The Tears of Dark Water Read Online Free PDF Page B

right cheek. Just my luck that he would survive and not Gedef , Ismail thought .
    Mas was a 22-year-old hothead, jealous and contentious. The only son of Gedef’s uncle, he had worshiped at Gedef’s feet and questioned Ismail’s place in the band. “Afyareh is fakash —from a rival clan,” he had said many times. “He fought for al-Shabaab. He can’t be trusted.” Gedef had ignored him. The pirate bands were largely meritocratic. Skill mattered more than clan, daring more than creed. Gedef elevated Ismail because he was gifted at hijacking ships; he didn’t care that Ismail’s father was Sa’ad, not Suleiman like the rest of them. With Gedef dead, though, Mas could be dangerous. Ismail would have to watch him carefully.
    He fetched the handheld radio from the waterproof bag behind his seat and switched it on, pressing the “talk” button. “Abdullah, Abdullah,” he began, “come in.” He listened to the static but heard nothing. “Abdullah, Abdullah, this is Afyareh, can you hear me?”
    He frowned and looked toward the sun. The radio had an effective range of eight miles on the water. The dooni should be close enough , he thought . Why is Abdullah not answering? His men were staring at him, all but Osman, who was tending to Mas.
    “Don’t worry,” he said confidently.
    He took control of the tiller and massaged the throttle, driving the skiff through the low waves. He pointed the bow east and watched the horizon for a shadow, a discontinuity, anything that might be a glimpse of the dhow. Every few minutes, he let go of the throttle and tried to raise Abdullah on the radio. Each time, he heard only static.
    After half an hour, he began to grow worried. His men were watching him anxiously, Osman included. Mas was still semi-conscious, but he had begun to babble. He would soon come to his senses, and when he did, he was sure to provoke a fight.
    “Abdullah, Abdullah,” Ismail said for what felt like the hundredth time. “This is Afyareh. If you can hear me, please respond.” A minute later, he decided to lie: “Abdullah, this is Afyareh. Gedef is with me, but his radio is dead. What is your position?”
    Liban was the first to ask what Ismail feared: “Do you think they left us?”
    “No, no,” Ismail said forcefully. “They are just out of range.”
    As more time passed, however, Liban’s question began to fester. Guray and Osman started to complain about Abdullah and Shirma, the guards they had left on the dhow to manage the Omani fishermen. Dhuuban perched himself in the bow and held his skinny knees to his chest, staring at Mas as if he had brought a hex upon them. Liban fingered his Kalashnikov as if it were a talisman. Only Sondare kept the faith, sitting beside Ismail and hanging on his every word, as if at any moment Abdullah’s voice might break through the static and provide a rational excuse for his silence.
    But Ismail’s assurance was feigned. Inside, he was profoundly troubled. Abdullah was an experienced pirate and fiercely loyal to Gedef. He wouldn’t abandon them without cause. But with cause . . . Ismail’s mind raced with the possibilities. What if he heard the explosion and saw the flames? The Jade Dolphin had surely alerted the authorities about the attack. What if Abdullah heard chatter on the radio about a disabled skiff and a Seychellois coast guard vessel en route to the scene? Or what if the Omanis had mutinied? There were five of them. They might have overpowered Abdullah and Shirma in a moment of distraction and turned the dhow toward home.
    He searched the horizon again, squinting against the glare. He checked his handheld GPS unit for the coordinates. After nearly an hour of cruising, they were close to the spot where they had left the dhow. The day was clear; visibility was excellent. But the dhow was nowhere to be seen.
    “They’re gone,” Liban declared, looking Ismail in the eye.
    Osman gripped the stock of his gun. “If I ever get my hands on Abdullah,