The Seventh Secret

Chapter 17 — Murder on the High Seas

“That’s four crew members dead by now. Four! In two days!” Ali shouted at the three subordinates in his presence. They had dropped their gazes to the floor in front of them, their hands behind their backs as not to appear hostile toward Ali Shabat, fierce mariner of the Arabian Sea. He ran a tight ship, so to speak. Years on the sea and most of that time spent in collecting riches from reluctant hands and deep waters had made him hard, but efficient.

“It is time for this crew to contribute, or else I am going to have to resort to extreme measures. So far I have been hoping to employ this crew to do the Meyer job and afterward being kind enough to let you share in my victorious kindness, but it looks like some heads are going to roll!” he ranted and paced while the vessel rose and sank more steadily after the storm had subsided. The tug was well on its way to the strait between Madagascar and Africa, through which on passing the Aleayn Yam would officially be in Southern African waters to where it had been summoned.

Ali and Manni were determined to make sure the tug functioned at full capacity until they had salvaged the Nazi ship that was allegedly lying on the ocean floor. Then they would decide which route would be best to sail to reach a dry dock where they could, at length, take the wreck apart and see if it contained any Nazi treasures their buyers could be interested in.

“Ali, the skipper asked for you. He says he has a suggestion,” one of Ali’s men said from the door.

“I don’t need his suggestions. Everybody is manning their posts just fine.” he boasted, chewing the khat he had brought with him. The others laughed with him when he urged them to join him in ridiculing Fakur’s futile attempts to get out of his current position. The Egyptian skipper did not agree with what Ali had planned for the salvage vessel.

“And what about the welder?” Ali asked. Manni scoffed. It was clear that Manni and Fakur’s friend, the welder, did not get on well at all. Ali looked at Manni in amusement and gave it some thought. “Bring me that welder. We might convince him to change Fakur and the others’ minds. I don’t need a mutiny aboard this ship.”

“Yes, Ali,” Manni said and disappeared down the corridor.

“I will not allow crew members to make threats or instigate trouble among the workers!” Ali shouted authoritatively. “This is not some joyride! The sea is our workplace, not some playground where we cruise like tourists. Just like every boat we traverse the ocean with, this boat is our livelihood, and the crew is expected to do everything I ask of them. If they do not comply, how can I assure that all our business is done smoothly?”

Manni came into the lower cabin with the welder, Aziz. The other four men already present stepped aside to accommodate the newcomer and Manni in the middle of the room. They had sailed out from under the brunt of the tempest, but the sun had already set, so it was dark outside.

“Aziz!” Ali exclaimed cheerfully. “How are you feeling? You look pale!”

The men stared at Aziz, taking note of the dark circles under the welder’s eyes. It was clear that he was sick and weak.

"Not feeling well, captain," Aziz mumbled. He was barefoot. Every time he looked down at his toes the room would start spinning. His legs were shaking visibly, and his lips were riddled with blisters.

“Take a good look, boys,” Ali said, as he put his arm under Aziz’s armpit to support him. “This is what people look like when they are seasick.”

All the men, including Aziz, stared at Ali in astonishment. How could he assume the welder was seasick when he was a professional sailor? When he burst out laughing, they realized Ali had been joking. Without warning, he withdrew his support and left Aziz to gravity. His legs were far too weak to hold him up, and he hit the floor with one thump that fractured his skull.

They could hear the crack as his body met the floor, but he was still alive. With a bleeding nose, Aziz groaned.

“This is what dehydration does, boys. Disorientation, dry mouth… obviously and a gradual onslaught of headaches like the spears of hell!" he bragged. He had kept Aziz locked up for three days since the welder failed to show up on time for roll call soon after they passed the Horn of Africa. Ali's tall, gaunt stature pranced around the welder who was curled up like a fetus, holding his head, weakly wailing in pain.

“Pick him up!” Ali ordered. “And bring him out to the stern. Bring Fakur, too. I want him to see this. The Aleayn Yam had only two of its original crew left now, due to their government’s embargo on trade with Ali and his countrymen. Outside, the sun kissed the horizon goodnight.

The wave crests were remarkably high for the almost gentle breeze, but the sea spray still wet the sailor’s faces as they brought out the chief engineer and rightful skipper of the vessel, Demi Fakur.

“Aziz!” he shouted hysterically. He knew what was coming, and addressed Aziz in Egyptian, so that Ali’s crew could not understand what he was saying. “Aziz, don’t let them break your spirit! You are in the arms of Yam! Praise be to Yam!”

