The Watchman

Forty-One

When I was sure Madar wasn’t going to double back, I turned and walked away from the rotting boats and down on to the beach. I took off my shoes and socks and tied them round my neck to avoid leaving shoe prints in the sand.

The fishermen’s boats, I noticed, had been taken away, no doubt for kitting out as attack craft. Only one lay in the shallows, an ancient vessel with its hull deliberately caved in. The pirates’ methodology was as old as time, the message bluntly psychological: take from the population what you can use and destroy the rest.

I moved slowly, wary of wandering locals. But the beach was deserted. The only obstacles I encountered were discarded fishing nets half-covered by sand and a collection of plastic bottles washed up on the shore. I stepped carefully over these; exposure to the sun had baked most of them into a highly brittle state, and stepping on them would set them off like a bunch of firecrackers in the night.

The air by the water was several degrees cooler, and I resisted the temptation to wade in for a refreshing dip. I stopped every few paces, listening for movement and straining my eyes to identify some dark shapes ahead of me. They turned out to be another couple of wrecks gradually being absorbed by the sand, and two ancient and rusted oil drums filled with concrete used to tie up boats when rough weather hit the shore.

Somewhere in the gloom was the skiff that had brought Musa and his bodyguards. That was my marker. From there I only had to take a sharp left turn and move up the sand, and I’d find where the men had stacked the three metal boxes.

My main problem was that it would bring me uncomfortably close to the villa, albeit down in a hollow. But that was something I’d have to deal with. I had to find out what was in those boxes.

After a stop-start progression along the beach, I finally saw a vague banana shape against the white sand. I stopped, sinking to a squat.

No movement. I crept closer. Beyond the skiff were two more, returned from their earlier journey.

Satisfied that there were no guards watching, I checked out the first boat. It was sleek and narrow, about twenty feet in length, with some kind of light metal framework and folded canvas lying in the bottom, which I guessed was a dismountable shelter. There were two 5-gallon containers of fuel amidships, and two others holding fresh water. I found bundles of clothing and blankets stashed away beneath the bench seats, and the tools of the pirates’ trade — a pile of grappling hooks and rope ladders. A large outboard motor was clamped to the stern and tilted at an angle off the sand.

The other two boats were similarly equipped, and looked ready for spending long periods at sea.

I jumped out of the last skiff and inched my way up the beach until I came to where the boxes had been stacked. They were laid out adjacent to each other but separated by about a foot. Somebody was being very careful to keep them apart.

I wondered why.

I ran my hands over the sides, checking for catches or locks. But they were standard military issue, with simple spring catches and hasps for rapid opening and deployment in battlefield conditions.

I was running one hell of a risk here, because if they were wired with some kind of anti-theft alarm, there was no way I’d spot the mechanism in time. But I figured Musa’s men had no worries about thieves daring to steal from them, so I carefully opened the catch of the first box and eased the lid back, slipping my free hand inside to feel for wires.

All clear.

My fingers came into contact with a flat, cold fabric. Plastic sheeting. I ran my hands along to the ends and sides, which were bound with some kind of sealing tape. I counted five oblong strips, each about ten inches long and three wide. I lifted one of the strips and judged it to be nearly an inch thick. When I was certain there were no wires attached, I gently lifted it out of the box, easing it free from its neighbours. It felt reasonably weighty, and solid to the touch, but not hard. I put it to my nose and sniffed. The only smell was a disturbingly familiar one: faintly chemical, like grease, which probably came from the wrapping, it was the kind of smell that hovers around almost any kind of military equipment, from uniforms to heavy artillery. I had a pretty good idea what I was holding in my hand.

It was a strip of C-4 plastic explosive.

I used the strip to measure down the side of the box. If my measurements were correct, the box held approximately 40 of these strips. That was enough C-4 to make a very large hole in something. Or a lot of smaller ones.

I realized that I’d been subconsciously holding my breath. I let it out and replaced the strip, then closed the lid.

The next box was much lighter and not so full. A gentle feel around told me I was holding a slim, tube-shaped object wrapped in soft, cotton-like fabric. It was about four inches long, with a squared-off section at one end, and I knew instantly what it was.

A detonator.

I checked the rest of the box, hoping I was missing something in the dark. I wasn’t. I sat back on my heels, worrying. Every detonator needs a power source. Of the kind used in bringing down buildings or bridges, for example, the power is with the operator and involves an electrical charge from a battery. The old method was a plunger; now it’s a simple button. With a remote detonator, something like a simple 9-volt battery would be sufficient to power it up and send the required signal to do its job. But it’s an extra component involving packaging, storage in transit, checking the wiring and fixing securely in place prior to use. It’s messy and open to failure.

Musa had got round that. He had sourced a high-level, ready-made detonator, and the square section I’d felt on the end must be the power source. But you don’t just buy that stuff off the shelf of your local Walmart. This level of sophistication had echoes of a military supply warehouse somewhere, and I was betting on Eastern Europe.

I carried on looking. With the detonators were a number of lightweight objects made of a rough nylon weave.

I lifted one out, letting my fingers identify the shape. As near as I could make out it was a pouch. One side was thicker than the other, with a flap at one end covered in a Velcro strip. The thicker side of the pouch was sticky around the edges and backed by a greasy paper strip. I tested the sticky gunk with a fingertip and felt the immediate grab of a powerful adhesive. When I sniffed my finger, I caught a pungent smell that reminded me of PVC glue.

I moved on to the third box. It contained a bunch of cell phones with stubby aerials. More technology. No, not cell phones; there were no keypads. Just a serrated knob next to the aerial, and a button.

Remote triggers.

I closed the last box and sat back. The stuff in these boxes wasn’t intended for a normal battlefield engagement. They were going to be highly efficient and lethal IEDs — improvised explosive devices. The pouches were tailored to take the strips of C-4, which would each be fitted with a detonator. By removing the protective strip on the back of the pouch, they could be slapped on to the side of a target. Once safely out of range, a remote signal could be sent from the trigger to set off the bomb.

But what was the intended target? Government buildings? Armoured vehicles? Although C-4 came in a protective covering, I had never seen it so heavily taped at each end. And the plastic sheeting covering the strips felt heavy-duty.

Then it hit me.

There was only one purpose I could imagine for such an elaborate set-up, and that was in extreme wet or damp conditions.

Like at sea.

They were going to attack a ship.

Or maybe more than one. And I knew how they would do it. Using their low-profile skiffs, they would sneak up on a target under cover of darkness and get right alongside. With the adhesive coating, the bomb could be placed just above the waterline. All the bombers had to do then was retire to a safe distance and press the button on the trigger mechanism.

Or threaten to.

The potential for disaster if their threat went unheeded was horribly real. They might not have enough explosive to guarantee being able to sink a large tanker, but if they managed to blow a hole in the side and breached the hold, oil would pump out into the ocean at a furious rate.

Faced with such a horror, and on such a public stage, every shipping company in the world would be forced to comply without a shot being fired.

I gathered together three sets of bomb-making equipment. Placing the detonators in my pockets, I put the C-4 charges in their pouches and the remote triggers in my shirt. It made my skin crawl having that much potential for disaster on me, but I had no choice.

As long as I kept the detonators separate from the C-4 and triggers, I was fine.

I made sure the lids were firm on the boxes and headed up the beach. I had no concrete idea of what I was going to do with my potential bombs, but when presented with weapons in a hostile environment, it pays not to pass up the offer.