goat and curd, some glassy-eyed from chewing
qaat
leaves, lined up on the starboard rail. Weapons hung lazily over their shoulders and in their hands, the job done, money and sleep on their minds.
    Guleed, younger and even thinner than Suleiman, lowered the long gangway. The metal stairs dipped to the waterline. Yusuf beckoned for the Indian captain, Ashwin.
    “You did not eat, Captain.”
    “Nor did you. Captain.”
    “I’ll eat tonight.” Yusuf shook the bag in his grip. “I’ll eat well. Right now, I need you