Liz Carlyle - 06 - Rip Tide by Stella Rimington Read Free Book Online Page A

realise these men were not simple pirates. But then what were they doing here? He had wanted to ask Khalid, but fear held him back.
    Now the Tall One let go of Taban’s wrist and looked down at the stew, inspecting it closely. Then he stared at the boy with a penetrating gaze; the young Somali felt as if the man’s eyes were boring into his brain. At last, the Tall One nodded at him with a grunt. He spoke sharply and his comrades came over and began to serve themselves, while Taban stood back, waiting. At one point the Tall One gestured towards the boy, and the other men looked at him, then muttered to each other. Taban knew they were talking about him.
    They were on edge – he could tell that. More than a week ago seven of them had gone out in a skiff almost as far as the shipping lanes, taking Taban with them. In sign language he had explained the tidal currents, which were notoriously tricky here, and pointed out the treacherous outcrop of rock almost a mile from shore, which had been the downfall of more than one unsuspecting craft. When, the following day, the same men had set out again, he had expected to go with them, but the Tall One had summoned him back with a threatening wave of his AK-47.
    Those men had not returned and Taban was sure that something had gone wrong.
    The Tall One and his men went and sat down again on the sand to eat, while Taban examined the vast iron pot. He was glad to see there was enough left to feed the prisoners, even if the visitors had eaten most of the meat. He lined up baaquli , rough wooden bowls, and filled them one by one, setting them on a tray he had fashioned from some short planks.
    He had put the last bowl on his tray, ready to walk across the compound to the hostages’ pen, when Khalid suddenly appeared. He had taken to wearing a sidearm and was dressed this evening in fatigues. He gestured towards the Tall One and his men, who were squatting down as they ate, and said to Taban, ‘They want to know if you left the compound today.’
    The boy looked at Khalid, aghast. ‘Of course not. I would never do that without your permission.’
    Khalid nodded grimly. ‘That is what I told them. But be careful – these men don’t trust anyone, and that includes you.’  Then he walked off to talk with the guards he posted each night on the perimeter of the compound.
    Picking up his tray, Taban headed for the makeshift jail. He was shaken by what Khalid had said to him. Taban sensed these men would happily kill him without a moment’s thought, and he was very afraid. What had scared him even more was the look in Khalid’s eyes. He was frightened too.

Chapter 8
    It was boredom Richard Luckhurst felt, far more than fear.
    His best friend at school was a boy whose father had been in a German prisoner-of-war camp during World War II. A retiring man, he had only once spoken in Richard’s hearing about his wartime experiences, when his son had asked, ‘Dad, what was it like being a prisoner-of-war?’ His taciturn father had pursed his lips, and said simply, ‘Boring.’
    Luckhurst now understood what the man had meant. Their hijackers had not allowed them to bring anything off the ship with them, and he craved something to read. Anything would have done. All he had was an old Times Saturday crossword that he had torn out of the paper and put in his trouser pocket weeks ago, to do later. When the pirates had searched him before they’d taken him off the ship, they hadn’t bothered with it and so he still had it. He had nothing to write with but even completing it in his head had occupied him for only a few hours. And now it was done, and he’d read the advertisements for the London theatres that were on the back of the page over and over again, and imagined himself sitting in the stalls in a cool air-conditioned theatre, wearing a clean shirt and a suit. What he would give for a book, any book, the longer the better.
    Sitting here in this bizarre Somalian compound, he kept