"Praise be to Yam," the weary Aziz forced out. Fakur kept screaming the same words for Aziz to repeat, speaking his ode to the sea deity Yam the tugboat was named after.

“Lift him up!” Ali screamed. “And shut up that fool!”

A deafening blow struck Fakur against the head, dealt with the back of the hilt of a machete. He dropped to his knees and fell silent. He could still hear Aziz’ chanting — over and over to the discord in the melody the ocean waves sang. It was a dirge that permeated throughout nature at the moment they lowered Aziz head first into the waves.

They held him by his ankles, the falling waves sporadically allowing him to take a breath. Hanging upside down and being thrust against the hull by the foaming waves was too much for the injured man, and his body went limp within minutes.

Ali’s mockery and the cheering and the laughter of his fellow pirates were the epitome of evil. Fakur wept bitterly at Aziz’s horrible death, even though he knew it was a relief from his agony. The wicked stick-figured Somali pirate knelt next to the sobbing skipper and rested his open hand on Fakur’s back. “Don’t fret, Fakur. I tell you what: just so you don’t get lonely, I will let his carcass keep you company, how would you like that?”

Fakur choked ay the sick suggestion, but he did not look up. He didn't say anything because he did not want to provoke the irascible pirate who had violently seized his tug boat three days ago east of the coastal city of Djibouti, just as they had entered the Gulf of Aden. On the inside, he screamed in rage, keening in sorrow for the loss of his younger brother. He made a decision. He was going to remain quiet. No more attempts to bring Ali to see his side of the matter. From now on he would play it straight until he would find a way to warn Mrs. Meyer and her South African clients. If he could save them from the fate he and his crew had had to suffer, his death would not be in vain. He would be proud to die thwarting the plans of Ali Shabat and his demon crew.

They dragged him back into the room where they had held him before, the storage chamber for firefighting equipment that had now been removed. Since some of the men escaped using the gear stored there, Ali had decided not to take any more chances. Now he only had one to worry about. They hog-tied Fakur and hung him from a meat hook from the ceiling. With all his might he tried not to cry out — he did not want to give them the pleasure of seeing him weak. The thick rope dug deep into his skin as his entire bodyweight was pulling him down.

His heavy breathing was a testament to his anguish. Other than that, he did not allow them to hear his pain while his heart was broken by the death of his younger brother and lifelong crew mate. As if Ali Shabat could read his mind, he called for the pirates to bring in Aziz’s body.

“There you go, Fakur,” Ali said calmly. “Now you have him with you, safe and sound. Down here under deck, you don't have to worry that my men will bother you or Aziz. I promise they will leave you alone."

Fakur closed his eyes as the steel door slammed shut and the chamber was locked. The skipper knew what iniquitous acts and merciless evil the Somali pirates were capable of. He thought of his wife and two daughters back in Egypt, who were still under the impression that he was traveling south on a salvage mission. It would be over two weeks before they even realized that he was not coming back and by then, both he and his brother Aziz would be carrion fodder.

In all this he was grateful that his wife and daughters were not on the boat with him. The atrocities these pirates committed towards women would make Aziz’s tormented look like the daily routine of brushing teeth. In the dark cabin, void of any hope, Fakur felt his wrists and ankles strain under the force of gravity dislodging his joints. He sobbed in his solitude with his brother’s drowned corpse as company, sitting in the corner just below him.

Delirious from the pain, the skipper drifted in and out of consciousness, suffering terrifying dreams of ocean demons and bubbling water. Ali Shabat’s face appeared and disappeared in his mind, the emaciated cheekbones and the bloodshot leer. But when he laughed, Fakur would play witness to his jagged fangs with chunks of khat caught between. Repulsive as he was in reality, he was more so in Fakur’s dreams. He could smell the pirate’s breath, hear his brother’s prayers as he sank into the watery hell… he heard his brother drowning — even more clearly than before. The words turned into incomprehensible, bubbling pleas as Aziz aspirated water. The bubbling turned into coughing and then there was only the sound of the waves left.

Fakur was ripped to consciousness by the sound of a very loud burping sound beneath him. The cadaver that shared his tomb with was expelling trapped air and water still caught in the lungs and cavities of its flesh, a grotesque and disturbing noise that, for the first time, compelled Fakur to utter a god awful scream.